#Of course the absurdity that I AM THE ONE who is treating other women like crap here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeojaa · 4 years ago

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( HOLIDATING. )

In life, there are certain things that go together, two parts that make up a whole. The sun in the sky, grandmothers and cheek kisses, chocolate when you’re sad—and you and Jeon Jungkook. Best friends since childhood, there’s never been one without the other. You’ve always existed this way, caught in each other’s orbit. Parallel lines that run side by side.

But what happens when those lines finally collide?

(or: how to lose a best friend in ten days.)

pairing. best friend!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. it’s a full course meal, baby! fluff, smut, baby angst, a bit of crack. the smut is pretty minor but it is explicit when it comes up.

tags / warnings. idiots to lovers, dumb ideas, jungkook is bad at feelings, slow burn, pining, oral (f receiving), this jungkook because he lives in my mind rent-free, and in vino veritas (which was my trope).

wc. ... 12.8k. laughs in thinking this would be 5k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif because there’s no me without her and @coepiteamare because vi is too, too good to me.

author note. this is wiiiiildly late (lol) but is part of the rockin’ around the christmas tropes collab with the most wonderful group of women @underthejoon @ladyartemesia @ppersonna @untaemedqueen @xjoonchildx and @snackhobi. i hope you will check out their incredible works because they deserve all the support in the world and i am so very lucky to have been involved in this. if you enjoy it, feedback goes a long way. tysm! 💖💖

Jeon Jungkook is four bites into his meal when he almost chokes, the half-chewed bite of meat getting caught somewhere in the back of his throat, threatening to send him to a far too early grave. He’s three delirious gulps of water deep when he asks you to repeat what you’ve just said, staring at you with the biggest roundest eyes anyone’s ever seen, shining like a beacon in the night, a solar flare that eclipses everything else around it. He’s silent for a total of five seconds - or so he thinks - before he’s laughing, scoffing so loudly it disrupts Eevee, your lazy Maine Coon, and sends her bolting from her spot by his feet.

“You’re kidding me.” Because he can’t even begin to fathom what you’ve just said, make sense of the ludicrous suggestion you’ve made.

This, coming from the guy who has been your best friend for the last seventeen years. Who has known you for almost two decades and who, by sheer idiot osmosis, has been privy to every harebrained scheme you’ve ever dreamt up. Who has, often against his will, suffered through all your crazy 4 a.m. suggestions, nodded along half-asleep as you’d prattled on and on about things that hardly made sense in the light of day but fared even worse beneath a blanket of dazed sleepiness.

(And you’d had a lot of bad ideas. From your absurd fried chicken restaurant - where you’d use vacuum tubes to send food to people’s tables - to your non-whiteboard whiteboard desk - made for the everyday office person - he’s seen it all. Talked you off ledges and rebuked your half-hearted requests for him to be your angel investor.

“Isn’t this what friends do?” You’d said, implored, just two weeks ago over another dinner, with that same absurd stare of yours, the one that Jungkook’s known for most of his life, that makes everything just a little harder to say no to.

“Invest in shitty ideas?” So maybe some of your ideas aren’t that bad. Maybe, just maybe, they’re actually sort of inventive. Out there, certainly, but innovative, plucked from the mind of you and only you.

Still, he liked giving you a hard time. It was sort of his thing.

“Definitely not.”

You’d kicked him under the table, pouted at him and then continued your rambling, completely unfazed by the fact that he was not, in fact, going to shell out a part of his trust fund to bring your whacky idea to life.)

Because you know him so well - can read him like a book, recognise his voice in a crowd of thousands, find his smile like a star in the night sky - you take his disbelief in stride. Treat it like it’s nothing you’re not used to which, well, you aren’t. Continue to stack French fries onto the tines of your fork, twirling the utensil before depositing the too-big bite into your mouth.

“What’s to kid about? It’s a good idea.”

Whether it is or isn’t is up for Jungkook to decide - not you - and he can’t entertain it at all, just the mere thought of it existing too far out of the realm of possibility. “We’re not— What’d you call it?”

“Holidating,” you state, so matter of fact he wants to roll his eyes. Actually does when you set your fork down, lay it neatly beside your plate and level him with that stare. The one that reads like a big red warning sign, that might as well have neon lighting it up by how he shrinks away. He knows that look. He knows you’re not backing down, somehow fired up and ready to go in the minute that’s passed.

Still, he’ll try. Play off your suggestion and scoff just that much harder. “We’re not holidating, ____.”

“Why not?” You’re exasperated, two hands landing on the countertop aggressively. It’s as endearing as it is childish, making him laugh again, roll his eyes until the sclera is all you can see. (You’d told him once that his eyes would get stuck like that if he did it too much. Cue the prank when he’d worn white contacts and nearly given you a heart attack at the tender age of thirteen.)

“Because I don’t have time for dating, let alone—” Jungkook feels idiotic when he says the words, wrapping them in airquotes that have you glowering. “‘Holidating’ or whatever.”

“That’s the point!” You’re waving those same two hands - you’ve always talked with them, emotive and dramatic like a soap opera star - as if that might lend some validity to your statement. “You don’t have time to date. I just got out of a relationship.” Sure, they’re facts but they mean nothing to him as you continue to ramble on. “Neither of us can or even want to put in the effort for a relationship but like, who wants to spend the holidays alone?”

(You have a point. There’s nothing quite like attending his extended family’s annual Christmas dinner by himself. It garners too many of the same questions, offered by distant relatives that mean well but otherwise drive him insane.)

(He’s not about to tell you that, though. Hard time, and all that. What’s a best friend if you don’t bicker like idiots?)

“It’s not that bad,” he says, lying through those slightly too-big, slightly buck-toothed teeth of his. Why he bothers, he isn’t sure. You catch him immediately, a loud a-ha! snapping past your lips when he glances to the side, completely unconsciously.

(You’ve known his tell since he was in high school. Since that first time you’d caught on when he’d borrowed - and subsequently broken - your beloved film camera, you’ve known. You call him out on it too. Every. single. time.)

“You’re telling me you want to have your grandma ask you when you’re going to give her grandkids for the umpteenth time? Seriously?”

“It’s not that bad,” he repeats, a broken record that can’t be fixed, whose cat-scratched eeeeeee gives him away.

He’s bluffing. He knows it. You know it.

Looks like you’re holidating.

After dinner, you’re the most serious he’s seen you in, well, a very long time. You’ve got your notebook out - a heavily worn thing, dogeared in the corners and scratched across the cover with a flimsy spine - and you’re staring him down across the couch like you’re some sort of shrink and he’s your patient.

(You’re not and he isn’t, but it wouldn’t be much of a stretch. After all, he’s told you everything, just as you have him. There’s seldom a secret between the two of you and not just because you somehow call him on every untruth.)

(Call it a byproduct of being best friends for so long. A blessing most often, but a curse on occasion.)

(Now, Jungkook might call it the latter.)

“We’ve got to set some ground rules,” you state, unbearably serious, with that little furrow between your brows. The one that makes you look so much like your mother, aged years by concentration and a single-mindedness that should frankly get you in more trouble than it does.

“Ground rules?” He echoes the sentiment with a quirked brow, a little lift of his mouth. (You’d once said it made him look more like his father, lending an air of careful disapproval that the man carried in his daily business dealings.) “You’re taking this too seriously—”

But you’re not listening to him, already scribbling in your notebook, chewing your bottom lip with abandon. A hand reaches out, thumb and middle finger meeting to flick you on the knee.

The pen strays across paper and you look up in alarm. “What!”

“Stop biting,” he chides, gesturing to his own mouth. It’s always been a bad habit of yours and paired with your deplorably poor lip balm usage, it left your lips swollen and irritated. (Not even the lip masks he’d bought you for Christmas last year - a suggestion from his mother, a stocking stuffer you’d claimed to love - were waging a lost war.)

“Sorry.” You don’t stop doing it, though. He wishes he could be surprised. “Anyway, rules.”

“I don’t think—”

“No couple things.”

That throws him for a loop - though he doesn’t really know why. The two of you were best friends. Quite literally joined at the hip from the moment you’d met all those years ago, just two idiots lumped together by nannies who were sisters. (His parents’ idea because as great as they were, they simply didn’t have the time themselves.)

(Time. What a strange concept. Something that’d dictated the flow of his life since he was a kid. His parents had never had time, so he’d found other things to fill those gaps - recreational sports and art classes and playing tag with you. He’d had too much time in school, so he’d thrown himself into his studies, cementing himself as a top student who was just a little too cold, a little too cavalier. But not with you. No, never with you. You always had time for him - kept him grounded whenever he thought he might fly away. And now, time - or the lack thereof, yet again - had led him here.)

(No time for dating? Just date your best friend! Foolproof plan.)

“What do you mean ‘couple’ things?”

It’s not that Jungkook’s never dated. He has - and a fair share, too. But that was before, in his first few years of college when he’d had more time, more of a desire to cultivate something other than success. He just doesn’t understand what you mean in this context, brow furrowing.

“Like, no holding hands. No kissing under the mistletoe. No—”

His laugh comes loud and teasing, disbelief throwing his words into the air, tossing them like juggling balls. “You know no one actually hangs mistletoe, right? And who says I’d want to kiss you?”

That earns him a kick to the shin, paired with a look of reproach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook really hadn’t meant anything by it. He just, well—

“I’m your best friend. I’m not daydreaming about kissing you, ____.”

“You never know,” you sniff as if offended, though you’re back to scribbling across your paper so you can’t be that mad. (Anger’s not something you tend to hold onto, red hot fury sparking through you before fizzling out in the next second. He’s grateful for that.)

Still, he chooses to move on, ease the dent that’s formed between your brows and has your mouth pouting. “What else?”

“Uh,” you pause, staring down at your paper. “I’m not sure.”

“What’re you writing then?”

The way you blink is slow, owlish, more guilty than confused. When you flip your notebook to face him, he can’t help but snort. You’d been doodling, filling the margins with holiday-themed nonsense in the shape of snowflakes and squiggly bows.

“Nothing?”

“I guess?”

“Seems easy enough.”

After all, there was no way he was going to fall for you. Best friends were best friends for a reason, right?

He’s wrong. Not about not falling for you, but for saying you were friends for a reason.

Right now, he has no idea why or how.

You’ve been in the department store for over an hour, drifting between displays of kitschy trinkets and racks of clothing, seemingly unable to make up your mind. You’ve asked him five times whether or not you think you’ve made the right choice. (Yes to the cookie cutter set in the shape of cats for your sister and no to the super soft throw blanket in that hideous shade of blue-green. Cerulean, as you’d said, rubbing it all over his hands when he’d zoned out staring at his phone.)

You’d promised him lunch two whole hours ago and now he’s getting hangry, his stomach growling with each step he takes. (A bit of an exaggeration, but he really does fear his stomach’s about to eat itself. Routine is a standard part of Jungkook’s life. He has coffee while he’s getting ready, another shortly before lunch, and his last no later than 4 p.m. Meals come in twos, within the allocated eight hour window he allows himself.)

(Suffice to say, he doesn’t know what to do without his routine, and you’ve all but tossed it out the window, kicked it from its home as if it weren’t paying rent in his mind, keeping everything spick and span.)

“These are cute, right?” It’s a set of - okay, honestly, he’s not sure what. Handmade knit toys? They look like mixes between an otter and a rabbit and sure they’re cute, but so is everything else at the table. Did that mean he was going to buy any of it? No. Did it mean he cared if you did? Also no.

(Which probably isn’t the right approach, given how gung-ho you go for the holidays. Its own personal cheerleader, as if it didn’t already have all the support in the form of a jolly fat man and Buddy the Elf.)

“Sure.” He’s too tired - too hungry, too irritable - to offer anything with more care, his usual polite demeanour coloured red by the starving beast that rumbles about in his stomach. It groans loudly, coiling his fists as he follows you around the display, a zombie on its last legs.

“You’re not even looking.”

Though you’re huffing, spectacularly unimpressed, you don’t seem terribly bothered. You can likely read all his unhappiness with just one glance, as one often did with the title of best friend.

Jungkook doesn’t mean to snipe back but he does anyway, patience worse for wear. “We’ve been in here forever.”

“Five more minutes.”

It ends up being another twenty-five but he doesn’t begrudge you that because he’s finally - finally! - got something in his hands. Something warm and carb-loaded and so tasty he’s probably going to choke because he’s trying to inhale his meal.

“Do you have anything else to buy?” You’re only picking at your food, carefully nibbling the edge of a kale leaf as he scarfs down the entirety of his burger in record time.

At least he has the decency to chew until his mouth is clear, a sesame seed stuck to his lip. “I didn’t leave mine until the last minute.” He never does, preferring to start in November so everything is ready to go by early December. It’s far less stress-inducing than what you do, running around the malls the week before, fighting the throngs and complaining loudly when items are delayed in the mail.

(Organised as you could be - he’s seen it in your colour-coded journals, the long hours you work - your personal life was spectacularly chaotic. Honestly, Jungkook has no idea how you survive.)

“No, everything’s back at my apartment. Just have to wrap.”

And then he’s levelling you with that puppy dog stare - the one he knows you can’t deny. So glossy it should be illegal, twinkling bright behind a frame of dark lashes.

You beat him to the punch, stealing the words right from his mouth. “We can go back and I’ll wrap them.”

It’s an understanding you’ve always had. He accompanies you on your absurd last minute shopping trips and you wrap all of his packages, dressing them in adorable animal-printed wrapping and topping them with big colourful ribbons. (He’s not quite sure how your agreement was fair but hey, he’s not going to complain. You seemed to love the repetition of it all, measuring perfectly-sized strips of tape and affixing neat name tags.)

“Thanks, ____.”

“You’re welcome,” you say as you steal a fry from his plate, popping it into your mouth with a brilliant smile. “Can we stop and get coffee, though?”

"You did this?" As always, Yoongi's voice is riddled with disbelief, single brow quirked so high Jungkook thinks it might leap off his face and join the pile of presents beneath the tree.

"Well, no—" But he should already know that, because Jeon Jungkook never wraps his own presents. Hasn't since you got into arts and crafts and decided gift wrapping was the cool new way to show off your talents without having to invest all of your money into things like bullet journaling or scrapbooking.

(It's probably going to shaft him one day when you're not available and he has to tape the edges and write the cards but that's a problem for future Jungkook.)

"____ again?"

A hand scrubs across the back of his neck, sheepish smile forming fully. "How'd you guess?"

The elder only laughs - a quick puff of air through his lips - before he sips at the amber liquid in his glass. "You should really share her services. Some of us need them." And by that, he almost certainly means Namjoon, who is simultaneously one of the most well-put together and yet disastrously disorganised people in their friend group. (So bad were his wrapping skills that he'd stopped trying entirely, simply opting for kitschy bags and lots and lots of tissue paper.)

"I mean, if you guys wanna be dragged around the mall too, then that's your prerogative." Despite how he says it though, Jungkook doesn't really mind. It's simply a part of your holiday tradition, something that happens whether he likes it or not. (And honestly, he does like it. Loves it, actually, except for when he's hangry or, on the seldom occasion, hungover.)

Yoongi offers another chuckle, draining the last of his whisky. He doesn't need to say much else because he has actually seen you in action - experienced your indecision and dawdling nature firsthand. It'd been once a couple years ago, when he'd been stumped for a gift for his partner and you'd insisted you'd know exactly what she'd want.

(You hadn't. The three of you had wandered the mall for five hours and you couldn't make up your mind. It'd been absolute hell.)

"What're you two talking about?"

As if on cue, you've appeared, peering over Jungkook's shoulder like an elf, decked out in your usual red felt hat and flushed to match. (Out of all of your friends, you had the worst time with drinking. Even if you were almost sober, your face would turn the colour of a tomato.)

Jungkook's too busy stabilising you - you're also awfully clumsy, as if the darker you got, the worse your balance became - to answer but Yoongi doesn't miss a beat, that trademark gummy smile spreading like honey. "Just saying you should start charging for your gift wrapping services. You're making the rest of us look bad."

It's not necessarily untrue. Everyone's presents look fine. Cute, if not a little sloppy. But yours and Jungkook's stand out, topped with intricate bows and twine and big flourishing calligraphy on the tags.

"I could give you lessons," you tease, hanging across your best friend's shoulders, breath smelling strongly of homemade eggnog. (Nutmeg assaults him first, followed by cinnamon. The liquor sneaks up, coating your tongue and his senses when you chirp your words against his cheek.)

"But that means work for me."

You're sighing dramatically, waving your hands in the same manner. "That's the point, Yoongles. Teach a man to fish—"

"You've got the saying wrong." Both your friends are reprimanding you, amusement sliding over syllables as you pause, mouth rounding into a pout. It's quite a funny sight, watching the cogs work in your brain, the way the realisation doesn't dawn quickly enough.

You try again, with great gusto. "If you..."

As funny as it is watching you struggle, Jungkook's need-to-be-right nature kicks into gear. "Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day." There's a pregnant pause, doe eyes wide, imploring. You can do it, he thinks.

You don't, gaping up at him, the picture of that one meme you're so inclined to share regularly. The one with the blonde surrounded by equations.

He finishes with a sigh, "teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime."

"Yeah, that."

Yoongi isn't quite as good a sport, expression turning sly. "I don't want to be fed for a lifetime. I want to be fed for just a day. Just Christmas day, actually."

You must be drunk, or at least a little tipsy. You take his retort with a heavy roll of your eyes, detaching yourself from Jungkook's shoulders to launch yourself at the third party. At least, you try to, narrowly missing when Yoongi side steps, nearly leaving you to run headlong into the immaculately decorated Christmas tree in the corner of your best friend's apartment.

Luckily - or maybe because Jungkook knows you so well, can read your movements before you've even thought them through yourself - you're caught by the turn of your wrist, ink-strewn fingers coiling neatly around the delicate bone.

You collide against Jungkook's chest with a quiet oof!, met with a stare of consternation.

"Take care of your girlfriend" is all Yoongi offers before disappearing back toward the kitchen, snickering not-so-quietly to himself.

At least the two of you are in tandem then: "We're holidating!"

What was so hard to get about that?

"You're what?" Your sister's staring at you like you've grown a second head or maybe sprouted another eye, right smack dab in the centre of your forehead. Jungkook's really trying not to eavesdrop - he's polite like that, carefully disinterested in the conversation as he picks at his food. (If your sister didn't speak so loudly, it'd probably be easier but, well, the two of you had that in common. Charismatic and endearing at your best, boisterous and distracting at your worst.)

"Holidating." It comes in the exact same way you'd said it to him originally and he has to admit, he's vindicated when your sister repeats the word right back. At least someone's just as incredulous.

"What the hell is that?" Eunha demands, brow furrowing, looking very much like your older counterpart, the same features delicately aged by motherhood (and likely having to play big sister to you). "Is that a made up word?"

"It's dating for the holidays. But not like, dating dating. Just being each other's dates."

Whatever she's thinking, she manages to cage it behind her teeth, carefully mulling over her next words. It's actually quite a feat, considering the blood that runs through both of your veins. (He remembers the first time he'd met your mother and it'd been the Spanish Inquisition.) "So, you're dating."

"No!" The rebuff explodes off your tongue, full of exasperation. Jungkook nearly snorts into his own bowl, glad he'd been chewing bulgogi rather than drinking water.

"I'm lost."

(Join the club, he thinks. It's still the dumbest thing he's heard in the last week.)

"We're each other's dates. It sucks being alone for the holidays."

You speak as if from experience but your sister calls you on it immediately, without remorse. (It reminds him so much of how you’d rebuked him that he’s just a liiiittle gleeful, vindicated by the scowl that paints itself in broad strokes.)

"You're not alone. Our family is huge."

"I mean without a date!"

"You've always had a date." Because you were a serial monogamist, the complete opposite of Jungkook who hasn't dated since university, opting to throw himself into his work.

"Okay, but—"

It's hard to argue with someone who knows you so well. If Jungkook could read you like a book, Eunha had you memorised like flashcards for a test. Between the two of them, you could barely win an argument (and there were lots to be had, though almost always childish and not at all serious.)

"So, you're not dating."

"No."

"But you're dating."

"Holidating." Why you correct her, Jungkook's not sure. It's such a stupid thing - silly semantics - but you'd already talked him into it so he's not about to butt in. He's got kimchi to focus on and Christmas cake to devour.

"Okay, seriously."

He knows what those words mean. Essentially that he's in for it and there's nowhere to go, no escape in sight. Once Eunha set her sights on something, that was it. Job, husband, precocious daughter with a reading comprehension level beyond her years - if she wanted it, she got it.

So Jungkook's just a little wary, peering at your sister over the rim of his mug, expression deliberately blank.

"What's going on with you guys?"

He hates people who answer questions with questions. It's a waste of his time and yet here he is, glibly deflecting as if she won't give him shit like the older sister he's never had. (It's an apt description, considering your parents were as good as his.) "What do you mean?"

"What the hell is holidating?"

"Beats me." At least he’s being honest. He really, really doesn't know. Even after you'd set your rules (or rule, rather), it still hadn't made sense to him. It was doing everything you always did together - buying presents, having matching gift wrap, attending your friend group’s annual holiday parties - but with a label on it.

(If Jungkook were being honest, he'd say you'd just mucked things up by pointing it out. If you'd asked him to come to your family's Christmas dinner, he would've done so without an ounce of hesitation. Telling him he was and expressly saying don't make it weird had decidedly made it weird.)

"Do you like her?" Leave it to Eunha to completely eviscerate any possibility of a normal conversation.

He doesn't even need to consider the question, his answer coming before she's even finished speaking. "She's my best friend."

"Okay, but do you like her?"

"She's my best friend," he retorts, just as emphatically. (The two of them really were like siblings, bickering just as often as the two of you did.)

"That's not really an answer." Still, she won't let it go, stare hard, mouth set in that same forceful line. It's so reminiscent of your own stern glare, though infinitely more effective. Perks of being a mother, he supposes.

Put on the spot, it feels odd. Jungkook doesn't like the attention, naturally straying from the spotlight. (He works hard in his professional life to always be above reproach and easily deflects questions when it comes to his personal life.) Your sister isn't a force to be reckoned with, though, and he withers beneath her, discomfort stealing up his spine, knuckles blowing white around the ceramic handle of his cup. "I don't."

"Hm." It's evident she doesn't believe him, but he's not that bothered. Most people have asked the same question at least once. He's learnt not to care, focusing on the nearly two decades of friendship rather than any passing fancies.

(Because he can’t lie - he has liked you maybe once or twice. It'd been unavoidable, a simple consequence of being best friends. When you spent all your time with someone - someone who knew you inside out, who loved you unconditionally - it was easy to mistake platonic affection for something else. Jungkook just didn't have the time, though, and he certainly wasn't about to lose your friendship over something as silly as a fleeting crush.)

(Not that anyone knew that. Not you, not your cousin, not even Yoongi.)

"What?" Why he keeps the dialogue open, he's not sure. He should let it run its course, wave as it passes him by.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"You heard me, Jeon."

He lets it go then, falling into silence. It's only broken when you appear again, cream cake in hand. You settle beside him - your rightful spot - and hand him a fork, glee as bright as Christmas lights.

He doesn't miss the look your sister shoots the two of you.

It's not the first time he's seen you in a dress. You wear them regularly enough, practically living in them in the summer months.

Still, you look good. Incredible, in fact. The colour pops against your skin, a lovely blue that seems to be alive, dancing under the lights as you go for your third cream puff because no one can stand between you and your love of desserts. It complements the hue of his own suit, the textured fabric that gathers over his shoulders and stands in stark contrast to the white of his Oxford.

"You said that's your best friend?"

It's his manager, a lovely woman he's worked with for the past year and a half. She’s kind with a round face and softly lined eyes, someone who treats him more like a son than an underling. (Jungkook appreciates that about her, even if it's at odds with the culture of their workplace. She was just warm, endlessly friendly even when deals fell through and she was forced to pick up the pieces.)

"Yeah."

"She's very pretty," she hums, peering across the table at Jungkook with a peculiar expression. It reminds him of that same look Eunha had shot him just two days ago, a thousand unspoken words wrapped up in the dark of her stare. "How long have you two been friends?"

"Forever." At least, that's how it feels.

(If he thinks hard about it, he could probably pinpoint the age, the year, even the day. It wouldn't be hard, given you'd rolled into his life like a thunderstorm, upending everything in your path. But that's how you'd always been - simply who you were. People met you and they were better for it, whether they realised it or not.)

"That's very sweet."

He shrugs, swivelling his stare from your approaching figure to offer a small smile. "She means a lot to me." Even if she drives me insane, even if she gets cracker crumbs all over my couch.

There's that look again - Jungkook hates how easily it pins him to the spot, locking him in his seat as you take your own, setting your plate down. It's piled high with said cream puffs and an assortment of other goodies, fresh fruit and tarts and some chocolate bonbons that make his teeth buzz by just staring at them.

"Here." You've got one raised, held aloft in an offer he doesn't really want but accepts nonetheless. As predicted, the cocoa is too much, heavy on his tongue, burning through his gums and making his jaw clench uncomfortably. Still, he chews and swallows diligently, offering a quiet thank you as you pop one into your own mouth.

Someone speaks as he's sipping at his Manhattan and you're going for the finishing bite of your cream puff, soft white sugar tinting your lipstick. "You're a lovely couple."

Unlike that time a few days ago, seated in your kitchen, this time he does choke, liquid rushing down the wrong pipe. Chest heaving, he fights to steady his breath, vaguely aware of the way you rub soothing circles over his back. (It probably doesn’t help the situation - makes the two of you seem even more together than before - but he appreciates the gesture because holy hell, does whisky burn.)

“We’re not dating,” you state, somewhere close to his head, voice soft near his ear. You’re still touching him, calming the hacking coughs he hasn’t quite gotten control of.

“Really?” It comes from more than one person, joined by a nosy third.

Of course it’s Yugyeom - perhaps one of the people he’s closest to at his company, and yet someone who he very much wants to shut up at that precise moment. “We thought Jungkook had finally gotten a girlfriend.”

“Nope, not me.” You’re nonplussed, rebuffing the teasing with ease. “Just best friends. He didn’t want me sitting at home alone and thought free booze might help.” It’s not true at all; if anything, you’d been the one who hadn’t wanted to be alone for the holidays, but it doesn’t seem necessary to correct you right now.

Sometimes, it was just easier to go with the flow. Let you lead, as you so loved to do.

“What a nice guy.” Yugyeom’s a good friend and better team member but right now, he’s got the stupidest grin on his face, meeting Jungkook’s stare with mischief dancing in his own. It strikes discomfort like an ivory key, ringing loudly in his ears.

“He is.”

It’s probably more defensive than it needs to be - you were a woman of extremes, whether that meant sleeping all day or not at all, eating a salad or three plates of pasta - and he immediately moves to soothe you. (Oh, how the tables had turned.)

A hand falls to your knee, decorated digits squeezing reassuringly over the bare bone, touch featherlight. With his head bowed still, it’s easy to catch your eyes, an unspoken conversation playing out between you. Don’t, he cautions, with all the gratitude in the world.

Fine, he imagines you think, pout rounding into something softer, a semblance of a smile as you both straighten out.

“No one’s quite as nice as Jungkookie.”

Not your usual nickname for him but he appreciates the effort, the return to calm. It means more to him than you, because you understand just how important his image is, how much hard work he’s put into getting where he is. You might not have understood his job - software engineering? what? - but you understood him and that’s what mattered.

“Jeon, preheat the oven?”

Your sister’s bumbling around the kitchen with baking sheets in her hands, too large swaths of parchment paper lining each.

“Oh, sure.” He’d lost you almost as soon as the two of you had arrived, pulled off to the kitchen to start prep for your family’s annual baking night. He thinks he catches a glimpse of your big lopsided bun in the archway to the living room but he can’t be sure. It’s too chaotic, like being around a dozen of you.

Because your family was women-dominated, the only other men being your father, your uncle, and—

“Hyung!” It sounds more like thank god when he sees your cousin swan in, grocery bags full of ingredients hung in the crook of his elbows and clutched in his fists.

(It’s not that he doesn’t get along with your family. It’s just, again, a lot and he feels as if he might be the calm in the eye of the storm. It’s disconcerting.)

“Oh—” Surprise flits across the oldest Kim’s expression, windshield wipers swinging into action as he makes his way to Jungkook. Somehow, each of the bags are taken off his hands and he pulls the younger into a loose hug, ruffling his hair roughly. “Didn’t know you’d be here too.”

“____ dragged me along.” Or rather, their agreement had, but Jungkook’s not about to get into that. After the strong reaction from your sister, he’s not in the mood to explain himself for the nth time.

“She does that, huh?”

It’s rhetorical, because yes, you did. You had for most of your life, involving Jungkook in everything you could. From high school bake sales to college softball, anything you’d done, so had he. (The only exception to this was when you had a partner because for whatever reason, said partner would complain about how much time you spent with Jungkook.)

(Luckily, most of them learnt their place, learnt to share.)

“—might as well be dating.”

Surely there’s more to what Jin’s said than just that but he’s somehow missed it, attention swivelling back to the other in alarm. “What?”

“You guys might as well be dating.” There’s very little shame in the way your cousin repeats himself, switching the oven on, utterly unbothered. (Jungkook is reminded, not for the first time, how strong the Kim genes are - how you all just seem to be variations of the same person, headstrong and hilarious.) “Would probably save our relatives from losing their minds.”

True as that might be, Jungkook’s pretty sure he’d lose his instead.

Or maybe he already has. It feels like that, at least.

Nothing’s making sense the way it normally does, too much running through his head, alcohol dulling his senses. Liquor lingers on his tongue and he can smell it every time he speaks, every time he laughs. (Which he’s doing often and loudly, your usual corny jokes hitting their mark when he’s eight cocktails in and sleep-deprived. Such were the holidays.)

There’s just something about how you look right now, dressed all pretty in a slip that holds you like a lover. He’s not used to it, all of his attention drawn to things he’d never usually focus on.

How your mouth moves - gloss-slick and pouted, so enticing he nearly stops listening when you speak - or how you swat at his arm when you’re trying to drive your point home. (It hurts a little; you’re rough normally but drunk, you’re ten times more flippant, edge of nails digging crescents into flesh.) Your touch burns through his shirt, sinks all the way past cotton and skin into bone that turns to ash.

He’s gone crazy. He must have.

Why else would he want to kiss you so badly now, framed beneath the dimmed lights? Someone’s come and snatched up his body and he’s just along for the ride - simply an observer with no say of his own.

(Jungkook’s not sure what the feeling in his stomach is - whether it’s butterflies or nausea.)

All he knows is you’ve seen this movie a dozen, hundred, thousand times. Watched it with him, in fact. (The slow pan out, the close up, the kiss that follows. The rising crescendo as the two leads fall in love, profess their love and apology as if all it takes is five minutes together to create a happy ending.)

And yet, he takes you completely off-guard. You’re staring at him in that way you do - no, not that way, but the one that screams what’re you doing? - locked where you are, caught in the doorway as if you can’t make up your mind whether to go or stay.

Your lips are softer than he could’ve imagined, since he knows your lacklustre use of lip balm - has had to carry tubes of it in his own pockets because you were notorious for leaving them everywhere and otherwise losing them.

They’re warm and supple, not dry at all. A little tacky, in fact, with a strong cherry flavour. It cuts through the peppermint and chocolate, coalescing into something distinctly you. (Even drunk as he is, vision blurred at the edges and a funny feeling tingling through his limbs, he knows it’s his favourite thing he’s ever tasted.)

If only you weren’t staring up at him like a deer caught in headlights, equal parts alarm and an emotion he can’t quite read.

If only you hadn’t slammed your apartment door shut right in his face.

If only.

“I thought you were bringing ____?”

Of course it’s his mother who calls him out, drawing attention to the empty seat beside him. Your name’s etched into the placecard, neatly set atop the china that’s only brought out during the holidays.

“She was busy.” It’s a lie - straight through his teeth and paired with a quick glance to the side. No one notices, though. No one’s you, after all.

The truth is, Jungkook hasn’t spoken to you since that night. Sure, he’s stared at your name on his phone, watched your status go from offline to online, but he hasn’t said a single thing. Hasn’t found the courage he needs to start a conversation he’s definitely not ready to have.

(What was he supposed to say anyway? Hey, sorry for kissing you. Not sure why I did it but we’re good, right?)

(More than that, would it even be the truth? Did he really not know why he’d stopped you short, pressed his lips to yours and then stared down at you like you might’ve been the best Christmas gift in the world? Had it been nothing but alcohol-fueled idiocy?)

(He’s considered acting like it never happened, pretending as if everything’s the same as it’s always been. But that somehow feels worse, like lying to himself and he just doesn’t do that.)

“I asked you three days ago.” The morning of your Christmas party, in fact. Hours before he’d made the Big Mistake. What a great reminder.

Jungkook’s grateful for this poker face, expression devoid of emotion, tone clipped yet polite. “Something came up, eomma.” It’s an indication the conversation’s over, the question stopped dead in its tracks. He’d never outright tell his mother off - he’d die before doing so - but this is enough, has her nodding solemnly, topic changed almost seamlessly.

Someone asks about the latest acquisition by his father’s company, his cousin mentions he and his girlfriend are looking for a place, and everything feels normal.

Until it isn’t and his brother is bringing it up again, tone soft, coaxing, but insistent. Question poised in a way that only he could get away with as his older sibling. “What really happened?” At least Jung Hyun has the decency to keep his voice down, practically whispering the words to the younger Jeon.

“Nothing,” Jungkook grits out in between bites of his prime rib, spearing a piece of meat more aggressively than he needs to. (He doesn’t miss his mother’s glance from the edge of his periphery, the subtle thinning of her mouth. The concern is palpable, cutting through the white noise even after she’s refocused her attention, leaning back into whatever conversation she’d been having before.)

It’s brotherly love that compels Jung Hyun to push the envelope, force his little brother’s hand. He’s clearly worried as he reaches out, tapping the tines of his fork over decorated skin. “Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Despite patience wearing thin, discomfort turning him petulant and frustrated, Jungkook appreciates the effort his sibling is making. It’s not what he wants right now, but who was to say it wasn’t what he needed?

(There were just people who knew him better. His brother, his mother, you.)

“Then let’s get a drink.”

Ice clinks in his glass and he tries to ignore the way Jung Hyun’s stare feels like it’s melting him, eyes never straying from his little brother’s furrowed brow and hunched shoulders.

“So?”

“Nothing happened,” Jungkook says, exasperated, draining liquid in one fell swoop. He knows he’s thisclose to giving in, to laying everything out. It’s equal parts demoralising and relieving, knowing there’s finally someone he can talk to.

(He just doesn’t, well, talk usually. Emotions don’t get the best of him. It’s why he excels in his field, working to meet stressful deadlines, barely batting an eye when everything goes to shit the day before launch. Good as he was at most things, internalising was his thing.)

“C’mon, Kook.”

It’s the nickname that has him relenting, cage of his teeth groaning beneath the weight of his tribulations. One beat, two, a third and then a forth. He knows Jung Hyun’s about to try again.

“We kissed.”

“Holy shit.”

A laugh that isn’t quite a laugh comes, breaches the quiet and then echoes loudly. It’s derisive, not at all the gleeful witch’s cackle Jungkook normally offers. It’s dressed in thorns and regret and cuts his throat on its way up, leaving his breath to fall into a sad little sigh. “Yeah.”

“She wasn’t into it?”

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Jungkook has no idea and now days have passed and he feels like more of an idiot than he ever has. He’s sat with it for so long (in reality, not that long but tell that to someone who’s never out of control, whose entire life follows a set pattern) that it’s all just become a jumbled mess, taking up too much space in his thoughts and leaving him confused.

“I don’t think so.” If your abrupt closing of the door was any indication, you likely hated it - but he also didn’t want to assume. He needed an answer, a decisive yes or no.

(Though, he doesn’t think he’ll survive if you turn him down. If he’s just ruined nearly two decades of friendship, it’s more likely he’ll hole up in his apartment and only come out after using up all of his vacation time to wallow in self-pity.)

(Which is in and of itself not a very Jungkook-like thing to do, so he already knows he’s screwed. Knows that no matter what, he’s out of mind and out of sorts and will likely shoot himself in his own foot before he makes any progress.)

(See his problem? He’s already gone crazy.)

Jung Hyun’s patient though, doing for him what he’s always done for you. Talking him off that ledge, holding his hand while he nearly spirals into oblivion. “You don’t think so?”

“Well, she slammed the door in my face.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches, pulls on and on above their heads, and Jungkook wishes he hadn’t finished his drink so quickly. The burn would help right about now, distract him from the way he’s picking at a hangnail. Maybe it’d give him the liquid courage he needs to just do something. Anything.

“You should talk to her.”

“Did you not just hear what I said? She slammed—”

“But did she say anything?”

“I think that’s a pretty loud and clear answer, hyung.”

“You never know. Maybe she was just surprised.”

“And maybe she hates me.”

“I mean, probably, but—”

“Thanks, hyung.” Still, Jungkook laughs - can’t help it when his brother shoots him a grin that mirrors his own. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“For once, can you just listen to your big brother?”

As it turns out, Jungkook can’t. Outright refuses and suffers through another three days of radio silence. Sees you, again, crop up on social media, beaming up at him from the small of his screen. Watches as you make a mess of Jin’s kitchen and end up with a face covered in red icing, as you sit your niece on your shoulders and run around your apartment while belting awful Christmas carols.

Maybe it’s his fault for checking Instagram so much, for clicking on every single story your friends and family post.

He misses you. God, how he misses you.

(Since the day you’d cemented yourself as his best friend, he doesn’t think he’s gone more than a day without talking to you, more than a week without seeing you. This is fraying his nerves, leaving him needy and wrought with anxiety.)

(This is why best friends don’t date, why he’d have preferred to take his feelings to the grave.)

You’re so far away that he half expects not to see you at the annual New Year’s Eve party, the one he’s responsible for hosting this year.

When you appear in his doorway, three wine bottles clutched in your arms, he’s not sure who’s more surprised. (You, somehow, wrangle your expression into something else - a brilliant smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes - and he simply stares, speechless. He catches it though, that twinkle of uncertainty before it’s eclipsed.)

“Hi.” Of course you sound the same as you always have. Bright, sunny, with a million rays of light streaming past your teeth. “Happy new year!”

It takes Jungkook far too long to find his voice, lost to the warmth of your smile that doesn’t feel quite right. Too forced, burning through his skin until he’s uncomfortable and itchy under the collar. “Hi.”

You’d normally peck his cheek, give him a hug, something. You blame it on the bottles you’re carrying, shuffling past him without making contact, held in your own personal bubble. “I’ve got to set these down but we’ll catch up later, yeah?” It’s not a promise and not what he wants. You’re going to disappear for the rest of the night and he’s going to be left soothing this sunburn.

He doesn’t say that, though. Only nods mechanically and watches as you dance off. “Sure.”

You deserve a medal, a gold star for how well you avoid him throughout the night, peeking in and out of rooms. Any time Jungkook catches a glimpse of you, you’re gone in the next instant, disappearing behind one of your friend’s backs, suddenly in need of a refill.

The one time it’s just the two of you in the hallway - him coming from the washroom, you presumably heading there - you spin on your heel and turn tail, gone so quickly he wonders if it was his imagination.

Were you really that mad? Had he fucked things up that badly?

“____,” he calls the next time he finds you - hours later, much to his chagrin - alone in the kitchen with champagne in one hand and your head ducked into his fridge. It’s less than a minute to midnight and everyone’s gathered outside, crowded along his balcony and cheering loudly in anticipation of the Coex fireworks. (He’d purposely come back in, awkwardly trailed after you when you’d offered to grab another bottle.)

You don’t immediately turn and he worries you haven’t heard. How stupid would he look if he tried again? (Were you just ignoring him?)

But then you’re facing him, that same mask from earlier fitted unnecessarily across your face. Your eyes are tight, unblinking, even as you smile, cock your head adorably. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk?” It’s not something he asks of you often. (In fact, he could probably count the amount of times he’s made the request on one hand.) He holds his ground though, mouth slipping into a characteristic pout that he thinks - hopes, really - might crumble your resolve.

(You may have known all of his weaknesses but he knew yours too. Knew how cute you found his puppy dog eyes, the round of his cheeks when he’d puff them out with air.)

There’s momentary clarity, your stare softening, the line of your jaw growing slack. Then you’re glancing past him, out to the gaggle of people beyond his shoulder and he feels his heart stutter uncomfortably, stomach dropping all thirty-six stories past his feet. “Can it wait?” You’re not cruel, offering the question softly.

It can’t. He can’t.

“No.”

You huff and he swears he mirrors the motion, same annoyed exhale slipping out.

(If he’d hated the silence, he thinks he might hate this more. The two of you don’t fight. Bicker, certainly. Drive each other crazy for fun, definitely. But this antagonism that makes him feel like a stranger in his own home? This is new and awful.)

“What do you want to talk about?” You’re guarded, arms crossed. All Jungkook wants to do is unfold them and bring you into his arms, tickle your sides until you’re whining and laughing and giving him the affection he suddenly craves.

(He’s never wanted it more in his life and maybe that’s why it’s so strong now - need leaping five octaves in a single breath. It’s as if he’d been deprived all his life and now he’s had a taste and can’t help himself.)

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, quiet, so much emotion threaded into the words. It turns them heavy, makes them hard to hold, but he needs to get them out, make you understand how apologetic he really is.

“For what?”

He hadn’t expected that. “What?”

“What’re you sorry for?” You’re repeating yourself with a scowl but you’re also doing that thing you do, nibbling at your bottom lip as you try not to meet his eyes, bouncing your gaze around the room.

(Were you nervous? He could’ve sworn you were.)

The question still doesn’t have an answer, all his thoughts swirling in a tumultuous wave. They sweep him out to sea, away from the safety of the shore, and he worries he might drown as he looks at you and sees all the things he might lose.

“Kook?”

Say something.

Seconds tick by and you’re biting harder now. The crowd outside is louder, chanting the countdown. He can barely hear himself think, has trouble articulating the onslaught of emotion that swells and swallows him whole. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed this. Maybe things would’ve gone back to normal if he’d left well enough alone.

A million what if’s play in his head - and then he hears a chorus of happy new year!

He crosses to you in three long steps, catches your face in his hands, and kisses you again, just like last time.

It’s not an answer in the traditional sense but he doesn’t care.

His apology comes once more, muffled against your lips, lost to a breath he inhales shakily, entire body rattling with uncertainty. At least you haven’t pushed him away, though he swears you’re ready to, palms warm over his chest, fingers curled into the collar of his sweater.

“Stop saying that.”

He thinks he’s imagined that, pulling back just enough to see the entirety of your expression, the dazed look in your eyes. So different from last time, endlessly softer, tender. “What?”

“If you’re going to kiss me,” you’re speaking into his chest but he can hear you crystal clear, “just commit to it.”

He will. He does.

He kisses you again, sweet and chaste, one hand threaded into the silk of your hair, the other cradling your jaw. He kisses you for a third time, different yet the same, riddled with nerves and reminiscent of childhood crushes. He kisses you once more, nearly groans when he steals the prettiest sound from your lips.

Jeon Jungkook is on cloud nine - lit up like the night sky because he can still hear the fireworks going off.

“Is this okay?” How he manages to ask when every fibre of his being is screaming at him to keep going is a feat and he’d be patting himself on the back if you weren’t so lovely, holding all of his attention in the frame of your smile.

“Can you just stop thinking for one second?”

He wants to say yes - prove himself as he always does - but he knows that’s exactly the opposite of what you want. Reads it in your movements, how you step closer and bat those long lashes at him. How’s he supposed to function when you’ve short-circuited his insides?

But that’s the point, isn’t it? To let himself feel?

Maybe you were right, just this once.

Jungkook has simply watched too many rom-coms, sat through too many Hallmark specials you’d insisted on. (You loved them, even when the plots were awful and the acting was worse, the leads misunderstanding even the most basic of things. “It’s cute,” you’d cry, glaring at him from behind a glaze of tears, sniffling into your popcorn when everything went to hell right before the perfectly wrapped up climax.)

Because this doesn’t feel anything like he expects it to. It’s still too awkward and stilted, framed by fluttering, nervous laughter and a tremor in his hands he’s never dealt with before.

(If he thinks hard about it, he knows exactly why it’s like this. Why he’s so uncertain as he guides your shirt over your head, the same soft thing he’s seen you wear a thousand times. How the fabric bunches in his fists and spills like silk between his knuckles. The way his heart does a strange two-tap against his rib cage, as if tapping out and giving up.)

(He’s been waiting for this for longer than he could’ve ever imagined, than he ever thought possible.)

“What?” You ask, chirp in that lilting voice of yours, so sugar spun sweet and cocoa-dusted. A mug of hot chocolate that warms him from the inside out, makes his head spin with how nice it sounds, settling against his eardrums like cotton balls. There’s hesitation in your eyes - a sparkle of his same restlessness that calms his own just a little.

“What?” He repeats back at you, maybe a little dumbly.

(It probably is dumb. He’s got your shirt halfway off your body, your arm still hooked through one arm hole, the rest of your body in fuzzy focus as he stares down at you.)

“You’re staring like I’ve got something on my face.”

“You don’t.”

“Then why are you staring?”

He asks himself that same question, turns it over and over in his head. It’d make sense for him to consider his words carefully, weigh them before they come tumbling out of his mouth. (He doesn’t.) “You’re really pretty.”

The laugh that elicits should be illegal, chiming bells that scrunch up your nose and have your lashes casting dark shadows across your cheeks.

“You think so?”

Of course he does. He always has - he just hadn’t realised it. “Yeah.”

It’s not plucked straight from a movie scene, nor is it likely the things dreams are made of. It still feels just as good when you smile at him - offer the thing he’s found home in for the last decade and a half - and reach a hand to his face, cradling his jaw in the small of your palm. It’s so warm he wonders whether you’ve got stardust lined beneath your skin, whether you’re working those little fragments of wonder into his own being where you touch him.

“I want this.” It’s music to his ears. He’d like to hear you say it again, which you do, with a tenderness he doesn’t expect. Not the teasing tone you normally take, riddled with half-formed thorns and platonic affection, but something more. Something that burns bright in his bones and illuminates him from the inside. “I want you. You don’t have to be so shy.”

So you’d been able to tell, because of course you had. Just as you knew when he was lying, you knew every other tell too. (The way he’d touch his ears when he was excited, how he’d sit on his hands when he was shy, the three octaves his voice would skip when he was nervous. You knew them all and wanted him despite them - because of them.)

He supposes he’s grateful for it, even as it only adds to the bashfulness swelling in his chest, blooming colour over his cheeks.

“Yeah?” God, Jungkook, get it together.

“Yeah,” you parrot, laughing as you tug your arm from its vice and proceed to loop both around his neck, bringing him closer.

It’s a position you’ve been in a dozen times - arms around his neck, going for a hug - but this stirs something else. Shoots a dizzying bolt of desire straight from his toes to the tips of his fingers. It branches out from his chest, weaving into every limb, guiding him closer until he’s chest to chest, the warmth of you filling all the spaces between.

“Don’t forget you asked for it,” he rumbles, tries to sound like someone he isn’t by the way he offers the words, tries to come across cool and suave and not so into his best friend that it could send him straight to a padded white room.

You call him on it immediately, rolling your eyes and patting his cheek affectionately. “Do your worst, Jeon.”

Whether it’s a challenge or not, he takes it as such, one arm caging you in by your head, the other falling to his side. Your side. Where fingers graze, inked digits drifting up the velvet that spans your ribs, that traces delicate over the lace that holds you together. Bright red with scallop trimming - something he never imagined you’d wear but that he adores all the same. It looks so good on you, a cardinal that demands his attention even as he tries to focus on the emotions that dance in your stare, forming your mouth into a smile that gives him heart palpitations.

“You mean best,” he mumbles, meeting your eyes one last time before lids are sliding shut, movements guided by the familiarity that only comes with years and years together.

When your lips meet - for only the fifth time in his twenty-five years - it’s nothing like the first and yet strangely similar. It’s just as soft as that initial peck, tentative and sweet. Filled with things he can’t say, that he’s not sure how to articulate but that he hopes you understand.

It’s nice, he thinks.

And then you’re kissing him back. Really kissing him, taking the lead when he doesn’t expect it. Slanting your mouth over his, nibbling at his bottom lip in the same way he’s watched you do to your own.

Holy shit.

As much as he doesn’t want it to end - can’t get enough of the taste of you, how faded cherry Chapstick and champagne and that god awful spearmint gum you love melds together - he has to stop. Needs to reel himself back before you’ve pulled him beneath your spell, left him stranded with nowhere to go.

“What?” You ask again, feigned innocence stamped across your face. A mask that looks so pretty he can’t help but glare down at you.

He’s not sure how he means his next words but they come freely, tumbling past his teeth with more grit than he expects. “Don’t be a bad girl.”

Something changes then. Snaps into place like every little part of the universe has aligned. A realisation that hits him straight in the gut and has your fingers curling into the downy strands at the nape of his neck.

When your lips meet again - sixth time, because Jungkook’s got to keep count - it’s not soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s years of something he’d never been able to place, the greatest Christmas gift he could’ve ever asked for. It’s your tongue against his, your teeth sharp and searing and it’s him, hugging you so close he wonders whether it’s his kiss that’s making you breathless or how tightly he’s holding you.

“What if I want to be?”

God, he could laugh at that. He almost does, the sound spilling past in a shaky exhale.

(Part of him knows how utterly cheesy he’s being. How utterly cheesy you’re being. He doesn’t mind. He’s not lactose intolerant, after all.)

“You wanna be on the naughty list?” Even it sounds silly to his ears, torn straight from the books of some weirdo pickup artist. You’re laughing though, giggling because you’ve never found him anything but endearing (okay, probably not true, but whatever) and that’s enough.

“Maybe.”

“You’re crazy.” He means it as kindly as possible, in the best way imaginable.

“Crazy for you,” you correct, smug.

Jeon Jungkook is composed. He’s smart and responsible and looks at the big picture. He doesn’t let things get to him and he certainly doesn’t gape like a fish. His poker face is immaculate (which is probably why he’s no longer invited to his friend’s games).

Except he is - gaping, that is - staring down at you with wonder. “Really?”

There’s another roll of your eyes, prominent and exaggerated. He knows there’s nothing bad meant by it so he lets it slide, doesn’t pull away even as he repeats himself.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Jeon?”

“Preferably a lot more.” He’s shameless. Figures he’s allowed to be, after waiting all this time. (After kissing you in a drunken stupor, after wallowing in his own self-imposed exile for too many days. This is what he deserves - to take and take if you’re so ready to give.)

“Then earn it.”

“Fine.”

There were different kinds of satisfaction, different ways to swell pride in his chest. A multitude of methods he could excel at, to receive all the praise he’s always been so eager for. Pleasure from a job well done, for going above and beyond, doing things better than anyone else could’ve. Delight from being right, from a smug I told you so. Triumph from conquering the hardest of tasks, overcoming something mighty and terrible.

And then there was this - the warmth that unfurls in his chest, stringing his heart up in pretty pink ribbon, holding his head aloft like a marionette doll.

It’s something else entirely, fizzling delight in his stomach, feeding the beast that demands more more more.

“Good girl,” he praises, offering his adoration without hesitation, dressing you in the glory of his affection. Gone is the careful reluctance, the removed politesse. It’s replaced now, dripping in sweetness so thick it might as well be molasses, trickling over your skin as his tongue does the same. He traces your hip, your thigh, your hands - pulls a digit past his lips and savours in the reaction it elicits. “Pretty girl.”

He repeats the motions over and over, gliding figure eights with the wet of his tongue, gently grazing the edge of his teeth when you’ve calmed, too close to composure for his liking.

“You’re so good for me.” One hand hooks possessive around your knee, pushes it wide as he admires you laid out beneath him. Skin flushed, he can feel your warmth radiating through every inch. It begs him to come closer, to sit by the fire a little while longer.

With a tender kiss to the velvet of your inner thigh, he drops, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks. You buck beneath him, might take out an eye with the way your arms flail, fingers seeking stability over his shoulders, digging into the firm muscle that pads his back. He can’t help but laugh, sound vibrating through to your core, tongue punishing against the delicate pearl sealed between his lips.

“Another?” He begs, pleads, asks so sweetly, and you can’t deny him, glazed over in the eyes, chest heaving, hands shaking. He knows you can’t but he asks anyway, because it’s important you want this just as much as him. (Jungkook refuses to be in the dark ever again, far too comfortable in the light of your laughter, your love.)

“Please,” you return, though it’s the strangest he’s ever heard you. Out of breath and reedy, stilted in a way that makes his cock twitch, head spinning with desire.

(It doesn’t matter you’ve gone two rounds and he can’t possibly survive another. You do something to him.)

A quiet sound comes and he sinks further, licks a fat stripe from your slick entrance all the way to your quivering clit. Dips his tongue past clenching muscle and moans, drunk on the taste of you. It’s a messy affair and he can’t be blamed, saliva pooling in his mouth when you whine his name and pull his hair just right. (You’ve always been loud but he’d never imagined this. It’s a soundtrack he’d like on repeat.)

“Let go for me, pretty girl.” The pet name comes easily, made for you. (Even before all this, Jungkook would’ve been lying if he’d said you weren’t pretty. You were gorgeous, beautiful, captivating.) “Tell me what you need.”

You sob, yank at his roots, and he chuckles, gliding his tongue up your slit.

“Use your words, ____.”

“M-more.”

“More?” He repeats, deceptively sweet, eyes glossy and warm and filled to the brim with emotion. Round like Bambi’s as he presses a finger into your heat, sinks straight to the third knuckle and nearly loses his mind from the way you gasp. You’re honey-dipped and yielding, supple and slick beneath his hands, his tongue, his mouth.

It’s like a drug - the sound of your voice so drastically different. Higher, breathless, sinful as it sinks against Jungkook’s eardrums and encourages him to bring you to a spectacular finish. He wants to hear more of it, needs it like he needs air.

You’re a beautiful mess, so close to the edge he can feel your walls constrict around him when he adds another two fingers, fucks into you with purposeful twists of his wrist. He’s certain the oversensitivity must hurt but you’re so good for him, taking all he has to offer and begging for more.

His name is a staccato cry, a symphony of sound that breaks when he curls his fingers and assaults the bundle of nerves against your front wall.

It’s only fitting you usher in the new year with a bang.

The next morning comes in fragmented bits and pieces, paired with a headache that sits right behind his eyes and aches his limbs. As much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, he’s not the spry spring chicken he used to be. The shots of tequila don’t go down the way they did before, the all-night parties forcing him to sleep for a good twelve hours to recover.

Last night was worth it though. Six hundred million percent worth it.

You’re still in his arms, curled against his chest, cheek smooshed to his arm which has all but gone numb. He won’t move it, though. Couldn’t even dream of it when you’re strangely peaceful, features arranged so pretty. You’re usually the biggest ball of energy - sometimes too much - and this is nice.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how nice.

Jungkook can’t stop touching you, needs to be near you, revolving around you like some sort of poor lost planet. Circles you when you drift into the kitchen, shower-warm and adorable.

(Has he always been like this? It doesn’t feel wrong - just more of the same. But again. More more more.)

“Can we get coffee?” You don’t seem to mind the way he drapes himself across your back, indulging in the way you smell like him but not. How the clean scent of his body wash seems about a dozen times better when it’s laid over your skin. “If we’re going to make it to my cousin’s, I need caffeine.”

He doesn’t doubt that. He’s seen the way you drain three cups before noon on your bad days, so jittery by 2 p.m. that he worries for your heart.

“We have to go grab ingredients anyways, right?”

“Yeah - Jin will murder me if we show up empty-handed.”

That, Jungkook doubts. The two of you were inseparable - two sides of the same weird Kim-coin. If anything, he’d pat your cheek, give you a faux reprimand, and that’d be it. (Jin always made too much food anyways, or so you said. It’s why you always brought your best friend leftovers, so much food shoved into ceramic containers that he wouldn’t have to cook for at least a week.)

“What’re we making again?” If he stops to consider it, he’d probably remember. He’s got a good memory - great, in fact - but right now he’s too occupied, distracted by the way your hair tickles his chin, the warmth radiating off you as he traps you between himself and the kitchen counter.

“Banana brulee hotteok!”

Right. He’s had them before, when he was your guinea pig the first year you started making them. They’d been terrible then, though he really had no idea how you’d managed to mess them up. He’d powered through it, though. Devoured the sickly sweet pancakes until he’d felt as if he’d explode.

Just best friend things or something.

Friend things.

Friend.

He realises, standing there in his kitchen, that he has no idea what the two of you are now. The realisation startles him, leaves him terribly still even as you extract yourself from his arms, halfway out of the kitchen before you turn around.

“Kook?” You’ve got his keys in one hand and his favourite hoodie in the other. It’s, again, so familiar and yet not. Tinged with something he’s not quite sure how to approach, that keeps him staring at you without really seeing.

You repeat yourself, a little louder this time.

“What are we?” Was it too soon to ask? Was he pushing for something? (More importantly, was that bad? Would you turn him down even after last night?)

By the expression on your face - a blend of amused and surprised - he thinks not. You’re smiling too big, mouth stretched wide and your cheeks so doughy they might as well be bread. It’s how you look when you’re at your happiest. (Like that time you saw those two dogs riding with that guy on his bike or when you perfected your hotteok recipe and your grandmother had showered you in praise. It’s the thing that outshines the sun, dazzling to look at it, blinding in its intensity.)

There’s a chorus of laughter in your voice when you step back, retrace your path back to him. He wonders how he keeps his eyes on you, how his sight hasn’t been stolen by those glittering golden rays. “What do you think we are?”

He answers honestly, because that’s the kind of guy Jungkook is. Practical, reasonable, forward. (Sometimes, at least.) “I don’t know.”

Your laughter sweeps his concerns up in its hands, folds them into neat paper cranes. It coaxes them from their hiding spots and dispels them like summer dragging over the horizon. When your hand finds his, fingers twining together - familiar, different, familiar, different - you squeeze and he swears he feels it all the way in the centre of his chest, in perfect rhythm with the erratic beat of his heart.

“We can be anything you want to be.”

Would that really be okay? He’s used to asking for the things he wants - comes with the territory of being a workaholic type A personality, always eager for more, to impress and wow and simply do well. Still, he hesitates, just a bit, coherence seemingly stolen.

“Well?” You squeeze again, knuckles knocking together, and he finds his confidence between the bones, threaded into the skin that spans over his.

“We’re together.” He says it unsure but so hopeful. Not even his stutter can deter him.

Your repetition is an affirmation and a promise, sealed with a kiss that tastes like forever. “We’re together.”

So you’re late. Just a half an hour. It can’t be that big of a deal. You were always late for things, dragging Jungkook to your level of irresponsibility with just one bat of your lashes, one sing-song breath.

(For once, he doesn’t mind. It’d been his fault, after all. Who was he to deny you when you’d had sugar coating your fingers and your lips, a treat that begged to be indulged in? He was only a man and he was so into you. He couldn’t have possibly said no when you’d kissed him once, praised him for his help torching the bananas atop the hotteok. He couldn’t have said no when you’d fed him a still-warm piece, slipping a digit past his lips, pad of your finger brushing over his tongue.)

(He’d spent most of his life saying no to you but he wanted to say yes now.)

“Jin—” You’ve taken five steps forward, five steps into the home that’s bustling with noise, when he rounds on you, windshield wiper laugh coming to a screeching halt.

“Finally!”

Jungkook thinks you must blush in tandem by how Jin’s stare bounces between the two of you. (The silly voice in his head insists that he knows, that your cousin knows exactly why you’re both late. But he can’t, because that’d be crazy, right?)

(You’d brushed your hair and washed your face; he’d fixed his clothes and pulled a thick sweater on to hide the tiny bruise you’d left despite his protests. The two of you were perfectly acceptable, picturesque when you’d strode through that door.)

(And yet Jin keeps staring at him, at you, full mouth drawn into a thin line.)

(What?)

“What?” The question doesn’t mean to come, tripping off Jungkook’s tongue of its own accord.

When Jin turns his full attention to him, the younger feels like he might just leap out of his skin. He’s never been uncomfortable around your family but there’s just something—

“You did it.”

“Did what?” His cousin? Well, he’s not wrong but surely—

“You freaking did it!”

“Did what?” This time it’s you, exasperated and awkward, shoving the plate of hotteok toward Jin even while you refuse to meet his stare. It’s painfully obvious you’re hiding something. You’ve never really had a great poker face.

“You owe me dinner.”

Now that throws Jungkook for a loop, tears all of his focus from you to your cousin.

“What?” It seems to be a popular word tonight, uttered at every available interval.

“____ didn’t tell you?” Jin looks as if he’s on the brink of losing it, shoulders shaking, restrained laughter spilling past his lips. “I bet her you guys would end up together at some point. She said I was crazy.” There’s pride in his eyes, glittering when he slaps his hand out, palm face up. “Pay up.”

You won’t even look at Jungkook, smacking your cousin’s hand away as you push past.

“We’re holidating,” you say, just like you said that first night when you’d brought your best friend along and your family members - at least, the ones he’d never met before - had all but pounced on the appearance of a newcomer.

A smile splits Jungkook’s mouth as you stomp away, disappearing into the kitchen. He’s not even bothered when he pulls his wallet out, offering Jin his winnings like a gracious loser. “We’re actually dating.”

Your cousin doesn’t bat an eye, pocketing the neatly folded bills. “About time.”

Jungkook thinks so too.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle @jeonmisha @devilion14 @bobbyboops @yxnxxli

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aspd-sriracha · 1 year ago

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As a pussy owner with Aspd and Npd let me just say that gender bias is so real in cluster B diagnosis. Like even being diagnosed I have had “professionals” dispute it purely because “you’re a woman and only men get those two” I was misdiagnosed (despite having already been diagnosed with conduct disorder as a child and showing no signs of improvement) with bpd because that’s the girl disease^tm despite having no fear of abandonment, chronic feelings of emptiness, no suicidal ideation, and the only criteria I met overlapping with the disorder I already had.

Of course me being young and frankly not seeing diagnosis as anything other than just a general guide for what therapy to get, I went to “oh ok” and got sent to a bpd centered dbt group which sure was helpful in some ways but a lot of it wasn’t because that isnt the type of therapy that is best for the actual disorders I had. I eventually got diagnosed with ASPD and NPD and shit clicked and I was able to actually get better because the right disorder was treated but it doesnt take away from the fact that I wasted money and time on not getting better because some idiot saw a young girl with cluster b traits and instead of bothering to see what was up he went “hurr durr cluster b girl = bpd”

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COIN:

We have men with BPD. Men are so terribly undiagnosed with BPD and will automatically get diagnosed/armchair diagnosed with NPD (bc npd is boy disease^tm) which again is doing a huge disservice to the patient.

I grew up with someone who has pretty bad BPD and then went on date people, both men and women, with bpd who for A or B reason did not receive treatment past a diagnosis (mommy issues am I right?) so I kinda know what it’s like being in a relationship with someone who with untreated BPD and let me tell you, ladies so many of your “Narc” boyfriends do not have npd at all but show pretty serious signs of BPD.

Why is this an issue? Well on one side the demonization of NPD is absolutely absurd considering how rare the disorder actually is and how different it is compared to the pop psychology version of it on the other side calling someone who is engaging in extremely maladaptive behaviors in a desperate attempt at not being abandoned a “narc abuser” is just going to make them worse off and reinforce a negative cycle.

There needs to be more awareness and research into what cluster b disorders look like on different genders because this shit is killing people/ making them worse

i think we should always take predominant sexes and races for psychiatric disabilities into question.

are men really more likely to be antisocial or narcissistic, or are women just overlooked because ASPD/NPD are seen as too "aggressive" for them?

are women really more likely to be borderline or histrionic, or are they just seen as so "hysterical" that they have to be feminine?

are black people more likely to have schizophrenia or ODD, or are labels of "psychosis" and "defiance" simply used to further dismiss, oppress, and imprison BIPOC?

are white people more likely to have autism and ADHD, or are doctors just more willing to accept that white children are disabled and not just "bad?"

oppressive biases are everywhere in psychiatry. never take psychiatric demographics at face value.

#antisocial personality disorder #narcissistic personality disorder #borderline personality disorder #anti-psychiatry #cluster b rant #men with bpd #women with aspd

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 3 years ago

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In Germany a gay couple was attacked by a Muslim. One of them died, the media is more or less silent because they don't know what to say.

His motives are obvious, but nobody wants to speak it out loud. If it would be an old white man, the outrage would be huge. If it would have been a nazi there would be a funeral March. Am I the only one who thinks France is doing a great job after this brutal beheading of a teacher?

I just keep coming back to what Yasmine Mohammed said.

From: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTIvCx4Y1ng :

(On silencing criticism of Islam with accusations of “Islamophobia”) “Yeah, it’s tiring. It is absolutely ridiculous. I feel like the double standard with speaking about Islam versus speaking about any other religion is just so nonsensical to me. And I feel like it comes from a place of people being scared of the bully.

‘These guys killed the Charlie Hebdo cartoonists, these guys are ISIS, these guys have their trucks of peace, these guys are bombing kids and Ariana Grande concerts, let’s not say anything about them, because we don’t want them to kill us.’

That’s not a good strategy. Since when has our response to bullies been ‘let’s just do whatever [they say].’ If your child has a bully taking their lunch money every day, are you gonna tell your kid ‘just give them your money every day, and just do whatever he wants, and never say anything bad about him.’ That’s not a good strategy.”

So, you’ve got a bully whose self-nominated representatives are completely prepared to kill you on its behalf, knowing with full certainty what it wants and why it wants it. This is “those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.”

Secondly, you’ve got a misguided sense of “tolerance” that turns a blind eye to Islam because of the thoroughly racist view that it’s brown people staunchly defending themselves from white colonizers from the US, France, Germany, etc. They echo the talking points: “Islam is a religion of peace!” “Nothing in the quran endorses this violence!” “They’re not a true Muslim!”. These are Enablers. Sometimes called useful idiots.

You can spot them on Twitter saying things like “how about we all just not draw Muhammad” when they’d never say the same thing about not doing Gay Jesus or Piss Jesus. Whether they’re afraid of the bully or signalling their own personal virtue of not being “Islamophobic,” a combination of the two, or in regular old denial is difficult to tell.

The end result is undeniable though. Islam, the idea, the bully, attains protected status and even treated like a racial category, even when it’s clearly not.

While its victims - such as apostates, veiled women, gays - are ignored or even blamed. Such as by online Twits defending beheadings for not simply bending the knee to its censorious, illiberal demands.

Groups pretending to be advocates for women, LGBT and atheists spend their time on navel-gazing first world concerns such whether air conditioning is sexist, or traffic lights are racist.

And yes, it’s hypocritical. It’s the Bigotry of Low Expectations. That we need a separate standard of behavior for those who follow Islam. You know, because their volatile “religious sentiments” mean we can’t expect them to reach the same standard we expect of Xians or atheists. We can’t expect them to not go off the rails and behead people at the whiff of a Muhammad picture. That we need to lower our expectations and instead tiptoe around the bully.

For most Muslims who live in secular societies, this isn’t an issue. They might not like pictures of Muhammad or whatever, but they know their religious rules apply to them, and not non-adherents. They choose to live in these secular societies to practice their religion without interference, and know they must afford the same right to others. This is, of course, in defiance of what the quran actually says. As Yasmine puts it, they’re good people, but not good Muslims.

But for others - the good Muslims who are not good people - this isn’t enough. Allah’s (i.e. Muhammad’s) will is to be done, and the authorization of a god overrides mere human law. They will actually say this, point blank.

The secular wall surrounding personal beliefs exists for a reason. It protects the believer from being coerced as much as it protects the believer from doing the coercing. This wall must be vigilantly guarded. In the scheme of things, it probably doesn’t matter that some hillbilly town puts the a monument of the Ten Commandments out the front of their courthouse/tackle shop. But there’s a reason groups like The Satanic Temple contest these. Making concessions, allowing cracks to form in the secular wall, invites more to be made. How can you deny Islam - or even a different religion - just one little concession when you’ve already done so for Xianity?

There’s a difference between beliefs and values, and as far as I can tell, France has been clear and consistent about their values. They’re the same values native French Muslims grew up with, and the same values immigrant Muslims agreed to when (purportedly) seeking a better life in France, a country famously known for being staunchly secular. It’s like going to McDonald’s and complaining that everything has an “M” logo on it.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_of_Samuel_Paty#International_organisations

Muslim World League

Sheikh Muhammad bin Abdul Karim Issa , Secretary General of the Muslim World League , said "acts of violence and terrorism were crimes in all religions," he also suggested that such situations might be avoided by "refrain(ing) from stirring hatred by insulting religion," making an appeal against the unnecessary incitement of violence through the circulation of incendiary literature.”

Organisation of Islamic Cooperation

The Organisation of Islamic Cooperation said that although they denounced "all acts of terror in the name of religion" it would continue to oppose "continued publication" of what it called "blasphemous cartoons". It added that it was the "suggestions of certain French leaders … that risk submerging French-Muslim relations".

These are not really the unequivocal condemnations that you would expect if Islam was actually a religion of peace. They’re the equivalent of “I’m sorry you’re upset, but I wouldn’t keep hitting you if you’d just do what I tell you to.”

It couldn’t be that they just stop going straight to violence and killing people whenever they get upset.

Apparently expecting that is “Islamophobic.” Which tells you who the bigot really is.

(Sorry, this question has been in my Inbox for quite a while.)

#ask #islam #islamic violence #france #Samuel Paty #beheading #behead those who insult islam #blasphemy #religion of violence #religion of peace #islamophobia #religion #religion is a mental illness

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baeddel · 4 years ago

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Parson’s position on ‘free love’ and ‘variety’ (now we say ‘polyamory’) is a bit hard to swallow. She said that if society adopted polyamory it would rot away, that monogamy is the natural state of humanity, that women have special obligations towards their children, that promiscuous sex leads to venereal disease, and so forth. She said all this in the context of arguing that “marriage slavery” (as she called it) was the product of economic conditions, such that women had a financial need to assent to coercive marriages, and that if women were not financially dependent on men marriage would no longer be coercive.

This is not a bad case but it is the kind of leftist feminism that I don’t like very much, reducing the women’s question to the economic question; a simple objection is that it fails to explain the institution of forced marriages in pre-history, or in present day hunter-gatherer societies (note that these two things are very different) where the means of subsistence are already held in common. The oppression of these women are obviously related to the means of subsistence, ie. in some hunter-gatherer societies a woman’s only alternative to a coerced marriage is to run away and either find another society or starve; but there is nothing about this means of subsistence itself which should lead us to expect an institution of coerced marriages. Why is women’s access to subsistence alienated in such a society? So the means of subsistence is a necessary, but not sufficient, cause of the oppression of women.

Parsons argued that if society practiced free love, then it would be difficult to ascertain who the father of a child was, and that the father would have no special obligations to care for the child; mothers would be left to raise their children on their own. This argument is very similar to the line taken by contemporary reactionary ‘radical’ feminists who say that the sexual revolution failed women because it increased men’s sexual access to women while liberating them of their spousal responsibilities. We do indeed find that today, for example, in the UK, about 25% of mothers are single and raise their children alone. That free love is responsible for this seems difficult to argue, though. It actually seems more likely that, ironically, it is due to the very solution that Parsons proposed. If most women were forced to assent to coercive marriages, and could not divorce their husbands, then we would expect to see fewer single mothers. To the extent that women in the UK today are more likely to be financially independent, they are able to escape coerced marriages, and they are able to support children without a spouse.

The statistics give us a bit of trouble with this argument, though. 42% of single parent families in England live in poverty (according to Trust For London). This could be explained by the fact that raising a child on your own is more expensive than with a partner, as is merely living alone without a partner; 30% of single people without children live in poverty (ibid.). We might seek some amount of reassurance in the fact that in India, a country with a lower median income than the UK (thanks largely to the UK), we find that only 4% of mothers are single; in the Phillipines, 12%. But then we find that in Ghana this figure is 26%, narrowly beating the UK, and in fact sub-Saharan Africa as a whole has the highest number of single mothers worldwide, reaching a staggering 32%, with Latin America a close second at 30% (Gallup World Poll).

Now the wealth of nations appears a poor guide. But the sexual revolution doesn’t appear to be much better of a guide; was the sexual revolution most successful in sub-Saharan Africa? There are, unsurprisingly, really a number of factors at work, including access to abortion and contraceptives. Parson’s opponents, the advocates of free love and ‘variety’, were also generally advocates of abortion and contraceptives, and in any case, tended to also argue for the abolition of the family and the development of new means of caring for and educating children. As it appears in the Communist Manifesto (as dialectrician pointed out to me), “[d]o you charge us with wanting to stop the exploitation of children by their parents? To this crime we plead guilty” (and they already note a “practical absence of the family among the proletarians”).

People who have written about her stance on free love tend to apologize for it quite a bit in a way that is frustruating to read. I understand that we like her, and her principle opponent in the argument was Emma Goldman who’s treatment of her is deservedly infamous, so it is tempting to defend her, but what she said is really bad, and the defenses are embarassing. Links, for example, write that:

The obsession of her anarchist detractors with making an individual’s sexual lifestyle the central-most important question in the social revolution, merely showed the extent to which they were indeed obsessed with the individual pursuit of freedom (and on a “middle-class” basis), to the exclusion of fighting for the freedom of the entire working class from the social, economic, and political systems of oppression endemic to capitalism.

Which is absurd to me, I mean, no matter what you think of Emma Goldman, do you really believe that she made free love the center of her platform, to the exclusion of the freedom of the working class? Come on... I personally am not sure to what extent the argument Parsons makes here even reflects what she actually believed. She only expressed these sentiments (against ‘variety’ and so on) twice; once in a letter to the Free Society newspaper, and once at a meeting held by the Free Society, which Goldman also attended. The meeting was over the censorship of the newspaper under the Comstock laws, which made charges against its editor for publishing obscenities, leading to his arrest. Parsons was the only speaker who did not denounce the arrest, saying that “there has been some dirty reading in the [Free Society]...” This is something very embarassing for an anarchist to say, but we might come to understand it more if we remember that she was presently feuding with not only the editors of the magazine but also at least one other speaker at the meeting. We have a good deal of personal experience with how rivalries between friend-groups and milieus find their expression in political differences which neither side really believes in. Their political disagreements were not, in principle, that serious, but we do know separately that at least some persons involved treated Parsons badly...

In any case, it’s interesting to me to see how this discourse has evolved. There was a time when the abolition of monogamy was once such a significant part of the anarchist and communist conversation that a difference of opinion over it would become a major incident (Parsons felt alienated from the anarchist scene after her remarks). These days, despite many anarchists practicing polyamory, virtually no one would dare criticize monogamy or argue for its abolition. We tend to regard it as a personal choice with no political consequences. I wonder how much of that had to do with the considered rejection of a political principle and how much had to do with the need to set aside disputes in the course of organizing?

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thegreaterlink · 3 years ago

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Reviewing Star Trek TNG - S2E17 "Samaritan Snare"

THE PREMISE

Captain Picard refuses to have a medical operation on his artificial heart on board the Enterprise by Dr Pulaski, as he is concerned about his image with the crew. He instead heads to a nearby Starbase for the operation, travelling by shuttlecraft. Wesley Crusher accompanies him, as he is due to undergo his Starfleet entrance exams.

Meanwhile, the Enterprise encounters the Mondor, a Pakled ship which is experiencing technical difficulties. Riker deems them harmless after witnessing their childlike speech patterns and lack of technical knowledge, and agrees to send Geordi over to assist them. Counsellor Troi warns Riker that Geordi is in danger, but Riker dismisses her concerns. After finally completing the repairs, Geordi prepares to leave but is knocked out by the Pakleds, who raise their shields to prevent the Enterprise from beaming him back.

MY REVIEW

So let me get this straight: the Captain of a Galaxy-class Federation starship has a heart condition and is headed for an operation in a solitary shuttle, accompanied only by the ship’s Acting Ensign? Did anyone ever actually stop and think about this? Sure, it might make for some interesting character moments between them, but this setup is fucking absurd! It's a cheap excuse to get Picard off the Enterprise and alone with Wesley!

At least the conversation they have is interesting, including Picard revealing that he has an artificial heart after being stabbed during a fight with some Nausicaans during his Academy days. It also delves into the rather frayed relationship between them, and Picard apologises for not treating Wesley with respect.

Other topics of conversation include romance, during which Picard mentions that he never had time to get married, and Wesley drops this little line:

“Where women are concerned, I am in complete control.”

Wesley, earlier in this very season you were making out with a shapeshifter. I don’t think you’re qualified to talk about women.

Anyway, the two of them arrive at the Starbase and Picard goes for his operation from doctors who look less like medical professionals and more like cult members.

Seriously, if I showed you this image out of context, would you think this is Picard being rendered unconscious for surgery or being prepared as a sacrifice to an ancient god?

Complications arise during the procedure, and the doctors realise that unless they can locate someone with the necessary expertise, Picard will die.

Now, there are a few problems with this.

You're seriously telling me that there's nobody on the station who knows how to perform the operation?

The surgeons on board this station agreed to operate on Picard before they'd even made sure that someone on board knew how perform the procedure?

Yes, of course Captain Picard, the main character of the series, is going to die from a botched heart surgery. (Then again, the last main character death came via psychic backhand courtesy of a sentient pile of tar, so it might not be that much of a stretch.)

So Picard takes an hours-long shuttle journey with the ship's Acting Ensign to receive the operation from people who don't even know how to do it, just so he could preserve his image with the crew?

This plot is getting more idiotic by the second.

All looks bleak, Riker receives a message that Picard is near death, but suddenly someone appears who has the necessary expertise - Dr Pulaski, who was going to perform the operation in the first place! Good to know that an entire subplot could've been completely avoided! Thanks TNG!

Now on to the other side of the plot. After introducing one of the most iconic species in all of science fiction, in the very next episode Star Trek introduces one of the worst - the Pakleds.

We've gone from the Borg's sinister biomechanical awesomeness... to some portly manchildren with dodgy eyebrows.

Congratulations, Ferengi. You can now consider yourselves the second-least intimidating villains in all of Star Trek.

They look and sound like aliens from Red Dwarf! And at least in that series they could be funny!

Also, did you know that they look for things? Things to make them go? If you didn't, then you'll never bloody forget after watching this episode!

I first saw the Pakleds in an episode of Lower Decks - yes, I've watched it, and it's great - and their stupidity seemed exaggerated and obviously played for laughs, but they still proved themselves as a credible threat by using a massive amalgamation of other vessels to form their mothership! And it was awesome!

Seriously, go watch Lower Decks if you haven't already.

So I was both surprised and disappointed to see that they were not an invention of Lower Decks, and were much less of a threat in the series they actually originated from.

After the Pakleds kidnap Geordi, Data determines that the Pakleds have acquired advanced technology from other races, a pretty cool idea that was used to much better effect in Lower Decks. Also, an intensified scan shows that the Pakleds’ ship is intact and the malfunctions were a ruse. So why didn’t they just run the scan before they agreed to beam their Chief Engineer over to their ship?

Come to think of it, why did they only beam their CHIEF ENGINEER over instead of just sending over a repair team?!

Troi even told them that something was up after Geordi was beamed over, but Riker basically ignored her. Glad to see he values his girlfriend's opinion so much.

Geordi is unable to escape, and the Pakleds force him to upgrade their weapons- oh, I'm sorry, I meant they force him to "make us strong." And the Enterprise can't fire on the Pakled ship without running the risk of harming Geordi.

So yeah. These ugly manchildren are actually holding the Enterprise to ransom.

How did this happen? They’re smarter than this!

But once the crew actually start using their common sense, they actually come up with a plan to save Geordi by communicating with him through code. Geordi then convinces the Pakleds not to fire until he says so, only to disable their torpedoes and claim that the Enterprise pulled some technobabble bullshit to disable their weapons. Convinced that they're defeated, the Pakleds back down and return Geordi to the Enterprise.

It's a pretty clever plan, but being smarter than the Pakleds is clearing a very low bar.

Any sense of drama created by Picard’s scenes with Wesley is immediately lost whenever the Pakleds come onscreen. I'm hoping the creators learned from their mistake with the Ferengi and abandoned these bumbling simpletons after this episode.

While we're on the subject of the Pakleds, I'd like to point out that one of them, Grebnedlog (I'd try to find an image, but these guys all look the same) is played by Christopher Collins, who had previously played the Klingon captain Kargan back in "A Matter of Honor" and would make two further appearances in Deep Space Nine. I'd also like to point out that he not only voiced Starscream in the original Transformers Animated Series, but was also the original voice of both Mr Burns and Moe in The Simpsons! What a guy!

There are four and a half seasons left of this series. Maybe at some point we'll have consistent quality instead of following up greatness with mediocrity.

4/10 - The scenes with Picard and Wesley are just interesting enough to elevate it from being a 3, but the terrible villains and often idiotic plot prevent it from going any higher.

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perpetuallyfive · 4 years ago

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Can trans people be lesbophobic? I'm not talking about Caitlyn Jenner. I'm talking about other trans people who have been lesbophobic towards individuals. How are lesbians supposed to confront transwomen perpetrators when they cry oppression? How is a lesbian supposed to call out to the 'queer community' about what happened to them? When that very queer community says that trans people are not even capable of that? That it must be your fault too (victim blaming).

If you have a meaningful response to this, I think I'd actually be grateful.

Just for context, I can call out straight men, gay men, lesbian women, and pretty much every demographic for harassing me. But why am I not taken seriously when transwomen do it?

Have you considered that this might be the origin of many lesbians feeling betrayed by 'our' 'communities'?

Look, I'm going to try to engage with this and the only way I can do that is by assuming you're asking this in good faith, even though there are a lot of possible warning signs here. Because the actual question you're asking me is can a person, a single individual, be capable of bigotry, biases, or bad behavior. The answer to that is obvious, right? Of course they can. Of course people can do bad things. We all know this. So it's strange to ask, right, unless you're struggling to understand that trans people aren't a monolith and are just, you know, people. A trans woman or a trans man is just a person, just like you are.

Can lesbians be lesbophobic? Can lesbians make mistakes? Obviously the answer is yes. Because lesbians aren't a monolith.

I don't know who you've made friends with that you can't talk about someone hurting or harassing you and still be taken seriously. If that's happened to you, that's sincerely fucked up. That shouldn't have happened. I can certainly tell you, however, that t*rf ideology isn't the solution you're looking for. One of their basic founding ideas is based entirely in gendered absolutes that only men can violate and harass and other women never can. But that's not how people work at all, is it? People are people. That's kind of the point. You shouldn't think of a category of person and try to box them in based on one aspect of identity.

But if your idea of lesbophobia is for a trans lesbian to say that she's a lesbian or something like that, or trans women being included in lesbian attraction, then we have a problem. Because that's not lesbophobia. I hope you would know that, but there's certainly not enough information here for me to know what kinds of instances you're talking about. But certainly trans lesbians exist and lesbians who are attracted to trans women are still lesbians. I see so many absolutely insane hypotheticals about this though where, again, people act like they're being told they have to experience attraction for an entire category of people. That's actually absurd. I'm certainly not attracted to all lesbians. Some of us are absolutely repulsive people with horrible personalities and that's just not my thing. The point is we're just people. We're individuals.

It's just odd that you feel like you're being asked not to see trans women as individuals when that's exactly all people want. To see every trans individual as a person, as themself, and judge them based on exactly that. If you feel unable to express yourself, perhaps consider your words and how you're going about it or, frankly as I said, reconsider your friend group and how much they consider your actual feelings. If you're not feeling heard, perhaps it's the people who you are speaking to that are the problem. And for the record, this is something many people don't know so I'm not trying to pick on you, but I do think it goes to the heart of your question in many ways: it's "trans woman" and not "transwoman." Because trans is an adjective, describing a kind of woman instead of a prefix on a noun describing a different category of person all together. It's like tall woman, shy woman, blonde woman. A trans woman is just a kind of a woman. Can an individual woman be biased or behave horribly? Of course she can. She's human. Maybe try talking to her, having a dialogue, taking questions in good faith even when you're not sure that they're well intended. Or don't, if that single person doesn't feel like they're worth your time. That shouldn't change how you feel about a million other people you've never met. Just try to think of people as individuals, not categories. You don't want to be treated like you're automatically xyz just for being a lesbian, right? So extend others that same courtesy of recognizing their humanity. If you're feeling isolated from our community then learning to talk to people about it is a big first step. It's hard, but it's a start, so I appreciate you sending this message and I hope you found some part of this answer helpful.

#this question was so vague that it's genuinely hard to know what you're talking about here and answer really clearly and directly #but i hope this was helpful?#if you think what people really want is for trans people to be treated as a special category of Other #then you've been talking to the wrong people #transphobia tw #for mentions of t*rfs et al #answers

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froog-water · 4 years ago

Text

howdy and hello

and thank you for finding this! If you enjoyed this madness that I have somehow managed into a story, then, please do not be afraid to interact! I am relatively new to the whole Apex scene and am, obviously, prone to make mistakes. If there is anything wrong, like spelling errors or something like that, just point it out and I will try to fix it :) This goes without saying but, apologies in advance if Bloodhound appears to be OOC or anything along those lines. As I said, I'm new to all this but I still wanted to try my luck with writing something so, yeah. Though the reader is written with the intention of being a female (she/her), there is really no specific mention of their gender (unless I missed it somewhere) so for now, the reader is greatly gender neutral :) Other than that, I hope whoever reads this likes it. This story is purely selfish and my response to the clear lack of good Bloodhound fics out there in the world

Upwards Over the Mountain (Bloodhound x Reader)

Chapter 1; next

From somewhere outside, beyond your stone walls, the world raged. The overhead night sky rumbled thick and dark with heavy rain clouds that every so often flashed with brilliant lightning and shook the ground with terrible thunder. Tonight was the last good storm of the year before winter set in to turn everything to ice and chill, and Mother Nature was holding nothing back.

The wind howled painfully and threatened to rip the bar's front door clean off its rusty, old hinges. Worriedly, you pass the rickety things a brief look, unsure if the storm would make due on its promise to ruin your night. Rain hammered endlessly on the ceiling and your lights gave a concerning flicker - there was still time yet.

As your hands busied themselves with the cleaning of the day's mess, wiping down tables, and stacking plates and glasses for washing, your mind wandered to the security of your late-evening patrons. You whisper to yourself, and whatever god was listening, a silent prayer for their safe journey home.

The town you had precariously made your home was a terribly small farming community nestled tightly to the base of a mountain, families here were numbered and small and people were old and simple-minded. At the center of this plain society sits your bar, the beating heart of all the people, where conversations were light and bubbled easily with the flow of alcohol and food. Your connection to this hub of activity, being its sole owner, meant that on a near-daily basis you had the privilege of intruding in on these strange people's lives, of which they were more than eager to allow you entry.

Though in the beginning, you tried to keep them all at a safe arms-length, smiling at their jokes only when necessary, they had a way of seeping under your skin. The country life was most infectious and her inhabitants, even more so. They were plain people plagued by simple problems and naively narrow mindsets and it was all so intriguing to you in a sort of enjoyable manner. Their ways of life, views on the world and politics, the way they treated each other, and, of course, their stories. Especially their stories. All this brought out of you a sense of interest, albeit a somewhat back-handed one. The imagination of these people, whether it be for the better or worse, always struck you as so strange and wonderful. The fishermen who strolled into your bar would regale you with the tales of their daily catches and how the ocean had favored them thanks to their abiding of some ancient traditions. The farmers would entertain you with wild gestures of their experiences in the fields, proclaiming with great conviction that they had seen something almost magical in the early rays of the dawn. Such simple things when compared to the true, harsh reality of the machine-driven world beyond your doorstep.

Having known nothing but bitter metal and concrete jungles for the majority of your early life, these seemingly insignificant worries of old entranced you and teased out a seemingly lost sense of childishness. Despite your heavy scrutiny, these people prevail and their stories linger long after your doors shut for the evening.

Your thoughts often drifted back to their many tales, replaying their absurdity like television in your head in times of quiet with gentle bemusement. It was always more preferable to occupy your time with fairytales than to dwell on more intrusive voices. Tonight, however, the usual whimsical wives' tales were instead replaced with ill tidings.

Again the front door pushes inwards as the wind picked up and the glass windows rattled in place. You exhale loudly in a desperate attempt to soothe your racing heart. This bar was old and stable, earning the title of being reliable after many years of resistance to this tortuous climate, and though it whined at the force of nature beckoning down on it, you had to trust that it would not fail you this time. Your night was not going to be ruined by faulty foundations.

You fill your arms with dirty cutlery and take it back to the kitchen to be washed and packed away. While walking you pass the front window, a beautiful piece of stained glass gone yellow in its corners from age, and there you hear the noise again. Your mind immediately flickers back to the prominent story that had not left your consciousness since the first rumblings of the storm.

The caw of a raven.

A large part of you scoffed at yourself and your childish notions for even humoring the idea. It was absolutely, totally, 100% ridiculous. But, you muse to yourself, there was nothing else to listen to and your mind had a tendency to drift away.

You had heard this wild tale about the Winter ravens from a group of old ladies who had visited the bar in your early years of employment. They had occupied a large table in the corner of the room and blew tobacco smoke out their pipes whenever you approached them. Eventually, they eased into your sweet hospitality and offered you some advice, curling their elderly fingers in a motion for you to sit with them. Their ‘advice’, if you could be so generous with the word, was to never feed the ravens who arrived in winter. They foretold of a great danger to those who stupidly talked to these birds and of a stranger who followed them, whose eyes glowed in ominous moonlight and who was nothing like anyone had ever seen before. How vague a description but how fascinating it all was. It captivated you at the time, how entirely peculiar this story was and how it had entrapped the women in its grasp of fear and worry.

It was in their wrinkled, old eyes that you wondered if maybe there was such a person, if perhaps their story was somehow based on true events. But your rational mind was quick to corral your thoughts and you slipped back into unphased independence. It was just a fancy story made up by people who had nothing better to do than to smoke and spread rumors.

Even so, through all the talking down and condescending, the story still held a tight grip over you. And it did not help that over the storm you could hear the very ravens you had been so warned about. The previous winter was bizarrely devoid of these animals, drawing even some backward comments from the more normal of your patrons. It seems that this year, the birds were determined to make amends for their absence.

Over the clattering of glass and metal and the ever bellowing of the storm, you could still hear the birds calling. They scream loudly, their voices seeming to get closer to the front door with every passing utterance as if drawing in on your location. Despite everything, the corners of your mouth twitch upwards in a smile. How exciting it would be if such a wild story was true. Imagine the looks on the ladies' faces if you were to tell them you stole a look at their raven stranger or even, heavens forbid, you spoke with them. The bird outside caws again and, against all your better judgment, you stop your washing of the plates and quickly dash for the door. A soapy hand grasps the handle and before you could reason with yourself to stop being so ridiculous and easily persuaded, pulls it open to reveal a world wracked with night and storm.

Immediately, the biting cold of the rain stings your bare face and the wind pulls mercilessly at your clothes. A hand shoots up to cover your eyes and the other grasps the collar of your coat closed, a feeble attempt to remain steady in the torrent. In the darkness of the night, your eyes squint, darting up into the sky to find any sight of your midnight visitors. They sounded so close, as if sitting right on your front porch waiting for you to open and allow them inside. Unsurprisingly the ravens were nowhere to be seen, supposedly their black bodies giving them the advantage of hiding perfectly in the night. Surprisingly, however, when your eye level lowered to the empty street before you, you caught sight of the outline of a figure in the rain.

In the instant, all your whimsical fantasies and daydreams flee your head and are replaced instead with very real concern. That was a person.

“Hey!” Your voice hardly makes a dent over the orchestra of water and thunder and you swallow hard before trying again. “Hey!” You yelled, your free hand coming down from your eyes and cupping your mouth. This seems to have finally grabbed the attention of the troubled figure and they suddenly turn in your direction. The moment your eyes make contact, you barely manage to stifle a shocked gasp. Two reflective disks stare back at you, catching the light of the storm in an almost hypnotizing way - you were sure that had the moon been out, you could have mistaken them for glowing eyes. The story of the raven stranger starts afresh in your head but you quickly shake free of its grasp. Now was not the time to reminisce on fictitious gossip - right now there was a person who needed your help getting out of the storm.

You beckon the figure with urgent hand movements and a hasty side-step, revealing the warm glow of the bar inside as invitation. Your message was clear - please come inside. Luckily, the stranger was willing to follow your orders, reacting before you could even blink, and swiftly making their way towards you in powerful, strong strides. You hold the door open with your shoulder as they approach and it is only when they enter the doorway do you finally get your first good look at the figure.

Your first thought - they were much larger than they had appeared to be while standing in the darkness. Closing the door behind them you try your best to remain aloof and polite, casting your eyes to the floor so as not to stare. With the door closed the bar fell back into subtle stillness and you could finally come to bearing with your panicking mind. You had just invited a most odd-looking stranger into your bar, one who fits to the T the very weird description of an even weirder story and now, you were alone with such a stranger. A part of you, the one who scorned your carelessness, lashed at the back of your mind - this was a most stupid and potentially dangerous folly. But there was no going back now. It would be rude to turn possible patrons away especially in this sort of storm.

“Well,” You remark a little too breathlessly, shaking your wet head and walking behind the front bar. You reach underneath the long table and produce a towel with which you begin to pat dry your hair. “What horrible weather.” You offer the stranger your best winning smile - this would be easy, you try to convince yourself, you know how to deal with all manner of people and though this particular one, clad in heavy hunters gear and animal furs, was a little startling, they were just like anyone else who strolled in through your doors. You force your anxieties to leave your chest as you exhale and prepare to make light conversation.

“What an odd coincidence this all is.” Your voice carried around the bar without much-needed volume, the atmosphere somewhat lightening as you broke the quiet. The stranger remained motionless, their head turning ever so slightly to scan their surroundings. You push on. “I had no idea anyone was even out on such a night as this. Had I not looked out the door at that exact moment, who knows how long you would have been-”

“This is The Drunken Mule, is it not?” The stranger suddenly spoke, ripping the carpet right out from under your feet with how loud and potent their voice was. After a minute of composure, you nod even though they were not looking in your direction. Something about their tone made you narrow your eyes and set your warnings on high alert.

“Yes.” You answer strongly. “A most unfortunate name.” Out of nowhere the stranger rounds on you and steps forward, drawing you into their mesmerizing appearance with their illuminated lenses and towering physique.

“Vhere is the owner, Andante?” There it was again, unmistakable and oh so violent. Carried over their heavy accent and muffling mask, the anger in their voice was most noticeable. At the rising sense of threat, you drop nearly all of your trained mannerisms and you furrow your brow. Your thoughts momentarily flicker to where your gun was stashed and you shudder at the thought of retrieving it. Never have you had a fight occur before in this bar and tonight, you were not looking to make this encounter be your first.

“What business do you have with him?” You ask with professional coolness that only appeared to irk the stranger for their hand twitched and an annoyed scoff could be heard. You had to keep it cool despite their obvious rising temper and though your heart beat around your ribs like a wild rabbit caught in a cage, you knew better than to back down.

“That is of my own.” They shoot back with half-bitten venom.

“I am afraid not.” You replay placidly, swallowing your bubbling fear in favor of remaining in control, “Andante More died last spring. I am the sole inheritor of both his bar and his inn. So whatever business you have with him, you also have with me.” Thankfully, your voice did not betray how shaky your knees had become and you puff your chest out and glare in an effort to portray false courage.

There was a moment of tense quiet, neither one of you moving or speaking, all that could be heard was the constant drumming of rain on the roof. Then suddenly, movement from the stranger, and although you cannot see their face, you can most definitely feel contemplation slowly corrode their malice. This action, along with your revelation, made the stranger hesitate in their defense then deflate in an almost defeat, although it was hardly discernible under all that heavy clothing and armor.

“I ask again,” You pry further, your arms crossing over your chest and your trained eyes never once leaving their daunting outline. “What is your business here?” A moment of silence passes before the stranger manages to speak, their voice devoid of their previous hostility but not of mild irritation - you could tell that they were trying to rein in their heated emotions even if some residue still clung to their words.

“I had an arrangement vith Andante. I have a cabin out in the mountains, he vas to maintain it vhile I vas away. I vas kept busy last year and vas unable to visit until now. It vas not in my knowledge that Andante had passed.” They were certainly quieter now, their voice smoothing out into a relaxed and almost apologetic tone. News of the man's death must have struck a nerve with them and you could feel the room shrink as their fury did. You take in the stranger's words, rolling them over your tongue before deciding how best to answer.

“This is the first I have heard of such an arrangement. Had I known, I would have happily taken up Andante’s duties.” You admit plainly, allowing some sweetness to ooze back into your words and extend out to the stranger in a metaphorical olive branch. You were quick to forgive the grievances of this troubled stranger - a personal fault you had yet to decide was virtuous or not. You would have to wait and see. “Is there a problem with your cabin?” It was obvious what the answer was by the way the stranger had arrived in all their unfriendliness and from basic deduction, but you still asked the question with genuine concern.

“It has been left unchecked. The roof is torn and the rest is in disarray.” They replied after a moment of debate, unsure if they were allowed to speak to you after their appalling entrance. Suddenly the stranger lowers their head in a short bow, a gloved hand touching the brim of their helmet. “Please forgive me and my intrusion vith such reiði. I vill leave now.” In a blink of an eye, the stranger had moved to the front door and already had their hand around the handle.

“W-What? Wait!” You react off instinct, a hand reaching out to follow the retreating figure. It was so abrupt to have this person switch between such potential anger to this somehow polite and embarrassed individual that it took you at least a few seconds to gather your bearings. “Wait.” You say again, a tired laugh passing through your lips as they stretched back to their gentle smile, all your pent-up repentance bleeding away into comfort and ease. “I am afraid that I cannot let you leave. Not after all,” you make a motion with your hand, “This.” The stranger does not turn to face you completely, instead, they hover by the exit, offering you only their ear to listen to what you have to say. If they really wanted to, this person could just push their way into the night and you could do nothing to stop them - it was only courtesy that kept them in place long enough for you to speak.

“You say your cabin has a hole in its roof. And I imagine it would not be very pleasant to sleep in, especially on a night like this.” You step out from behind the bar and stride over to the door, moving close enough that you could start to make out the more fine details of their unusual outfit - a collar of thick fur, many odd pockets and bags covering their chest and hips, and a head hidden behind a most bizarre gas mask and goggles. Something about them strikes you as extremely familiar but you cannot remember ever meeting someone quite like this person before. “As I have said earlier, I own Andante’s Inn which, unsurprisingly, is empty this evening.” You manage to edge yourself into the stranger's field of view, successfully bringing their attention back to your face. You smile encouragingly under their unwavering gaze.

“Did you walk here?” Your curiosity gets the better of you and makes its presence known through the form of impertinent questions. The stranger does not answer, rather they slowly and deliberately tip their helmet downwards in a quiet yes. “Then I really cannot let you leave.” You boast, your arms once more folding proudly around your chest. “Please, I insist you stay the night here where, at least, you will not get wet.” They made no moves, showed no indication that they had even heard your request.

“If not for your sake, then for my own.” You add on, your tone gentle and beset with sincere worry, “I would not be able to sleep tonight knowing that I willingly allowed someone to brave this horrible storm alone.” This roused something in the stranger and after a few silent minutes, they nodded in reluctant agreement. Your smile doubled in size and you clapped your hands softly.

“Wonderful! Thank you so much for agreeing.” You bow your head slightly before darting back to the kitchen to secure the bar for the evening. After grabbing your coat and turning the lights off, you return to the waiting stranger and motion for them to follow. Over your shoulder you throw them a tease, winking in a terribly playful and scripted manner.

“Do not worry. Our boarding rates are quite manageable and I may even throw in a free breakfast.”

As the warm smell of sizzling bacon and fried eggs fills the small kitchen in the early hours of the morning, your mind wanders back to the events of the night before. You can not help but cringe pitifully and wrinkle your nose in disgust.

How idiotic you had behaved, how unnecessarily childish you had been - all with a complete stranger no less! It is the most common knowledge to be wary of strangers, especially ones who appear at night dressed as if ready to go to war. What had compelled you to be so reckless and to willingly invite such a danger into your abode? You had put yourself in jeopardy's way all in the name of some old promise of benevolent kindness. Always help people, Andante drilled into your head. Always. Perhaps your unwise behavior was the result of too many late nights or maybe a far too-convincing patron had indulged you in one too many beers. Whatever the cause was, you cursed it wholly.

Over the crescendoing noise of your own self-degradation, the sound of the kitchen doorway creaking brought your head up and towards the solid figure suddenly occupying its space.

“Ah!” You jump slightly, the spatula you have been using to cook the bacon flying up in a defensive position. It takes you only a heartbeat to relax, laughing airly and banishing your vile self-criticisms to be examined on a later date. “You scared me!” You say to the stranger, waving them over to the small, prepared table with a well-oiled smile. “Please,” You motion to the chair, “I woke up feeling rather generous this morning!” After a moment of consideration, the stranger silently slipped forward and took their place at the opposite end of the breakfast table. You afforded them their stoic silence, deciding rather to lead the conversation yourself than to try drag a word out of them. Clearly, the two of you were both still in equal shock over last night's events.

“I have not had the honor of sharing breakfast with someone in quite a long time so forgive if my culinary skills are,” you turn around and slide two pieces of bacon off the pan and onto toast, “lacking.” You lift your eyes to meet their emotionless mask, an unconscious and unwelcome shiver travelling up your spine as the thought of what lay beneath bites at your curiosity. Something was most certainly familiar about them but what exactly it was still eluded you. “Coffee or tea? Or, better yet, do you even want the bacon?”

“Coffee vill do. No sugar. And bacon is velcomed.” They finally speak and greet your ears with a much admired and amused delight - no longer were their words dipped red with unidentified anger but now, rested and offered food, were decent and alluring. Their accent is on full display to your interest and your keen ears lean in. You feel your painted smile shift more in favor of sincerity as you prepared your guest their meal.

“I must commend your sense of timing.” You push on the conversation much to the gratitude of the stranger who eased at your playful words, as did all your patrons. You were the master of teasing people, talking them up with trained comfort and care until eventually they paid you or offered you something more. You were a most tantalizing host. “It was just last week that I had helped old Carter on the hill rebuild his disheveled cattle shed. See, I have never done such a task before and had provided him with…” You pause, carrying over to the table the stranger's made-up breakfast and drink, “an overabundance of supplies.” The silence from the stranger wordlessly implored you to explain where exactly you were heading with this discussion.

“What I mean to say is, you have a roof with a hole in it. Correct?” They nod, the beads hanging from their odd helmet swaying with the motion. “And I have a heap of unused materials just laying around taking up space.” You plop down in your chair with a small huff, “Do you see where I am going with this?”

“You vish to help me?” They ask without missing a beat, taking up your offer with the grace and judgment of a butcher at a slaughterhouse. You blink in surprised confusion.

“Is that so wrong?”

“I know that service from people is not like air - it is not free. Vhat do you intend to gain from helping me?” Though their apprehension to your rather forward proposal was expected, you still felt a twinge of hurt at their words.

“Nothing at all. What could I ever want from you?” You mockingly place a hand over your wounded heart, an attempt to break the blooming ice in the stranger's concerns. “If anything, you will be doing me a service and getting rid of my supplies. Plus, I might add, you technically have paid me already.” This draws a curious reaction from the raven stranger, their head cocking to one side. You stand quickly and from the counter, grab a piece of crumpled paper.

“For the longest time, ever since I first got my hands on the finance documents of this place, I wondered where the hell these quarterly sums of money were coming from. If perhaps, Gods forbid, Andante was involved in a more shady money-making scheme. But now I know.” You offer the paper to the stranger and they take it with a thick, gloved hand. As they scan over your business's finances, their thumb tracing over a particular underlined article, the very one you had spent all night pondering over. “It's from you, isn’t it? No name, no details. Just money.” You watch them for a reaction, shuffling over to your seat and taking it up once more. “Money you paid Andante to watch over your cabin in the mountains.”

“You are correct.” They answered after a minute, handing back the paper and sealing together the theory you had come up with. You sigh your relief.

“Then it is settled,” You announce, taking your fork and jamming it into your food, “We leave after breakfast.” The stranger waits in strained quiet, an uncomfortable atmosphere ebbing off their totally unreadable appearance. You wonder what could be ticking behind those moonlight lenses of theirs, what kind of person were they really. The same curiosity that compels you to store and maintain the stories of a fantasy people tugged at your chest - this stranger, as unpredictable and bizarre as they are, attracted you more than anything before.

“I eat alone.” They announced suddenly, snapping you violently from your daydream. You shake your head and return to your autopilot hospitality.

“Of course. Down the hall, second door on your left. There is the lounge. It is empty and you are welcome to close the door.” At your orders, they rise from their chair. “Oh and just one more thing.” They pause, training their unblinking mask on your face under which you did not cower. “As crazy as it sounds, I don’t remember asking for your name last night.” The raven stranger tenses at your request, almost as if taken aback by your lack of recognizing them, then lifts a hand to their chest.

“I am Blóth Houndr. You can call me BloodHound.” You tell them your name and they dip their head in acknowledgment. And with that, they collected their food and made their way to the other room.

The sun overhead gave little warmth as you stood in the field, dying blades of long grass coming up and raking across your pants like zombie fingers of the earth. Bloodhound had asked to visit Andante’s grave before departing to the mountains and you were more than willing to oblige. Typically graveyards were somber, cold places, filled with the forlorn memories of people no longer walking. But this place was the furthest thing from that plain description.

Sure, it housed many a sad memory but it certainly was not cold and somber. It occupied the top of a hill, overlooking both the town and neighboring mountains. The air up here was clean and always blew with the faintest hints of lemongrass. In a most unusual way, it was peaceful up here, light and alive as if untouched by time, people, and maybe even death. You hesitate to even call it a graveyard.

In the distance, you could see Bloodhound, their head lowered over the late man’s grave in some unimaginable prayer or curse - you were not sure which they had chosen to say. They were a most weird enigma and you found yourself inclining into them with every passing conversation. People who wore masks obviously had something to hide and you often prided yourself on not being too nosy and digging in on their private business. But with this raven stranger, you could not help but want to know more. No matter how much it pained you to have to admit it. You knew everyone else who lived, worked, or passed through this town but not this one. You pinch the bridge of your nose with your thumb and forefinger and whip yourself anew. You have to get out more often, have to meet new people, and be reminded of your own insignificance. These old town’s people were incredibly boring and were starting to make you act desperate.

Bloodhound shuffles and you assume their grievances to be over. With a hand full of freshly plucked wildflowers, the last growing of the season, you make your way over to them. Silently, you slip beside them, eyes downcast and focused on Andante’s headpiece. You kiss the tips of your fingers and touch the cold stone - a true sign of admiration.

“I know it is not proper to offer flowers such as these at a grave but,” You bend down and gently place your makeshift bouquet on the dirt floor, “They are so beautiful. And I know he would not have wanted it any other way.” You remain kneeling for longer than you had expected. Suddenly your chest feels tight and something made of iron drops heavy in your stomach. You had never been accompanied to his grave before and apparently being there with someone was enough to draw out of you, long-buried emotion.

“You must forgive him.” You whisper to the open air, your mind slowing and your tongue working off an unpracticed instinct. Your shoulders sag and your knees begin to ache. “Andante was not all there when he died. In his last few days, he could not even remember his own name.” Yellow grass tickles your hands as they follow the engravings of the man's name in stone. “You cannot blame him for forgetting.”

“I do not. I hold no biturð against Andante.'' Bloodhound answered next to you. That weight in your stomach lightens and you find the courage to stand up straight again. “My journey here vas long and left me unfocused. My reiði vas improper and unjustly pointed towards you. I am sorry.”

“Please do not apologize.” You murmur softly, shaking your head in a slow gesture, all the while with your eyes remaining fixed on the grave before you. “We all have our reasons for performing and yours was perfectly adequate.” You finally manage to tear your gaze away from the ground and towards Bloodhound. You are startled to find that they were already looking at you. “You are human under all that, right?” You joke, your signature playfulness sweeping back into control over your actions. Bloodhound curtly nods and you smile, charm gleaming off your eyes. “Then you don’t need to apologize. It is an occupational hazard.”

When Bloodhound had first told you that their cabin was up in the mountains, you had foolishly hoped that it would be a short drive to get to. This whole town was, by all technical reasoning, ‘up in the mountains’ so how much further out could their cabin be? It took you nearly an hour along a treacherous dirt road to finally reach their hidden paradise. By the time you stepped foot out of your dingy old truck, your back was aching and your legs whined to be stretched. The sun was right above your head in a gloriously mild midday. Clearly, your hopes for a short day were quickly going down the drain.

Their cabin was modest, but then again so was everything else here so how much of that was a virtue still hung in the air. You complimented it regardless. The small wooden house blended seamlessly in with the forest scenery, even as the greens turned to yellows and browns, so too did the wonderful dark wood of the house. The trees surrounding the building were tall and ancient which all stretched high above your head, standing tall and unphased by man's will. This was no ordinary house, you said to yourself as you stepped into its shadow, it did not claim itself different from the wild world. Instead, it sat in it all, watching as everything moved untouched around it. You pass a cheeky look at the raven stranger and contemplate if they shared their cabin's sense of independent aura. Bloodhound led you around to the side of their home and even from your viewpoint on the ground you could make out the extent of the damage. After a very minimal inspection, you nod your head, grab the ladder from your truck, and set to work removing the fallen tree branch.

It was a long and tedious job, your hands acquiring many new scraps and splinters and your muscles gaining a sort of stiffness you would regret in the morning. Bloodhound had offered you gloves but you politely declined, you did not wish to ask too much of the stranger and plus, they were doing all the heavy lifting. By the time the sun had started to dip behind the horizon, your work was thankfully nearly complete. With a triumphant and defeated puff, you land ungracefully on the forest floor. Exhaling loudly, you flex your red and sore fingers and watch as your knuckles acquire a purplish tint - it sure was getting colder now. Bloodhound approaches your resting position and sits across from you, a glass of water in their hands. They extend it to you and you gratefully take it.

“Your vork is done here. I vill handle the rest. I thank you again for your rich generosity.” They say, their signature head tilt making an appearance as a sign of unspoken, and unnecessary, gratitude. You scoff and brush them, and their charming words, off with tired bashfulness.

“Please, I had you do most of the hard work.” The water goes down with much praise from your tired body and you relish for a moment in the relaxing quiet of the forest. The air was cold and getting even more so as the sun’s warmth retracted behind trees and clouds. Around you, the world was at a complete silence save for the mere brushing of leaves and the odd call of a bird. You open your eyes at this sound and see before you a raven pretched surprisingly on Bloodhound's extended forearm. It looked at home on their arm and playfully nipped and pulled at the many beads dangling from their unusual helmet. With the back of their forefinger, they gently stoke the black bird's chest feathers, a forgein whisper escaping their masked mouth.

It was a marvelous sight indeed, something you had never seen before and you were certain to never see again, but you found yourself unable to truly relish in the scenery. Your internal confusion must have made its way to your face for Bloodhound cleared their throat.

“Clouds cover your mind. You look troubled. Something the matter?” They asked and you felt embarrassment well-up in your stomach.

“No, of course not!” You dismiss haphazardly, flicking your hand around your face as if trying to shoo away an annoying fly. When it became clear that your flimsy denial did not please the raven stranger, you relented slightly. “Well, it’s just that…” Never had your words betrayed you like this and you inwardly screamed at yourself for being easily moved to speechlessness. “You seem awfully familiar to me. I mean, I know I have never met you but ever since last night I have this nagging feeling that I have seen you somewhere before?” You frown and break eye-line with Bloodhound’s disk-like goggles, shaking your head slightly in befuddlement and apprehension. You were getting too comfortable with this stranger, going so far as to feel safe enough to share such personal and tripe worries with them as if they were more than but a most perfect and dangerous stranger. Bloodhound hums and sends their bird away with a jolting motion of their arm, rocking back onto their hunches and then into a crossed-legged position. They fold their arms firmly across their chest and watch you as you try to fruitless pluck an answer from your frazzled mind.

“Your intuition rewards you. I am the many seasons vinna of the Apex Games. Perhaps you have seen me on the television.” At this you snap your head around to them and stare with wide, unblinking eyes. Suddenly you laugh and run a hand through your damp hair.

“Oh my god, of course! That makes so much sense!” You practically shout, straightening your back and coming to life in a most comedic fashion. “Then that means,” You turn to Bloodhound again this time with awkwardness flickering in your eyes, “You’re like a celebrity.”

Bloodhound shakes their head in disagreement, “You’re flattery is misguided. I am merely a hunter for the Gods.”

“Still that's… wow.” You breathe, defeated by your own stupidity and reaction. This was the furthest thing from the cool persona you had worked so hard to create and maintain - you were speaking freely and from your own ass. Was it such a shock to your system to meet this wild and unfamiliar person that you could no longer remain in your aloof loft? You were crashing down to earth and embarrassment clawed at your corpse to claim it. You send out a silent prayer that maybe Bloodhound would not notice or take offense to your spontaneous giddiness.

“I must admit.” Bloodhound’s voice wafted to your ears as if through a dream. You turn to look at them, offering what little smile you could muster. “I have never had a reaction so adverse like yours before. Most people just cower.” Their teasing comment turns your smile from artificiale to one more earnest. “I did not think the people here vatched such programs.”

“They don’t.” You answer in between breaths of laughter, catching their amused tone and running with it - playing along with them much to the ease of your heart.

“I had my suspicions that you vere not of this place and now it is clear I am correct.” They admit.

“Oh really? What gave it away? Was I too rowdy? Or was my tongue too harsh, as I have been told many times?” Your face beams with reigniting vigor, the last of your energy seeming to only grow as Bloodhound spoke more with you. They shook their head.

“Nei. Your spirit is strong and velcoming even in the face of danger. And your tongue is quick. The people of this planet, however. They are more…” They hesitate, fingers drumming on their bicep as they rake their brain for the correct words to use.

“Old-fashioned?” You offer, leaning over in their direction. They shake their head again, this time rather absent-mindedly. “Suspicious? Sheltered? Inclined to gossip?”

“You speak such harsh words yet I detect no hostility in them.” Bloodhound gazes at you from behind their mask, eyes flickering over your form in search of any hint of malice. Your airy laugh only relaxes your shoulders and brings to life your weathered face. They notice this and observe with meek delight the way your face stretches with a genuine smile. It was wonderful to see, they had to admit.

“I don’t mean any. The people here are wonderful and kind. They gave me a home when no one else did.” Your heart thumps painfully in your chest and you quickly avert your eyes back to the grassy, forest floor. It was so easy to overshare with Bloodhound, whom you had to hotly remind yourself, was a complete stranger to you. You steady your mounting nerves by plucking yellow grass in your hand and crushing the blades in your fingers. “They do have their flaws however and often, that involves making up wild stories.”

Perhaps Bloodhound had sensed your apprehension for instead of questioning your previous comment or casting you away after your needless exposure, they simply continued on with the conversation. You appreciated that.

“I have had many stories made about myself.” They say, almost proud in their odd accomplishment. “Some say that I am half bat. Others that I am fabulously vealthy. None, I assure you, are true.”

“Are you sure?” You snicker, gathering the courage to once more look them in their moonlight lenses. “That bat one sound awfully convincing.” After your comment, the world falls back into blissfully silence. The air between you two feels somewhat lighter and you breathe deeper, taking into your lungs the smell of oak, of cold earth, and of the open wilderness all around. While you know you will kick yourself later for all that you have allowed yourself to get away with, in this moment you are relaxed and content - happy to simply sit and exist.

All too soon the wind blows, dragging its boney talons along your exposed skin and reminding you of the time. You shiver and hurriedly jump to your feet, eyes glancing to the setting sun. “I should get going now.” You turn towards Bloodhound and find that they too are standing, looking up at the sky. They lower their head to you and you hand back their glass. “I must go before it gets too dark. I hope you enjoy your time here now that everything has been set right.” You take a small step backwards, “Goodbye.”

“The Allfather goes with you.” Bloodhound responds, their body bending as they bowed stiffly. You offer them a smile once more before turning and walking your way back to your truck. Suddenly you stop and spin on your heels.

“You are more than welcome to come round to the bar again! Any time! I might even throw in another free breakfast!” Though you could not see it, Bloodhound chuckled at your offer. They did not answer, however, because before they could you had already jumped into your truck and sped off down the dirt road and into town, leaving behind nothing but dust.

#hell yeah baby #apex legends x reader #apex legends fic #apex legends bloodhound #bloodhound #bloodhound x reader #bloth houndr #lol yeah #i had way too much fun writing this #but man am i stupid #please forgive any mistakes #i am literally just vibing bro #also please interact!#uwu

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euphoricsunflowers · 4 years ago

Text

queen’s whore — lee hoseok/wonho

a/n: sorry to anyone named adrian, i just needed a name lol

a/n: hi welcome back to me getting so into a concept and writing out a complex story instead of just writing something sexual for this nsfw blog 😔✌️ i promise the next one will actually be horny

word count: 3.1k

content: only the last section is nsfw and it’s pretty soft, peasant!wonho, queen!fem!reader, kiki and kyun are in this too and honestly kyun in this is my icon, wonho is not treated well by the people so don’t read if that’s uncomfortable for you, like he mentions being called a whore but nobody directly says it to him in what’s written, riding le dick, aftercare i guess??? it’s vv soft at the end, the king is a sexist dick and i literally just looked up royal baby names and his is what came up so sorry to anyone named adrian

summary: hoseok, your secret lover, asks to become your consort so he’s not just seen as some peasant trying to get power by having an affair with the queen. kihyun, a royal advisor, and changkyun, a war strategist, help you do so against a king who is a really, really big asshole.

“oh my darling hoseok, why are you here so suddenly?” you mumble, allowing him into your chambers despite the absurd time. he trudges in, seemingly something disturbing his peace of mind, settling down on the bed, lying back with a miserable expression on his face that haunts your heart. it makes you want to do nothing more than absolve him of all this pain.

his eyes flutter close as he breathes in, taking in your words as if they are the only comfort he has left in the world, “i love you, you know.”

his bluntness startles you, “i do know, hoseok, i love you too.”

“no you do not understand, i really, really love you, i—” he stops, breaking down suddenly. Your heart shatters when he chuckles cathartically, covering his face with his arm out of embarrassment as he cries, “why do they have to say such cruel words? they say i’m fucking the queen so surely i must be trying to take advantage of her status or raise mine, but i am really not! i’m not just your whore!” he shouts, before looking over at you and remembering the situation. he, a common peasant, just cursed in front of you, the queen. Even if you did love him, he so desperately wished to go back and stop himself, “I apologize, my queen, for my words, i— please forgive me for tonight.”

“dear, please do not apologize tonight. you have every reason to be acting irrational right now,” you reach out to grab his hand, and he holds back with every last ounce of strength in his body, “the things people have said about you since the beginning of rumors concerning our… affair, have been vile and invasive. I wish that I could stop them, but I can only do so much without confirming them more. we both know my husband would not appreciate that.”

your husband. the king. not an ounce of love was shared between you two, and yet, even though he expected you to be fine with his constant affairs with other women, he would be livid if he knew you had a lover of your own. for that reason, the rumors concerning hoseok never made it to the king, because the people knew you would probably be in for hell. you were definitely the more well liked out of the two, and that meant that hoseok, a little nobody from a small fishing village in the kingdom, got the brunt of it, “does his opinion have… to matter so much?”

“hoseok...” you murmur with a warning tone, “sweetheart, i… i do not think…. it’s wise to talk about my husband in such a way—”

“you don’t love him! you sleep in separate rooms for god’s sake!” he shouts in a hushed tone, “make me your consort. i am not asking for political power, but i am sick of being called a whore.”

“and you expect me to take the brunt of my husband’s anger?”

“my queen, and more importantly, my love, please don’t imply such a thing. you have the support of the people, and many of your husband’s advisors would love to see him—” he says, and you place a finger over his lips.

“you speak far too loudly for someone trying to convince me to commit a crime.”

“i never said you had to kill him.”

“you were going to.”

“no i was not... because…” he takes a breath in, “i know you think he’ll have your head, but with the way the kingdom views you, and especially how the people view him, he would be a fool to lay a finger on you.”

silence fills the room, and hoseok wants to take it all back. it’s always felt like every time he opened his mouth to speak, nothing good would come of it. he sits up, but stays on the bed as you look away from him, “hoseok…”

he doesn’t answer when you call out his name, even though he knows he should. frankly, he should be on his knees in your presence, but in this room only he felt like you could be equals; he’s once again reminded that you are not, “my queen, i know what i’m asking of you is far too much, i know i’m overstepping and asking you to step into deadly dangerous territory, but… i’m so tired of being viewed like i’m using you, and i’m tired of the things they call me. i’m tired of being nothing to you outside these walls.”

“my dear,” you breathe, speechless at his words. it would be fatal to make one wrong move, but… would it be worth it?

“i’m not going to attempt to guilt trip you, you deserve better than that. if you don’t feel safe doing this, or just simply don’t wish to, i will accept that. and my love will be unwavering no matter what,” he raises your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles, falling to his knees, and resting his forehead against your thigh, “just, please think about me too when you make that decision.”

—

“kihyun,” you murmur, and he perks up hearing your voice as you reach out your hand for him to take, “come here, please. i require you for something.”

“of course, your highness,” he nods softly, letting you lead him to somewhere more quiet. kihyun was a royal advisor, but he was also a good friend to have on your side. he was too smart for you to allow to become an enemy, but he had a good heart. it didn’t take much effort from your husband to get kihyun to… not be fond of him, to put it mildly, “what is the matter?”

“i… i have a favor to ask,” you gulp, the full weight of what you were going to do hitting you hard in that moment, but you push through it. hoseok needed this, “have you heard the rumors about me?”

he bites his lip, but nods, “i— yes, your highness. my lips are sealed if you wish to speak about them.”

“they… are true. and i wish to make him my consort, but…”

“you’re worried about the king’s reaction to knowing you have… a lover,” he finishes the thought for you, and you’re both left to silence, until he speaks up with a chuckle, “forgive me, but you’re in a rough situation, my queen.”

“it’s… it’s not me who’s had to take the worst of it,” you shake your head, “i need to do this, kihyun.”

“i know you do. so tell me what you need me to be specifically, and i will do my best to be exactly that—” kihyun says, before getting interrupted.

“the king must understand the backlash he’ll get from punishing the queen, right?” you hear a voice say, cutting kihyun off.

your heart stops.

it’s all over isn’t it? the king found out about it before you even got the chance to try. you failed hoseok.

“i could attempt to help?” the voice adds on. you turn to see the face that the voice belongs to, and you breathe out a sigh of relief.

“changkyun,” you whisper, a hand over your heart, “you scared me.” *changkyun*. he was a war strategist that worked very closely with your father and now your husband, despite being a rather young strategist when your father was still on the throne. though he runs in the big political leagues, you trusted that kid with your life.

“i apologize, your highness, i seem to have that effect,” he winks, “anyway, i am sure we could convince the king to let it slide and allow the queen to appoint her mystery lover as a consort.”

though changkyun always seems to speak nonsense, his nonsense is giving you too much hope right now that you have to consciously hold yourself together and keep your expectations realistic, “tell me how, changkyun.”

“we could threaten to reveal information that, to be blunt, would ruin the king,” changkyun smirks, “i have been waiting for the chance to screw him over for years.”

“what information do you have?” kihyun speaks up, “and, no matter what it is, you know you’re painting a target on your back if you do this, right?”

changkyun, suddenly somber, nods, “of course i know that this would make me a target for the king, but… i owe it to you, your highness. you’re the reason i am alive. i live to serve you, not the crown. and.. do you think exposing to the kingdom that the king wants to invade our northern allies because they wouldn’t give him their princess to fuck would work? let’s just say, the king is one incredibly unpleasant man.”

you glance over at kihyun, who is in turn, looking over at you, and you mumble, “what do you say we… pay a visit to my husband, just the four of us?” you raise an eyebrow at kihyun, and he just wants to laugh at the obvious death sentence.

“of course, my queen. let’s meet back here after dinner and say hello to him then.”

—

“my king,” kihyun says, entering first. he hears the disgruntled groan of the king before even daring to look up. he keeps his head down.

“what is it, yoo? this better be important,” he spits, and kihyun does his best to keep his cool. now that he’s really thinking about it, maybe they should have… not bothered the king during his personal time.

“the queen wishes to speak with you, your highness,” he mutters, hearing the scoff from the king, he can tell the attention is soon off of him because he hears your footsteps behind him.

“good evening, adrian,” your voice is cold and unwavering as you speak to the king, much different than the kindness and softness in your demeanor when you spoke to others. the difference is night and day.

“for what reason are you in my chambers this evening, y/n? i doubt you’re here for romance,” he chuckles half-heartedly, but you keep your glare pointed at him.

“you would be correct. i’m here to say i… i am appointing a consort.”

he laughs, actually bursts out into a fit of laughter, when you say that, “really?! you?! i hate to tell you, my wife, but that will not be happening.”

“actually, it will be,” kihyun stands up after kneeling, and meeting the king’s startled gaze, “she came here for a reason, and we’re not leaving until we do what we came to do.”

“who is this consort?!” the king doesn’t even spare kihyun more than a glance after he gathers himself together, “i feel bad for the poor thing, he’ll be dead before you even get the chance to do anything for him.”

the thought lingers in your head. that is definitely a possibility. hoseok was definitely physically strong, but there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it out of this alive. you have to remind yourself that this is what hoseok wanted, that he is fully aware of the danger, and that you’re doing this for him. you pull yourself back together, feeling kihyun’s hand on your shoulder, being a comforting and supporting presence, “you will allow it, adrian, i assure you that it’s in your best interest to let this happen.”

“and why is that?!” he shouts, making you flinch a bit, but you’re saved when changkyun comes in. it’s now three against one, and changkyun raises a piece of paper, with his signature smirk in place.

“take a look,” he murmurs, his voice deep and soft. it would be soothing if it wasn’t filling you with the same confident energy that he always has. it’s infectious, in the best way, “i’m sure the people would love to know how you tried to steal the princess of another kingdom away. that’s some real comic book supervillain stuff, my king.”

“and remember, public opinion heavily favors your wife, my king. sure, they’re terrified of you, but i doubt that is enough to stop them from rising up. we wouldn’t want a coup, would we?” kihyun seems to share the same sentiment, his usually respectful and reverent demeanor suddenly disappearing, “so how about settling this here and now?”

—

“hello, and good morning, my people. i hope you are managing well during these hard times. please know i am doing my absolute best to serve you all well and take care of each and every one of you. your needs are incredibly important to me and i wish i could be doing more to make your lives easier. i promise to do everything in my power to help you. please hold me to that if you feel i am lacking.

“today, i am here to confess and to ask that you hear me out. for over a year now, you may have heard rumors about affairs my husband and i have had. i am here to tell you, that at least on my end, the rumors hold true. i have… fallen for someone else. when my husband and i talked this over, we came to the conclusion that our titles mean we rule together, but neither of us have romantic or otherwise feelings for each other.

“as such, i am deciding to do something that… i should have done long ago. my lover— his name is lee hoseok— and i have let him be treated cruelly just to protect myself from rumors. that is something… i do not feel proud about. he is the kindest soul i have ever had the pleasure of loving, and i wish for him to only feel happy feelings for the rest of his existence. starting from today, he shall carry the title of ‘queen’s consort’. please treat him like you would any royalty. calling him what some have will not be tolerated any longer.

“thank you for your time, this has been queen y/n. i wish a kinder tomorrow for you all, take care.”

—

hoseok had been waiting in your chambers since you left to deliver your speech that morning, watching it from the tv in your room. he watched the heart-wrenching moments when he could see the fear and regret within you coming together in one big release. he thinks about all the things he needs to say to you when you get back, but once you’re walking through that door, he was at a loss for words.

“good morning, my hoseok,” you murmur softly, nudging him out of his dazed state, “how are you doing today?”

“i am… amazing. i am doing so well,” he finally breaks out into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen from him. he always gave lopsided grins or small smiles, all full of love, but he truly just seemed so happy, and the sight was incredibly endearing, “come kiss me, please.”

“of course, dear,” you mumble, pulling him by his collar to crash your lips on his. his hands cup your cheeks and yours find a home resting on his beautiful chest and shoulders. you kiss him feverishly, and he reciprocates with the same intensity. you pull back to kiss along his jaw, dropping down to kiss his neck as well, and the room is filled with the beautiful breathy moans he lets escape.

“i love you so, so much, y/n,” he whispers breathlessly, gasping when you bite down. his hands hold your waist, pulling you impossibly close, and god he never wants to let go.

“i know, bunny, i know, and i love you so much more,” you whisper as he whimpers out of need when your knee brushes his crotch, pushing him down on the bed, feeling all up on him under you. it’s exhilarating like always, a feeling he’ll never get used to no matter how much he tries, “tell me, bunny, today is about you, so tell me what you want.”

“c-could you—,” he stutters, always struggling with words when you touch him the way you do, “—please ride me?”

“of course, sweetie,” you giggle, of course he wants that. well, you’ve never been one to deny him what he wants, bunny’s so spoiled.

you both undress rather quickly, even as he struggles to get his shirt off. he pulls you back on top of him as soon as he has the chance, and you immediately kiss him with ferocity, hands massaging the skin of his waist, making him giggle slightly, “hah, that tickles!”

you smile at his cute reactions, before taking his hand and pulling it so his fingers barely graze over your sex, “feel that, angel? that’s all you, this is what you do to me” he groans as he feels the wetness on his fingertips, “now stay still, i promise i’ll make you feel really good.”

“you always do,” he breathes with a smile, meeting your soft gaze for a second before you lower yourself down on him and you both moan simultaneously, and he adds on, “o-oh my god!” you take a second to adjust, but you soon start rocking your hips slowly, gaining speed gradually. nothing else, and nobody else, existed in that moment other than you and him.

“bunny,” you murmur, and he tries to pay attention to your voice, but he’s losing himself in the pleasure, “touch me, will you?” he reaches out to rub your clit as you continue to ride him. god, it’s so easy to see stars, especially when there’s the prettiest one right in front of you. you grasp his hair as you start speeding up, feeling your orgasm coming, “cum with me, hoseok.” he attempts to nod, unable to speak from the warmth begging to burst in his body.

he cries out as you pull one last time, orgasming with the most pornographic moans and look on his face you’ve ever seen. you’re right there with him, and if sucks you don’t get a chance to admire him fully, but that can be saved for later.

once you’re done, having both hit your highs and come down, you take care of him like always. he reaches for the snacks you keep in the drawer of your nightstand. it seemed like the boy was always hungry, but especially so after his soul practically left his body from how good you make him feel. you run him a bath where he just plays with bubbles and asks for nose kisses, but he looks so happy that your heart just melts.

and then you tuck him into bed, warmly dressed with fluffy socks to top it off. sure, it’s only 11 in the morning, but you don’t have anything to do until evening, and he could always use some cuddles.

—

taglist: @lovingonrepeat @neosincity @sub-hoshi-enthusiest @rosethefae @staranonthoughts @maknaeronix @multidreams-and-desires @mellowriting

#monsta x #sub monsta x #sub!monsta x #monsta x x reader #monsta x drabbles #monsta x smut drabbles #monsta x smut #monsta x fic #sub!monsta x smut #wonho #lee hoseok #wonho smut #sub wonho #sub!wonho

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