#and she has this very off-kilter way of looking at the world because her ideas of 'good' and 'bad' are incredibly skewed and there just...

[musical-chick-13]

I miss Melisandre.

[dangermousie]

Farscape rewatch - The Locket, 2x16

I am probably in the minority of being both a rabid John x Aeryn shipper and not being fond of this episode. It’s probably my least favorite ep this season except for Dream a Little Dream. Not sure why that is - perhaps because everything gets reset at the end of this episode in a way that it does not come to bear later. If it did not happen, nothing would change for anyone (with possible exception of Zhaan and Stark and even for them, it might just delay their relationship mildly at most.) But me being me, it does not mean I don’t have a ton to say. On the contrary.

It’s a bit ironic but in an ep known as a big John x Aeryn shipper episode, what brings me the most joy is the start of Zhaan x Stark, one of my favorite secondary OTPs in any shows. 

How could I not adore them? A former anarchist-assassin priestess who is also a wise earth mother type and supremely sensual being and over the edge of insanity and tortured by Scorpius for years, former Banik slave who helps the dying over to the next world? Who just work together perfectly? And it ends tragically? So so SO sold. Plus, Paul Goddard's voice makes me so weak in the knees I have no legs left.

It's funny because everyone loves Zhaan (how could you not?) but I remember Stark being such a polarizing character when the show aired. I confess to loving him. He is off the edge and off-kilter, but it makes perfect sense: even on Farscape, where it’s a tough competition, Stark wins the suckiest life award. I mean, he was in Aurora Chair dozens of times and we saw what it made of Crichton in a not nearly as many spins. And yet he still has compassion - he had it with Crichton in the chair, he searched the Moyans out to give D’Argo news of his son, and look at him be so kind to Aeryn:

And he is surprisingly together until he gets dispersed. And then he is much more off-kilter, and when he feels 10,000 of his people dying, killed by Scorpius, it doesn't help.

Whenever he gets any stability (as with Zhaan. He is quite normal with her) it gets yanked away. OMG, the bit in S&L when she basically tells him there is nothing he can do about her dying and just help her cross over and says he is an expert on dying, and he replies 'I am an expert on dying. I am just not an expert on you dying.'  Ohhhhhh...

And I still think that in a lot of ways, Zhaan/Stark is a mirror of John/Aeryn. With the woman the crazy guy's source of stability. Stark goes catatonic-mumbly when Zhaan dies which is a John thing to do. He sort of displaces onto Aeryn because Zhaan died for her.  He goes looking for Zhaan even though she is dead. These are all a John sort of thing to do. Only he doesn't have the happiness of having Zhaan back.  In some ways, Stark is John, complete with a dark streak (the way that he leaves Grunchlick frozen is rough justice but it's very dark) and passionate hate of the use of the helpless and hopeless love. Only years later and messed up a lot lot lot more than John (I still remember John telling Stark “she is my Zhaan” about Aeryn and it clicks for Stark, because of course it does.)

I love that he gets peace at the very end. One of my favorite things is that he is finally free of all the horror. And I am an optimist. Maybe one day he will find Zhaan  again. It's Farscape, anything can happen.

Oh, and I do love how alien the two of them can get:

(Those two clearly had a good time, heh.) 

OK, moving on to the non Zhaan x Stark stuff. This little moment is pretty awesome:

Indeed.

A moment that struck me is this one:

I think it strikes me so hard because this is such a constant for John. Aeryn comes back ancient and John has no idea what caused it or if it would do this to him or what danger he’d go into but it does not matter. She is in danger and that’s the sole thing that matters. Aging does not scare a man who went down to the Gammak Base in s1 to save her, saw his life  turn into neverending horror  as a result and that past experience and still does not let it give him even a moment of pause. John remains the same throughout - Aeryn’s safety trumps anything for him. It’s one constant no matter what else changes in him - in s4 he goes to the Scarran stronghold strapping a literal nuke to himself to rescue her. He has no stops when it comes to her and he never will.

The thing with the titular locket btw - I found it so interesting not that old Aeryn had John’s portrait in it and referred to it as the love of her life (not surprising) but that John ultimately did not want to look and see who it was because a man who was brave enough to walk into an enemy stronghold, to fight the Universe even, was not brave enough to look in case it was someone else. And how Farscape for him to find out only after her death (and once again, Farscape uses any opportunity to twist the knife; they make them old in giant part just to have her die in his arms, I swear.)

One bit of amusingness for me tho is Harvey’s frustration about being stuck in the middle of nowhere with crotchety old Crichton and nothing he could do about it.

But ulitmately everything gets undone and it ends on a surprisngly gentle note for this show. 

PS We begin to see the cracks in D’Argo x Chiana. It was a relationship that always made sense to me, in good days and bad - they were never compatible in some ways and I do think that their narrative really went through whether feelings and a hell of a sexual attraction is enough for them. (The thing with Jothee really was Chiana self-sabotaging in the most spectacular way because she was worried she was in too deep and because it was her subconscious telling her to pull the bandaid off before D’Argo did. Better leave than to be left. She really had enormous issues, like the rest of them, and nothing was ever magically easy.)

[victorluvsalice]

Merry Christmas SatiricalDemon!

@thesatiricaldemon *waves* So you requested a fic about Daniel, Dommik, and N on an inter-dimensional vacation to one of my other fic verses...and the very first thing that came to mind was a follow up on a thread about a certain crystalline butterfly birthday present Dan sent to the Victors that my Secundus boy found very inspiring. XD So yeah, that's what you're getting. Hope you enjoy!

This Feels Like A Recipe For Disaster

“. . .and that allowed me to dampen the threat response! They still react if one of the flock gets injured, but it’s more of a ‘chase away the potential threat’ thing – they won’t try a full swarm unless you full-on shatter one of them.”

“Oh, excellent, excellent! And I see in your notes here you were looking to see if you could get different colors – I would imagine that if you added that lovely compound to the caterpillar mid-metamorphosis, you could get a truly acidic shade of green!”

“Maybe, but that also has a good chance of completely destabilizing the metamorphosis entirely. . .though I guess it’s all about how much I add. . .”

Alice looked over at the two, hunched over the main experimentation table in Victor’s greenhouse lab, and shook her head fondly. “I’m sorry, it sounds like they may be at this for a while,” she commented, turning back to their other two guests. “Victor was – very inspired by that little gift your Dr. Daniel sent along for his birthday.”

“So I can see,” Dommik said, grinning in that rather off-kilter way he had. Then again, Alice supposed that since he was really some sort of odd vampire-worm thing running around in a human suit (and how she wished she didn’t know that), it was only to be expected. “Daniel was hoping that he’d enjoy the statue, but I don’t think he expected him to try and recreate it.”

Normally it’s a bad idea for anyone to attempt to copy anomalous flora and fauna, N added, their cold gaze fixed on Daniel and Victor as they kept exchanging ideas on tweaks to the crystalline butterflies Victor was working on. But your husband seems to have a rare talent in that regard.

“Only because it’s a butterfly, I’m sure,” Alice replied, folding her arms. “Lepidoptery is Victor’s specialty. He can work with other insects too – we’ve got a hive of modified bees from a honey-making venture he attempted a little while back – and he’s got some talent with engineering, but butterflies and moths are where he shines.” She grinned. “Possibly because his very first project as a Touched was figuring out how to make them glow.”

“Oooh! I’d love to see that!” Dommik said, excitement shining through his eye sockets. “I’m sure they’re beautiful!”

“They are – and much less deadly than the creatures you lot apparently deal with on a daily basis,” Alice said, glancing between them and Daniel. “I thought Secundus could be a rowdy place to live sometimes, but after the stories you’ve told us of your world, it seems almost – peaceful.”

It is a difficult place to exist sometimes, N agreed. But we have found happiness there, regardless of the circumstances. They tilted their head at her. I do still find it interesting you do not exhibit the same Hume potential as the Alice we know at home.

“Oh, I’d love to be able to bend reality to my will,” Alice grumbled. “It’d make life so much easier. . .then again, your Alice seems to have had a very different life to mine, even if some of the broader events match up?”

“Mmm? Oh, yes – I’ve noticed your meta-narrative placement is much different from hers,” Daniel commented, looking up from the notepad he’d been sharing with Victor. “As is this Victor’s from the one I know. No waking up Emily means no potential for necromancy at all!”

“I’ll take raising butterflies over raising the dead,” Victor mumbled, scribbling something with a frown. “Hmmm – I’m not entirely sure that’s adding up right. . .”

“I’m just wondering where Smiler is,” Dommik said, looking around.

Alice blinked, then glanced over at Victor, who looked equally confused. “Ah – who?”

“You know – Smiler! Your themfriend?”

“Wrong universe, dearest,” Daniel said, with a slightly softer version of his trademark manic grin. “This romantic situation was resolved before their creation – though they may be here somewhere in potentia! Perhaps I could look into the matter!”

“Who are they?” Victor asked. “Other than a ‘themfriend.’” He smiled, tone light. “What, are we supposed to be a threesome too?”

Daniel laughed. “You could if you wanted to be! In fact, in studying the meta-verse for this trip, I actually located a reality where you and Alice are part of a nine-person polycule!”

Alice and Victor shared another, much more astonished glance. “. . .all right, now you have to tell us about that one,” Alice said after a moment, shaking her head. “Because I have got to know.”

[minarcana]

I demand a 5000 word essay on thanuri

okay, sure. This is mostly about Uri because he's my guy.

tl;dr (fig. 1)

I’m just going to sort my thoughts chronologically since it’s easier that way. As far as a thesis (necessary for any good essay— trust me, the only reason this is informal and doesn’t include Chicago citations is because it’d be too much effort to figure out how to put footnotes in a tumblr ask) goes, see image (fig. 1) above.

I both headcanon and write Urianger as having a crush on Thancred since about five minutes after they met, though Urianger “self awareness of a walnut, could not even tell you his favourite colour because he’s never thought about it” Augurelt is utterly incapable of putting that feeling in such words beyond a vague desire to be friends or something. I don’t think Thancred liked him back, he’s got things to do and presumably standards for better-looking people than Urianger. This is almost certainly for the best because look into my eyes: ARR era Urianger is so utterly unaware of anything to do with himself and so sincerely unused to actually having romantic inclinations that if Thancred flirted with him using any level of affected sincerity once, Urianger would be vaporized upon impact. Charri linked me this like four days ago and I've been thinking about it since because it would actually kill Urianger, party wipe, one mil points of damage, no hope, and that is super funny to me.

Urianger having a capital-R Reaction to Thancred 1. wouldn't occur with any flirting he thinks is not actually sincere (i.e. Thancred can oneshot him with being offhandedly tender, but not with offhand sexual overtures) 2. would be followed by Urianger being completely thrown off kilter for the next solid week. Just sitting there going "????????????????" at the concept that he 1. has feelings 2. has feelings for a coworker, which seems completely unprofessional 3. has feelings for Thancred, who is obviously out of his league and has zero reason whatsoever to pay attention to Urianger. Good luck, bud, at least Uri's good at repressing.

Urianger is also (in one of my fav things he does in ARR) one of the only people to express sincere irritation with Thancred's slutting it up (i.e. "Thancred there's a woman here asking about you. I'm giving her your personal address as a threat to you specifically.") which is where my take that he's 'a person who's jealous and doesn't know he's jealous of those who can ask for and get Thancred's attention' comes from. And he apparently remembers a lot of Thancred's flings' names, which is totally normal for your bro to do over women he isn't jealous of. He is so hilariously Down Bad but has no idea whatsoever.

They're also Good Friends (tm)(c)(r), as there's very few people who are casual enough to rib Urianger (Y'shtola and Moen are the other two). I like their friendship! Urianger, also, likes their friendship. They are two huge dorks and Thancred ends up translating Uri to other people a lot, I think. It's nice in your job of Mostly Dealing With The World Ending to have a friend who gets whatever weird bullshit you're on.

Their relationship is also very important to me in HVW patch, where Thancred is the person who brings Urianger back into the circle the Scions are standing in after his ostensible betrayal. It's a surprise to Urianger, as Thancred was who his subterfuge hurt the most (more than Minfilia, even, and she is the one who he feels he 'killed'), but they're tight!! They're tight enough for Thancred to forgive him for The Thing That Fucked Thancred Up The Most. Even if Urianger's a suspicious bastard, Thancred knows with full sincere certainty that Urianger's heart is in the right place and he's trusted. This both astounds Urianger and matters deeply to him. Urianger likes this dipshit.

It's called FRIENDS WHO TRUST EACH OTHER ENTIRELY AND GET EACH OTHER also I think in STB era when Thancred says he's not going to Gyr Abania with everyone else because he's making sure Uri is safe holding down the fort they can like, maybe hold hands. As a treat. For Me.

Great for all of us, spending three years with a bunch of faefolk is Uriangers Self Assurance Era where he spends three years living his best life and like, sharply becoming more comfortable with his various shit and with his relations he has. It is endlessly funny to me how Urianger lets Thancred and Minfilia stay with him in Il Mheg while the twins haven't seen him at all since they arrived. Urianger really went "eh, well, it's too dangerous for my siblings to visit. However my coworker being actively hunted by sin eaters and Eulmore knocked on the door and yeah I'll Do Anything He Asks Me For that's fine not dangerous at all I can organize that." He gets exactly self aware enough to be aware that his interest in Thancred is Not Platonic.

Just casual bro activity when your bro shows up at your door with a teenager because he needs a place for a few nights and you immediately do everything in your power to provide a space for them. Thancred and Minfilia have been able to visit Il Mheg for the years Urianger's been there, with clear comfort around the pixies, who when WoL and Co. show up, attempt to force the gang to stay there forever, meaning Urianger clearly had to do something to delineate Minfilia and Thancred as Do Not Touch Them. The pixies can fuck with them, but I do think Urianger's the type to, when told he has the opening to keep his best friend who he cares deeply about safe, go and make a good few deals for this sake. He's not going to tell Thancred about it.

He wards his home, and keeps space for Thancred and Minfilia for whenever they visit. He would make something more of overtures toward Thancred if he didn't think it was overstepping or unwelcome— he's awkward around actual feelings, and still isn't sure Thancred would have any interest in him if there were literally any other options. As it is, Urianger's just confident enough to have an open favoritism with the fact that he wants Thancred around him and likes being able to protect him and their kid.

(When Thancred first stays the 'night' at the Bookman's Shelves, it takes Urianger quite a bit of effort not to keep checking in on him or ask Thancred if he'd share a bed— Urianger lacks the words or the processed feelings to feel able to voice it, but he keeps remembering the vision of corpses every time he pictures Thancred sleeping, and keeps having the irrational fear that the times Thancred is lying still in his home he's stopped breathing. He knows it's misplaced paranoia, but he'd like to be able to lay his hands on what he's trying so hard to protect, without feeling like he'd overstep by the act of being sincere when he likely hasn't earned it.)

There are more than subtle story beats that show Urianger and Thancred are very tight. They are co parenting. Besties at minimum like you cannot look at how Urianger and Thancred interact in Shadowbringers and not be like oh yeah theyre each other's best friend And Possibly Boyfriend. Urianger isn't subtle. He also cares for Minifilia/Ryne soooo much, but he feels like he can't openly force Thancred to deal with his feelings because I dont feel like he thinks he has a place to obviously stick his foot in.

I;m adding stuff to this as I play and bud. Urianger and the gang finding Thancred near death in the desert. I cannot help but imagine Urianger, guy who is deeply traumatized by the death of his best friend when he wasn't there to help or even witness, felt super normal about leaving to find Alisaie and Co. (which I do think was an excuse— I see it as him wanting to leave because he was scared of seeing Minfilia's choice and possibly biasing her, afraid he would try to interject or he wouldn't be able to not react, so he tried to run) and coming back to see his current best friend (at minimum) nearly dead when Urianger wasn't there to protect him or help. Urianger, about to lose his marbles: haha hey guys please help me heal thancred im fine right now. look i need Urianger to be holding thancreds hand tight enough to bruise while speed-casting benefic because he is terrified.

I do think it's super cute in the Ryne naming scene how Uri's like WAIT YOU ACTUALLY LISTENED TO MY INFODUMPING?? and Thancred's just "eh, a little bit." Shut up just from that being his reaction I know he is out here doing his absolute best to listen to Urianger's rambling and given how when Uri gets to teach the WoL things in story he's always got this cute lil smile on Thancred's just sitting there as Urianger tries to speedrun teaching Thancred a language with delight. tfw you can tell your partner is experiencing Showing Love By Infodump and it's only right you participate but then act self conscious about it later. That's so cute. Thancred doing his best

Urianger is also self-aware enough to realize he's kind of a loser, and definitely not Thancred's usual type, so them fucking is either both of them going "haha we're doing this casually, definitely super platonic" or it's "Thancred art thou sure it is I thou hath interest in" "I am quite literally currently between your legs trying to remove your underclothes, what do you think".

This isn't 5000 words, but if you add this little drabble of them ARR and this HVW pornography with feelings, it is, and both of those contain my thoughts, so there's that. shameless self promotion.

[masterwords]

a life spills into the flowers

Summary: After the events of "Mr. Scratch", Hotch can't find his keys. It's got him a little messed up.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan (established, and it's only relevant at the very end because I live in a world where they're just together and that's that.)

Warnings: mind-controlling substances, panic, vomit, swearing, canon-typical stuff...if you've seen the Mr. Scratch episode you won't be surprised

Words: 2.5k

Notes: I don't know...I was going to save this for Whumptober or something but it's rambly and I sort of just wanted to post it now. I started thinking about how Peter Lewis took Hotch's weapons and he took his vest off, and Hotch was in that house for a long time semi-conscious...so of course his car keys would be missing and that might make him panic a bit. Anyway, I wrote this all in about an hour, it's just a rambly thing because I can't seem to write anything decent lately but I needed to do something with this idea.

Read on AO3: a life spills into the flowers

**

On knees that wobble like jello he wanders toward the house. Wind is whipping through the trees, whistling strange hymns through well-maintained gutters and over the silken petals of bright pink roses. He is acutely aware of each breath of wind as it gusts over his sweaty brow, each fleck of red and blue light that flickers and screams silent fury into the night sky.

“I need to find my keys,” he mumbles to JJ who is following, hasn't stopped following him since he stepped out of the ambulance with a headache that pounds like a jackhammer with each throb of his pulse. She's right on his heels.

“We can have it towed, Hotch, figure it out in the morning. You need to get home.”

He won't listen, though. Everything is so out of control, the entire scene his fault, and the only thing he can grasp with any firmness is this: his SUV keys are missing. On the front seat, all of his papers have been rifled through, his wallet is right there with his ID front and center, and he's in no frame of mind to take inventory though he's fairly certain nothing is missing. Peter Lewis wouldn't take anything, he would simply record it. Write it down, take a photo, doesn't matter. If he took it, they would know and have a lead, have an idea. This way...there is no way to track what isn't gone.

Except his damn keys. “Maybe Peter Lewis had them,” she says, speeding up to keep pace with his wobbly off-kilter stumbling through the yard and up to the front door. “Hotch, I'll call Derek and see if they find your keys on Lewis when they book him.”

He doesn't respond and she doesn't wait for it, she just makes the call while he enters the house. It's almost the same now as it was when he did it the first time, except he's not holding his gun now, his fists hang at his sides useless and trembling. Reid and Rossi have already gone back to Quantico, Morgan went with the Police as they took Lewis into custody, and JJ...well she said she'd drive Hotch home, but now they're stuck with no keys to the SUV. She's not nearly as concerned as he is.

“Hotch,” she called a minute later while he's arguing with an officer about looking under Dr. Regan's desk. That's where his gun had been, one of them anyway, after the fight and he suspects maybe the keys...

“Hotch, Will said he'd come pick us up. Come on. Let the officers do their jobs. They'll find the keys.”

His eyes are frantic and filled with tears, she can't stand seeing him this way. There is some part of her that wants to pull him in for a hug, tell him she'll help him find the keys because she knows...it isn't really about the keys. He's coming down from whatever drugs he was pumped full of and every bit of reality that seeps in brings more pain and more questions than answers. He was vulnerable for hours, at the mercy of a psychopath, and he has no real memory of it. She can see it all in the tears, but if she gives in now she might do more harm than good. “Come on,” she said, touching his forearm, his sweaty bloody shirt. “Let's go sit outside and wait for Will.”

It's going to be an hour, at least. Even if Will puts on his lights. “You want to walk?” It's a silly question to ask a man who looks like he's barely standing, but he doesn't look like he wants to sit down either. “There's a path through the estate over here. Guess this place has a nice rose garden.” He doesn't answer, he just follows her.

The roses almost glow under the moonlight. He knows they're pink, but they're more than that. They're breathing pulpy red and they're crying neon blue and they're bruise purple, all the same colors as he is. And then those deep green leaves cascade black like pools of blood in the moonlight. He can't stop thinking about his keys. No matter what path his mind tries to take him down it never winds far enough away from that one thought. Where are my keys? The keys mean freedom, they mean home. Without them he's trapped here.

JJ knows she should use this opportunity to ask him questions and she has the time. It feels wrong, the way his skin is pale and gray and sweaty, the way his hands shake, to put him through more but he would insist if it were anyone else. Insist that now was the time. When clarity was seeping in, when adrenaline was fading. “I know you talked to Rossi in the ambulance,” she started, pausing to peer into a wide open rose. “Is there anything else you can remember? Do you want to talk?”

“No,” he whispered back, his legs coming to a full stop. He blinks back the tears and rubs his fingers against his burning eyes. Whatever Lewis sprayed him with made his eyes hurt, they were dry and burned like fire beneath salty tears. “I don't know. JJ, I don't know if anything I say is true.”

“Let me figure that out. Why don't you just tell me things. Anything you want. Empty it out.”

He lets out a chuckle and wipes more tears from his lashes. “It's funny. The way they described it in the interrogation room...it sounded like Lewis put the ideas in their heads. But that isn't...it's not...they were all my ideas. I think he just asked me questions knowing I couldn't lie to him.”

She couldn't hide her frown. “What do you mean he asked you things?”

“Like,” he stares vaguely into some distance but he isn't looking at anything she can see. His trembling hand reaches up and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “A therapist. He asked me about my life. He asked me if anything...” he can't finish the sentence. He can't tell JJ about Roy, but that's new, he couldn't remember that when he was talking to Rossi. Lewis asked him about recent problems he's been having. “Any problems at home?” It was so casual, like he had a right to know.

He told Lewis all about Roy and his dementia. He told him about the things that Roy said, and suddenly Roy was standing there in front of him with a gun aimed at his forehead. You took my baby girl from me. I gave her to you, and you promised to protect her and you lied. Roy's gun was cold against his forehead, smashed there, he could feel it. You killed her.

“He didn't make me see things. I did that. He just listened.” The revelation comes with wide eyes sparkling in the night. “He guided me through the images.” Before he can say anything else, he feels the cold of that gun again and drops to his knees, dry heaving painfully into the perfectly manicured grass. JJ stays back, she wants to touch him, to comfort him, but he's trembling like a scared animal and she isn't sure she can trust him yet.

He's not himself.

“Can you tell me what you told him?”

“No.” He can, but he won't. “It doesn't matter. He's in custody,” he gasps around wretches and pulls himself up to sitting, hands planted flat against his thighs. “I didn't hurt anyone. His plan didn't work.” He's not so sure about that, but he needs JJ to believe it. He needs her to stop asking questions. You don't know what I did to him...I win. She can't let that go, can't stop thinking about it. It was what made her stay behind with him, why Derek asked that it be her...they didn't want to tell anyone else what Lewis said or how it had scared them.

He thinks about Roy and the gun, about what Roy said to him over pizza just nights before and what the ghost of Roy told him with a gun to his head. Roy's eyes, so full of fury and hate, and he's not surprised to find that he wishes it hadn't just been a mirage. If that gun had been real, if Roy had the nerve to do what he wanted to do...

Derek walks up behind them and places his hand on Hotch's back, right between his shoulder blades, startling them both. “Hey,” he says, crouching. “Found your keys. They were in the bag with his personal belongings. Swears he has no idea how they got there. Dude's a lying sack of shit. You ready to get outta here?”

JJ looks at Derek warily and makes a face, a sort of back off he's being a little weird face, and Derek drags his hand up and down the ridges of Hotch's spine in defiance. He's not worried, he's pretty sure he could take Hotch in his prime and this is definitely not his prime. “Jessica said she'd stay with Jack tonight, Will just pulled up to get JJ...come on. You're stuck with me.”

They ride home in silence. It's a long ride with only the purr of the engine and the roar of the tires turning over slick rainy asphalt. Hotch rests his temple against the cool glass window, lets his eyes close and sees Roy who becomes Sean in a faded blue jumper blaming him for not getting him out of his charges, getting his sentence reduced. I'll die in here and it'll be your fault, Sean said to him and it freezes his veins to ice. My best years behind bars because you care more about your job than my life. My brother's a FED, you know what they're gonna do to me? Sean wouldn't say that, it's only his guilty conscience, he knows that. Probably why that one faded so quickly, even Peter Lewis could see through it. But Roy, that one stuck. That one came back, and when Roy became Jack but the words were the same...you killed her, it's your fault she's dead...he figured it out. That was when he realized how in control of these visions he was, even under the influence. He'd allowed Roy, but he wouldn't allow Jack to be part of the game.

“I forced myself to see you guys,” he whispers, his lips barely moving. His stomach flops, and he thinks he's going to be sick again. “When I realized what he was doing. I knew what he wanted...and I thought about the victim who killed himself instead of his child...and I...” Made myself see you guys? See you all be killed one by one? It sounds awful, and he's not sure how to say it so that it sounds any less terrible than it is. But he watched that bullet sink right into Derek's throat, tasted his blood, he saw it all and couldn't shake it.

“I knew it,” came Derek's reply, one hand fluttering like raven wings away from the steering wheel and coming to roost on Hotch's thigh. “I knew you figured it out. Rossi's story, it didn't make any sense. Why would us dying be your worst fear? Your deepest fear? Nah, I knew there was more to it...”

“I am afraid of that,” Hotch counters, quieter, almost too quiet for Derek to hear over the white noise of the car. Defensive and breathy. Still hovering so close to tears. “I'm always afraid that I'll make a mistake and it'll cost one of you your lives. It wouldn't be the first time. Roy said it himself. I make a mistake, people die. It was an easy fear to conjure...”

“Yeah, but,” Derek starts, but he's well aware that he's treading in dangerous waters and he stops. He squeezes Hotch's thigh instead. “I get it.” He does. He does get it, he'll never stop blaming himself for what happened to Haley. It was on his watch, not Hotch's, no matter what anyone tries to tell him. They don't talk about it.

Derek's street is dark, the lamps pale and muddled by overgrown oak trees. It's quiet, serene, none of the city sounds dare step into this peace. The shadows melt and move and shift beneath his feet and Hotch is mesmerized as his shadow slides like oil slick into the shadow of a tree and for a brief moment they are one. “You hungry?” Derek asks in a casual tone, as if this is a social call. As if it's date night. “I'm starving.”

He's not sure if he's hungry or if he could eat, he just follows Derek up the steps to his door and slides inside with uneasy steps. Clooney meets them at the door and Hotch crouches right away, just drops to his knees and wraps his arms around Clooney's neck and scratches behind his floppy old dog ears. There are tears in Clooney's fur, it sticks to his cheeks. Clooney moves slow these days, he's old and arthritic but he still likes to trot along beside Derek every morning before they eat breakfast, he still makes sure to greet Derek every time he comes home with his tail whacking the wood floor loud and thumpy. Hotch and Clooney's relationship is something Derek hasn't ever really understood but he leaves them to it and heads right for the kitchen. They know what they're doing. So does he.

He needs a beer and some food. When he's finished slapping together a quick sandwich and popping the top off of his second bottle of beer (the first went down a little too easy after the day he had), he makes his way out to the front room to find Hotch and Clooney sleeping on the couch. Hotch, still in his clothes, arms folded tight across his chest and hands tucked in tight. His feet still in shoes hang off the end of the couch (always polite), and Clooney snores curled up behind his knees.

It's a sight. One he's still not tired of, even after all this time.

He turns on the TV and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, eating his midnight dinner all alone to the quiet jokes and explosions of M*A*S*H

“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happy hour...” Derek says under his breath, raising his bottle to the television. He knows the quiet of this moment isn't likely to last, but the frosty foam of the beer in his bottle is worth savoring.

[televinita]

That 90s Show - thoughts after 1 episode

But first, background re: me and That 70s Show --

I watched it when it aired, and I’m pretty sure I even started with season 1, as an actual teenager. It was one of the first and few primetime shows I latched onto before age 16, and I watched it all the way to the bitter end*. Have also rewatched it countless times in syndication and on DVD; it has infinite replay value to me and I love everyone and quote random lines to this day.

(*although honestly, I didn’t hate season 8! As much as I missed Eric, I loved Randy and thought he was a fine alternative option; my qualms were limited mainly to the Jackie/Hyde breakup and the even worse switch to Jackie/Fez)

So I went into this very scared of how this might tarnish the original. I came out...so relieved and happy!

The Actual Thoughts, In Three Acts

Part 1: Adult Formans

I DEEPLY UNDERESTIMATED THE PURE JOY I WOULD FEEL AT SEEING RED/KITTY/ERIC/DONNA/THE FORMANS’ HOUSE IN A NEW AGE

Topher Grace has not aged in the last 15 years, amazing.

ERIC/DONNA ERIC/DONNA ERIC/DONNA

(I have always shipped them at least by default, because obviously, but their married dynamic takes it to a whole new plane of joy I didn’t know existed)

Eric as a dad is the other kind of joy I didn’t know my life needed. I love the idea of her being his “little buddy” all her life. If I cared more about the daughter we would rapidly be approaching Jurassic World levels of family squee here.

who am I kidding, his final blessing and their hug (and my relief that she didn’t actually get a hole poked in her perfect face) gave me EXACTLY that.

P.S. PROFESSOR ERIC WHO GETS TO TEACH A CLASS ON HIS MOST BELOVED HEART’S JOY! and PUBLISHED AUTHOR DONNA! I love these journeys for them.

I love that Red is clearly a softie where his granddaughter is concerned (the request for a cheek kiss!!), but also still has an edge. That’s exactly what I wanted.

Kitty serving up those “the nights are the hardest...but then the day comes and that's every bit as hard as the night...and then the night comes again!...” guilt vibes. 😍 😍

and the “I wish you’d call me Mom” / “feels forced” war

and her joy in going out to shop for “all the -itos!” to feed the newest batch of stray-cat teens

basically everything this Core Four did or said was glorious

also loved Eric’s tiny meltdown as first Donna and then his own mother betray him by supporting Leia’s wish to ditch father/daughter space camp, followed by Baby(skin)’s First Foot-In-Ass Threat.

I didn’t write down most of the quotes because there were too many good ones, but I absolutely love “Leia staying here isn’t the craziest idea. Your parents can watch her.” / “Were you not here with me in the 70s??”

And also Red’s “you’re Upstairs People now.” Hehehehehe.  

Part 2: Other Nostalgia-Based Feelings

I am so sad that Danny Masterson turned out gross and awful because I miss Hyde and this world feels off-kilter without him.

But I am grateful that the show is going to simply ignore him instead of stamping down some awful canon reason like "hyde can’t come to the screen right now because he’s DEAD” (or in prison)

I’ll allow Jackie/Kelso for the sheer meta-cuteness of them having eventually ended up together in real life, even though really, it would have been nice if she had ended up with someone rich and successful and not from Point Place.

I will not allow this rude, shallow, worst-of-season-1 Jackie who gets married and divorced to the same old idiot on a whim. what is this. where is the GROWTH. Did Fez use some sort of FDA-banned hair treatment on her that leached memory-destroying poison into her brain??

maybe she gets better later. I will hope.

love that I can’t be sad about Donna’s childhood home being sold because let’s face it, that is an ugly house. Looking forward to finding out where Bob went. I assume he’s a millionaire now, given his life’s impossible success trajectory to date.

(also, I really liked seeing her old room updated for the 90s!)

speaking of houses, I love SO MUCH that the set decorators knew what they were doing and kept fair bit the same while updating some key pieces like the living room sofa, i.e. how real people live. At least, that’s the fleeting impression I got; will have to study it more (or read other posts from people who have) to know for sure.

My single biggest fear starting That 90s Show was that they’d go buck-wild with swearing, but they.....held themselves to the same FCC standards as the original???? I am afraid to ask if it stays this way but I hope.

Part 3: The Kids

First impressions (while watching): oh, yeah, they’re a vapid school-of-fish nothing to me so far.

Second impressions, upon reflection: Leia has some potential to be likeable, and maybe Gwen if she softens a bit? Also, I went into this ep like “please don’t make them be into each other just to increase your diversity quota,” but then all the boys turned out unappealing of face or personality and more importantly, from the very first second Creeper Leia peeked in through Gwen’s window there was chemistry, so. Notes and expectations for season 2!!

(side note: I remind you that I am the woman who 9 times out of 10 cannot come up with a single f/f couple she actually ships; also will normally choose “best friends” over gals being more than pals 999 times out of 1000; also if there is an option for the opposite-sex offspring of two couples who are friends to be into each other that is ALWAYS where I align. Until now, apparently. That’s how strong this chemistry is.)

As for the other kids... Ozzie’s voice is currently intolerable to me and I don’t care about the rest or even know the dating couple’s names, although the non-Kelso guy is serving up some decent Original Kelso vibes that could grow on me.

tl;dr you can lead me to a show ostensibly about teenagers but you can’t make me emotionally invest

In Conclusion: I only remember the highlights, so, A+ start! Looking forward to more random what-year-even-is-it, anachronism-is-fine 90s trends/references in future episodes; I am not even going to bother worrying about how the chronology works since it was the late 70s for eight years straight last time and we can’t even all agree on whether season 8 counts. :p

[iceeckos12]

A time travel au. angst and h/c. inspired by this post

Warnings: jon’s very low self-esteem

“What do you think of him?” Jon suddenly asks, staring blankly at the wall of the breakroom.

Tim pauses in the middle of chewing his sandwich to give him a long, considering look.

He’s mostly decided to suspend his disbelief until further notice, simply to keep from losing his mind. What else is one supposed to do when future versions of Jon and Martin, who are also apparently dating, tell you that your workplace is currently involved in a plot to end the world? Ideally he would’ve processed one big revelation at a time, but apparently they don’t have time for that, so goodbye grip on reality, it was nice knowing you. I’ll hit the restart button as soon as things start making sense again.

Tim wipes his hand across his mouth, swallows, and asks, “You mean Jon II?”

Jon rolls his eyes, like Tim’s being obtuse on purpose just to annoy him. “Yes, I mean...him. Me. Jon II.” Then his nose wrinkles amusingly, the same way it always does whenever he says the moniker. He’s hated it since the beginning, but it was a battle he quickly lost, what with all three of his assistants opposing him.

Normally, Tim wouldn’t have thought twice about shrugging and answering, but...Jon’s been uncharacteristically quiet lately. Oh sure, he’d blushed up a storm upon learning that his future self and Martin were dating, and he’d expressed his own misgivings at the beginning, but...since then he’s been eerily, silently watchful. In Tim’s experience, when presented with this sort of puzzle Jon generally buries himself in research, and doesn’t emerge until he’s good and ready to do so.

There’s something else on his mind.

So Tim puts down his sandwich and gives himself a moment to think carefully through his response. “I mean...he’s a lot like you, obviously. But he seems…” What’s a polite way to say, the trauma and the boyfriend seems to have made him a little more easygoing? He certainly smiles more freely than he ever has, which...honestly, makes Tim want to cry sometimes. How horrible, that so much abject cruelty had just made him more kind. “...tired. A little less high-strung?”

“I see,” Jon says, turning his mulish gaze to his curry, dragging his spoon through the thick sauce.

Tim waits a beat longer, but when nothing else seems forthcoming he prompts, “Why do you ask?”

Jon’s reaction is only to press his lips into a thin, tight line. Tim knows this mood; he’s weighing how insecure he’ll look if he says whatever’s actually bothering him out loud, versus how much he wants someone else to hear it. Pushing him now will only make him clam up, so Tim just waits.

Tim’s patience is rewarded when Jon blurts, “But you like him. You...you all do.”

“Yes,” Tim says slowly, because it’s true. Martin’s so enamoured with a Jon that actually likes him that he keeps bringing him tea just to get another glimpse of that gentle, thankful smile, just to strike up another conversation about nothing. Sasha has decided that he’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to her, and insists on consulting him whenever she reads a new true statement.

Tim’s personally a little unnerved by the awful, sad way future Jon looks at him sometimes, or the way he flinches back whenever someone tries to touch him without warning. But he’d taken Tim aside and quietly explained everything he knew about what happened to Danny, so.

Oh, Tim thinks, feeling like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. Jon may be an old hand at fooling others with his grumpy persona, but Tim knows that he’s just using it to hide his massive inferiority complex. “Wait, are you jealous?”

Jon ducks his head, and his ears darken. Gotcha, Tim thinks. 

“Jon, you know that that’s still you, right?” he explains gently, quietly relieved that it’s not something more complicated. “We like him just as much as we like you, because you’re the same person.”

“But he’s not the same, is he?” Jon protests. “Look at the scars on his neck, on his hand. And he has panic attacks, and he flinches at loud noises, and, and—”

He breaks off, biting down hard on his lip, threading a hand through his hair.

Tim stares at him, feeling off-kilter, like he missed a step coming down the stairs. That doesn’t sound like jealousy. “...Jon?”

Jon shakes his head, his breath escaping him in thready, devastated gasps.

He can’t tell what’s going on in Jon’s head, and it’s starting to scare him. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Jon just sits there for a moment long, tugging at his hair, staring sightlessly at the middle distance. Tim gently untangles his fingers, giving him something a little more solid to hold onto.

“You all like him,” he says at last. “You all...he’s so kind, and he’s funny, and you like him, because someone hurt him first. He’s different—we’re different—because someone cut our throat and burned our hand, and you like him better.”

Tim’s horrified. “Jon—”

“Should I accept that?” he continues, the words flooding from him like a dam finally exploding in a shower of groaning wood and weathered stone. “Do I—how do I carry on knowing that I could be the person I want to become, if only I give myself to monstrosity, if only I let myself be hurt like that?”

“Of course we’re not going to let that happen to you!” Tim interrupts, voice higher and more frightened than he meant it to be. He’s applying duct tape to a raging river. He has no fucking idea how to fix this. “You don’t deserve—”

“Don’t I?” Jon demands, whirling on him, eyes flashing. “Don’t I deserve to be happy? Or am I unworthy of even this kind of improvement? Am I doomed to be like this forever?” Tears well in his eyes, spill over. “Don’t I deserve it?”

And then he slowly, inevitably, dissolves into tears, his slim shoulders shaking as he curls over and buries his face in his elbow. Tim drapes an arm across his back, angling his body so he can gently tuck Jon’s head against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. Even if Jon were in any shape to hear it, he has no idea how to fix this.

Tim could tell him that he and Martin and Sasha all think that he’s fine the way he is, and it’s the stress of an apparently eldritch job that’s causing him to push people away, but he doubts Jon would believe it. Words mean nothing when actions have been screaming something entirely different all this time, and Jon’s always been more observant than they give him credit for.

“Oh, Jon,” he whispers when the tears finally start to slow, dropping a kiss onto silver and black hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you felt that way.”

Jon pulls away and shrugs, averting his reddened eyes. Tim squeezes his elbow to prevent him from retreating entirely. They sit like that for a moment, Jon going very still and very tense under Tim’s hand, settling into the vulnerability like an open wound.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says finally, sniffing heavily. He’s aiming for his usual brusque, dry tone, but his voice is shaking, and he’s not fooling anyone. “That was unprofessional of me.”

Before Tim can stop himself, an incredulous laugh rips out of him. “Jon,” he says quickly, “We’re well beyond professional. You know that, right? You don’t have to hide from me.”

Jon flushes. “Yes, well—it was unfair for me to put this on you, as your fr—as…” His expression goes all fragile and uncertain, and Tim’s heart aches.

“It’s not unfair,” Tim corrects gently. “As your friend,” and here he pauses for emphasis, “I want to know when you’re feeling like this.”

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, then straightens and scrubs the teartracks from his cheeks. “Oh.”

Tim nods reassuringly, takes a deep breath, and makes an educated guess. “I know you’re scared, Jon. We all are. This place is...horrible, and seeing what you went through is...terrifying. I can’t imagine how that must be for you.” He lets his eyes flicker up. Jon’s still watching him, rapt, and good, good. I haven’t lost him. “I won’t deny that he’s getting along with Sasha and Martin quite well, but...but that’s not because of what he—you—went through. It’s because….right now, you’re pushing people away because you’re scared, but he’s already done that. He knows that pushing people away just means you end up alone. It doesn’t mean he’s a better person, just that he’s a little wiser.”

“But how can you be sure?” Jon asks, leaning forward, eyes big and desperate.

“I mean, I wouldn’t have become your friend if I didn’t like you,” Tim admits unashamedly.

His bold honesty is rewarded by Jon flushing and ducking his head.

“But even so,” he continues, sobering, “Even if you were the worst person on the planet—and you’re not—you wouldn’t deserve to be hurt like that, no matter what the outcome. Does that make sense?”

Jon looks thoughtful as he says, “I—yes. Yes, that makes sense.”

He can tell though, that Jon doesn’t quite believe him. That’s okay—honestly, it’s what he was expecting. Tim’s been running headfirst into the wall that is Jon’s terrible self-esteem for as long as they’ve been friends. This problem is going to take more than one half-assed pep talk.

That’s okay, though. Jon’s worth the effort.

[yeojaa]

( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag.  You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.  

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash.  You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  idiots to lovers.  fluff, angst, smut.  the holy trifecta, babies!  explicit, obviously.  

tags / warnings.  mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).

wc.  12.2k of nonsense.  pure nonsense, i tells ya. 

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow​ dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her.  i love you both sm!!!  ✨💜

author note.  the long-awaited fic is here!!  i really hope you enjoy it.  if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something?  i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot.  anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you!  stay safe and happy and healthy!

He’s a sucker.  That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him.  It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard. 

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove.  Sometimes, she’s by herself;  often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste.  They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique.  Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be.  You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit. 

“He has no idea.”  It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts.  “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder.  How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair?  It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie. 

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”.  Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else.  Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention.  Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him.  Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face. 

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.

“He’s cute,”  she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does.  She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough.  Zero tact, though.  Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble.  You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested.  “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags.  (God, what awful taste.)  There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best.  (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction.  You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place.  Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on.  When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes.  He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW.  Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress  is.  

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect.  It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.  

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?”  He upspeaks.  It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first.  A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect.  “What’s the item and the name it’s under?”  You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine.  Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” 

You’re floored.  This is Jeon Jungkook?  This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger?  You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face.  It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers.  “I’ll grab it!  The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly.  He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends.  He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance.  It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears.  There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.  

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend?  I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.”  Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off.  “She said she was leaving on Friday.”  Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made.  “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall.  You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.  

You do feel bad.  Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this.  For hurting this stranger.  (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”  Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality.  He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip.  He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet. 

If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off.  Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in.  (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.)  As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth.  “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend.  Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”

Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid.  Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours.  Poor guy.

“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say.  Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation.  “Oh, maybe.  I’m sorry.”  The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t.  That’s a thing, right?  Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?  

God, you’re an altruist. 

“It’s fine.”  When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not.  You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word.  (You won’t.)

“Here it is!”  Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands.  If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing.  You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand.  He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.

Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying.  You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.  

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.

By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found.  Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start.  Well then.

“I guess we’ll have to call him,”  you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands.  It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card.  The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.

Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently.  You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.

Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder.  It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum.  (You either, but still.) 

“So… what was that about?”

You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers.  “What?”

“You know— that!”  She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago.  “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”

“Scared of the truth,”  you correct. 

You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response.  There it is. 

“What?”  There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable. 

“What?”  It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery.  You can read every emotion that runs through her expression:  shock, displeasure, confusion.  

She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth.  (She really does remind you of your little sister.)  “So, you told him?”

You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder.  You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now.  There was no way he didn’t. 

“I pointed out a few conflicting facts.  That’s all.”  You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done.  You’d want to know if you were him.  Consider it an act of goodwill. 

The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind.  What’s done is done.  Now he knows, or something close to it.  The chips would simply fall where they were meant to. 

You have to admit - you’re rooting for him. 

Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift.  She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway.  Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding.  It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship. 

It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening. 

She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter.  “You have to call him.”

You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression.  “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.”  You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person.  Sensible. 

As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.  

You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front.  You suppose it’s your responsibility now.  You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell. 

The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker.  “Hello?”

“Jungkook?”  

There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?”  Upspeaking again. How cute. 

“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.”  You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter.  “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“O-oh, uh—“  It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable.  “Thanks.  I didn’t even notice.  Um, I can come pick it up today?”  There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back.  “Is that okay?”

Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out.  He truly was a sucker. 

“That’s fine.  We’re open until six tonight.”  

“I’ll be there before dinner.”  As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough.  “Before six, I mean.  Um, is around five-thirty okay?” 

You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation.  Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation.  “Of course.  We’ll see you then.” 

He hangs up immediately. 

The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last.  It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest.  You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.

As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon.  You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.

How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday.  Somehow, you like it more.  The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair.  It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person.  (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)

At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him.  Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.  

“O-oh.  It’s you.”  The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified.  “I m-mean, just—”  He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again.  “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.”  Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.  

“That’s right,”  you say evenly, expression neutral.  It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.  

The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary.  Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room.  You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.  

He’s so awkward.

(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)

“So, um, my wallet?”  He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store.  You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.  

“Right here.”

Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again.  He makes the same trip twice more.  “Can I have it?”  To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed.  He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress.  Good job, you think.

“Of course.”  You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter.  Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip.  You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything.  (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment.  Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)

This time, he closes the distance with three long strides.  It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended.  Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact.  “May I have it, please?” 

You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand.  You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable.  Is he going to say thank you?  Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?

Neither, it seems.  “Why did you do it?”  There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.

“Do it?”  You know what he means.  You ask anyway.

“Why did you tell me?”  Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you.  You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him;  it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side.  For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.

Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies.  It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his.  “I thought you deserved to know.”

“But why?” 

“What do you mean?”  

It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror.  He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.  

You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head.  It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.  

“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.

You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.  

He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin.  (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes.  Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)

“Excuse me.”  For once, he doesn’t sutter.  The lisp doesn’t present itself, either.  Was this the same Jungkook?  You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.

There he is.

“Yes, Jungkook?”  He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name.  How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit?  It makes no sense to you.

“Can we talk?”  The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no.  You’ll still mess with him a bit though.

“We are talking.”

He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly.  It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.  

“I mean like— talk talk.”  The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else.  His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.  

“Sure, we can talk talk.”  

“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”

You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way.  “Are you asking me on a date?”  

“W-what?  No!”  Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears.  “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”

“I’m kidding.  Let’s go.”

You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance.  He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow.  Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.  

“So, what do you want to talk about?”  It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down.  His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving.  You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie.  It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall.  “Jungkook?”

He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly.  “Huh?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  

“Um—”  He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence.  There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking.  “—m-me?”

Brows furrow then amusement spills out.  “You want to talk about… you?”  

“That sounds bad.”  The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.  

“It’s fine.  We’ll talk at dinner.”  

He nods.  You think it means thank you.

Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy.  Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.  

It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.

“What did you want to eat?”  He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden.  Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure.  (You have a feeling it’s the former.)

“Whatever.”  Everything here is incredible.  You really don’t mind.

Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place.  His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel.  You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish. 

When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections.  Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.

“So?”  You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.  

He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute.  “So?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often.  As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper. 

“Oh.”  Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth.  He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle.  You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting.  He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.

You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not the answer you’d expected.  It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline.  “What?” 

He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot.  You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip.  Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.

“Thank you.”  It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.

You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you.  You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel.  Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you.  You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.

You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.

The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable.  A little different, sure, but altogether nice.  Like dining with an old friend.

You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake.  You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”  

Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not.  His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does.  (Seriously, how big are his eyes?)  You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth.  Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.

“What?”  He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.  

“What?”  You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.

“Y-you’re staring at me.”  

“You’re sitting in front of me.”

The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out.  It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent.  Oh?

“You don’t have to stare.”  Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.  

You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare.  “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?”  The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.  

“That’s not my name.”  The bite disappears past his teeth.  You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.

“Sorry— Jungkook.  Does my staring bother you?”

It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do.  Juvenile in a way but enticing in another.  You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.

“It’s rude,”  he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.

“Maybe I’m just rude.”

He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down.  (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.)  “You’re not.”

You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation.  He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations.  He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.  

It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea.  Anything to busy his hands, you think.

“You don’t know that,”  you finally return, after what seems like too long.

“I do.”  He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact.  “You care about people.  You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone.  You want to do what’s right.  Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”

For once, you’re at a loss for words.  Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.  

How the tables have turned.

He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey.  He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts.  He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up.  He decorates his apartment with the most random things:  limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates.  He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years.  All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on.  (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.)  He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his).  He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.

“I just… don’t like wasting my time,”  he insists from behind his coffee cup.  

“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”  

Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable. 

“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.”  It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap.  It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now.  He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had.  Youngin is good for him, though.  You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.

“You say that a lot.”

“I mean it when I say it.”

He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips.  When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone.  “Girls are scary.”

You laugh.  Cackle, really.  You can’t help it.  He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon.  He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak.  He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says.  (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)

“Heights are scary.  Death is scary.  Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”

“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”

“Don’t interrupt.”  He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest.  From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture;  from him, it’s patient.  “Girls aren’t scary.  Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.” 

“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”  

You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good.  Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags.  Like he’s living life in greyscale. 

“Well, that’s what you have me for.”

The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze.  Instead, he laughs.  “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, but you are.”  You’re adamant, insistent.  He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft.  An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.  

You want to protect him, teach him to fly.  Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.  

You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes.  He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it.  He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.  

“Fine,”  he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long.  It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused.  It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.

“You won’t regret it.”

Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days.  You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.

It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.  

He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse.  If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton.  He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew).  He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.

The girls would probably still love it.  (It’s easy to love him.)

“What do you think?”  It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso.  It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm. 

It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him.  He wants great.

You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for.  To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings.  “Not bad…”

You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.  

Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is. 

How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence?  (You wish you were joking.)  It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.  

“This one?”  He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face.  Medium-weight cashmere.  Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist.  It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.

“Look at you go,”  you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels.  “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”

Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law.  You suppose it is.

“Thanks, ____,.”  He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.  

Your response is a shrug.  “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.”  You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates.  You know there’ll be something good on the menu.  

He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist.  You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him.  Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink.  Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.  

Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch.  That was a viable plan, right?

You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other.  “Hey!  You’re leaving already?”  It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone.  It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.

There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes.  For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes.  “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.”  A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.

Flowers, huh?  Well, that’s certainly something new.  Good for him, you think. 

“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.”  It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words.  “She’s special.”

Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her.  Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes).  Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date.  It’s a big deal. 

“Yeah—“  Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky.  “I guess she is.”

You smile fondly, like a proud mother.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  

“I will,”  he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.  

You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place.  It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look.  “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving?”  

“Why?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?  

You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever).  It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you.  He’s going on a second date, after all.  Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant.  You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.

But it’s fine.  Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine.  The two of you are friends.  You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come.  Baby boy was growing up. 

“Y’know.”  You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment.  It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.

“I know?”  He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.  

You wiggle your hand dismissively.  “Second date and all that.”  

Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on.  It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots.  “Just stick around.  I’ll drive you home when I get back.”

It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him.  “Fine.  I’ll stay.”

He beams, caught halfway out the door.  “Tell me to break a leg.”

“Go break her back,”  you retort to the sound of his laughter.

You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake.  It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.

It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook.  This can only mean one thing.

from jeon jungkook:  Hey. from jeon jungkook:  I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight. from jeon jungkook:  If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning. from jeon jungkook:  Please don’t be mad.

Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date.  It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing.  (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)

to jeon jungkook:  i officially hate you

The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops.  Of course.  He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions.  (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)

to jeon jungkook:  it’s fine!  have fun! to jeon jungkook:  turn her world upside down 😏

He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up.  Good, you think.  About time he finds someone nice.  You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.  

Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.

He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact.  He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic. 

“I want you to meet her,”  he mumbles, like that makes it better.  As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”  He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over.  (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.)  You repeat yourself.

“It’s not… weird.”  But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is.  Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately.  “She wants to meet you too.”

(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)

You somehow highly doubt that.  No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman.  It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set.  Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise.  It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch.  (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)  

“What does she even know about me?”

“That we’re friends.”  His vague response speaks volumes.  The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery.  When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway.  “That I really value your opinion.”

You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.

“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!”  Of course.  It’s obvious.  She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that.  (He is.)  “I’m not coming to dinner.”  

“You’re already in the car,”  he reasons.  

You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve.  Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.

“I just won’t go in.”

“____,.”  When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him.  Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal.  Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.

“No.”

“____,,”  he repeats, almost pleading.  You can’t look at him.  You won’t.  The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.

You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause. 

“Fine.”  You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off.  You’re not actually mad.  Just worried.  You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand.  It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person.  You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.

Jungkook knows that.  Should, anyway.  You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.  

When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it.  He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line.  (Truthfully, it’s your fault.  All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)

You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by.  You’ve got a reputation to uphold. 

“You’re paying for my dinner.”

“Of course.”

How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat?  How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?

Answer:  you’ve lost count.

Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.  

“What’re you doing here?”  At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness.  Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.

Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really).  “C-can I come in?”

You don’t budge.  It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired.  So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance.  He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin.  You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.  

(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)  

You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day.  “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”

“Please let me in,”  the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well.  Everywhere but your eyes.

“Fine,”  you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold.  You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else.  If you had to guess, it’s her perfume.  It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses.  You don’t know if you like it.

Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.  

You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter.  You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.

You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare.  “So?”

“W-what?”  

It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning.  Something’s happened.  Must have.  There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.

“What’s going on?”  You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him.  He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.  

(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)

“What do you mean?”

The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression.  He’s stalling, you can tell.  You hate when he does this.  You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small.  “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced.  What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”

He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.

It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges.  You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual.  Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned.  (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)

With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.

He nods once - a small up and down of his head.  

“So.”  You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves.  You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest.  He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs.  Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.

“I couldn’t do it.”  The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said.  Couldn’t do… it?

You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.  

When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look.  It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.

“You didn’t ask her?”  It explodes out, a question that demands an answer. 

He’s staring past your head, unblinking.  You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp.  “I c-couldn’t.  It was just…”  The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.

“Just what?”  

“Just—”  There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot.  He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise.  He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket.  “It didn’t feel right.”

What did that even mean?  Feel right?  

Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete.  It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down.  Didn’t he understand that?  Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?

You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.  

“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’”  You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window.  “You like her, don’t you?”

You expect him to nod immediately.  He doesn’t. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” 

“You like her, right?”  

“I think so.”

You want to tear your own hair out.  Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there.  “So, you like her.”  It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way;  you don’t mean it in any way but supportive.  You just want him to be happy.  “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”

“She’s not you.”  

He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer.  But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise.  Hope, maybe?  Fear?   

“What?”  You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.

The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight.  He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer.  (It won’t.)

“Don’t say things like that.”  

It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest.  His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair.  He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer.  Bambi, through and through.

“You asked why I didn’t do it,”  he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.

“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.”  It’s cruel.  “You’re making a bad choice.  You’re into this girl.  Don’t be dumb.”

His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements.  “I’m not dumb.”  There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask.  It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.  

He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.  

When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.

“Okay.  Spill.”

Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question.  You can’t blame her.  You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.  

All because of a doe-eyed idiot.  

“What?”  It’s less snark, more sigh.  You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.  

“What’s going on with you?”  

“Nothing.”  

“Bullshit,”  she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter.  “You’ve been in a bad mood all week.  I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.”  She’s right, of course.  You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what.  “Did something happen?”  

You grit your teeth.  An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.

“____,”  she tries again, concerned.  

“Nothing happened.”

“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!”  She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly.  “You look like hell—”

“Thanks.”

“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough.  So just tell me?”

You hate that she’s right.  It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload.  (Maybe it’d be helpful.  Probably.  But you’ve never found comfort in other people.  At least, not like this.)

“Yejin.”  Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on.  “It’s fine.  Really.”  You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile.  “I just need to get some sleep.”  And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.

Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.  

The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action.  It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.

(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)

“You’re here.”  You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater.  He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.

“Y-you asked,”  he mutters, refusing to meet your stare.  At least, you think he’s refusing.  It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.  

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes.  It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away.  It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.

“Will you come in?”  You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated.  He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding.  “I won’t bite.”

You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.

“So.”  This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him.  He hums a noise but offers nothing further.  

This is how it’ll be then.  Fine.  If he wants to be this way.

“You like me.”

He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go.  He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth.  “I—  I don’t—  I didn’t say that.” 

If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.  

“Tell me why.”

The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now.  Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.  

“W-what?”

“Tell me.”  You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round.  “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters.  What have I got that she doesn’t?”  

“You’re serious?”  

“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”

The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.  You think he might say no, outright refuse.  You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.  

“You’re funny.  You’re honest.  You speak your mind.”  You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people.  He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him.  “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t.  You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”  

For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen.  As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.  

“I don’t—”

“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.”  He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again.  “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”  

There’s something thick in your throat.  

“You make me want to try.”  He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it.  “Y-you make things not so scary.”  

It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you.  He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.

“You know what I need, even before I know myself.  You make me laugh.”  He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.”  You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit.  Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.  

You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs.  Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.

When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words.  They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism.  “I can’t.”

As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention.  “Can’t or won’t?”

“I—”

“I’m not asking for the world here.  Just a chance.”  He’s got a peculiar look on his face.  “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”

“Excuse me?” 

All of a sudden, he’s close.  Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be.  There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down.  The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.  

“You kind of ruined my life.  I think this makes us fair.”

You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense.  You’d ruined his life?  (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.)  You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.

Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.  

“I’m kidding.”  

It feels like whiplash.  You’ve created a monster.  

“But you do owe me, I think.  So why not?”

You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.

Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing.  He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams. 

He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out.  He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed.  He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money.  He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.  

You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him).  If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either.  Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.

(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge.  He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)

“Open it,”  he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.

You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you.  You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom.  “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”

Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff.  It’s adorable.  

“Just open it.”

You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends.  You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head.  You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.  

Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.  

You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups.  Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.  

Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together.  Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects.  Surely there’s more to this.  Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?

“Do you like it?”  You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.  

“What is it?”

“It’s a playsuit.”  

“A playsuit?”  You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in.  Would it even fit?  Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.

He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns.  “Will you wear it?”

It fits you better than you’d expected.  Or at least, you think it does.  If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim. 

The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal.  He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.

“S-so wet,”  he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds.  The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs.  He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick.  “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.  

“Use your words, gorgeous.”  As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.

The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck.  He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.

“What did I say?”  

Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob.  Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh.  He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.

When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be.  The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.  

“You like this, don’t you?”  His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy.  “You like what I’m doing?”

“Y-yes,”  you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts.  The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin.  Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.  

“Good girl.”  Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips.  You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall.  Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips.  “Such a good girl for me.  My perfect girl.”

Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.

“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she?  Wants me to fill her up?”

He’s teasing you, the bastard.  Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate.  It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest.  Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.

“Say it.  Say you want me.”

You do, without hesitation, without fear.  You know he’ll catch you.  “I want you.”  

He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same.  Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.  

Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.

“B-be mine,”  he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer.  Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.

“I am.  I am.  I am,”  you chant, tears welling along your lash line.  They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.  

They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you.  It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you. 

It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much.  Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.

You’re his and he’s always been yours. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings​ @veronawrites​ @notmontae97​ @papillonsgf​ i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Veritaserum Prompt Fic (Part 11)

Azkaban wasn't great.

It was pretty fucking awful, if Draco was being honest. He kept himself as far back from the bars of the cell as he could, the closer he got, the worse it was when a dementor drifted past.

Maybe the Department of Mysteries was a better alternative to Azkaban. At least when he was trapped there he had the refuge of sleep. Here, even his dreams were tortured; the dementors' presence warped the images of Harry and the cottage, destroying the memories over and over in increasingly horrifying ways.

On the other hand, there was a small slit of a window that let in sunlight. He curled himself into a ball as close to the sunlight as he could and tried to think of his time on the beach, of the sun and the sand, of Harry's warm smile and his hair slipping through his fingers. As long as he focused really hard on it, as long as he didn't fall asleep, he could hold onto a few pieces of beauty at a time.

Draco wasn't sure how long he'd been there when a silver fox patronus came racing through, so bright that the dementors were chased off and Draco could breathe again.

The fox moved through the bars and placed itself between Draco and the door and he couldn't help but where it had come from. The only person he could imagine sending a patronus to him was Harry but everyone knew that Harry Potter's patronus was a stag.

And yet, "I'm getting you out," Harry's voice said through the patronus and Draco's heart stuttered.

He waited for the fox to vanish but the light didn't waver, Harry was still protecting him it seemed, keeping the dementors at bay.

(Read more below the cut)

Nothing changed for six days.

The warden came by multiple times to try to banish the patronus but the fox remained stubbornly at Draco's side. It all felt a bit surreal but Draco certainly wasn't going to complain.

After six days, the reporters started coming. "Mr. Malfoy, I work for the Daily Prophet," the first witch who arrived informed him, "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"I haven't got much else on at the moment," he attempted. "But I'm surprised they let you in."

"Then you underestimate how much influence Harry Potter really has."

"Harry wanted you to come here?" he asked, heart beating a little faster.

She straightened her shoulders and took out her notebook and quill, "Mr. Potter is saying that everything printed about you after your return to Azkaban is a lie. What do you say?"

"I don't know," he replied, "What's been said? I haven't gotten any papers in here, as you might expect."

The witch leaned closer to the bars, as though she was telling him some sort of secret, "He said that you didn't slip him a love potion, you didn't have him under any sort of spell, there was nothing nefarious at play."

"That's correct." But he couldn't imagine that she would believe him, even if he had been using a spell or a potion he would have said the same thing.

Her brow furrowed, "He said you were living on a secluded island before you turned yourself in and that you're in love."

"Yes," he affirmed softly.

"Then why did you leave?"

He sighed, "Because if anyone deserved to live in the wizarding world, it's the person who saved it."

She nodded, "Do you have any idea what's happening in the wizarding world right now?"

"No," he replied flatly, "They don't really let us out to see the world."

"So you're saying that this wasn't all part of some elaborate plan?"

"Sorry, what's going on?" he asked, feeling off kilter and a bit frustrated. "What plan?"

The woman stared at him for a long moment, "Harry Potter seems to be trying to bring the Ministry to its knees," she said. "He started by talking about you, then by telling the story of his godfather's wrongful conviction, and continued to tell story after story about people who've been falsely accused and convicted."

Draco felt like his eyebrows must be reaching his hairline by this point. "No," he shook his head, "No, I had no idea."

"What about the reports on ministry officials?" she asked, ignoring his response and pressing on to the next question. "Your father had a variety of connections, surely you gave him at least some of information about the officials he's blowing in."

He shook his head again, "No, I had nothing to do with that." He chuckled humorlessly, "I was raised to keep secrets until the opportune moment and to use them to apply pressure to get what I wanted."

She hummed, "It seems to me that Mr. Potter is doing exactly that."

------------------

The reporters continued coming. He had multiple visits a day over the next three days and every reporter asked similar questions.

Draco tried to understand what was happening in the wizarding world from the interviews he did, but it was hard to believe that there could be protests and rallies at the Ministry demanding his freedom.

He'd gone to sleep the third night, Harry's fox curled up on the bottom of the flimsy pad, watching the door, only to be awoken by his cell door banging open.

"Up Malfoy," the human guard who worked overnights said.

He startled, sitting up and curving inward to protect himself. "What?"

"Get up," the man barked.

The patronus placed itself between Draco and the other man and Draco's heart started to beat to rapidly.

"Now," he said, grabbing Draco's arm and dragging him out of bed.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked as the man shoved him down the hall and out toward the main entrance.

"Your time is up," the man said, thrusting a dirty shoe into Draco's hands.

Before he could ask anything else, he was being ripped through time and space, and all he could imagine was ending up somewhere even worse. They were probably going to kill him and-

His feet hit the groan and he barely had time to register sand under his feet before arms were wrapped around him, pulling him in and holding him close. The sound of waves crashing to the shore, the scent of the salt water in the air mixed with the comforting scent of Harry's body. He sagged forward, a sob escaping his throat.

"Draco," Harry murmured, cupping his face in his hands and kissing him all over, covering his cheeks, his nose, his lips, his chin, even his eyelids. "Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?" he asked.

He shook his head but couldn't get any words out.

"Come on," Harry whispered, rubbing his hands along Draco's arms, "you're shaking. Let's go inside."

Harry led him by the hand up the beach and into the little cottage, the fire was lit in the hearth and there were two cups of tea sitting on the coffee table, a plate of ginger biscuits in between.

"Do you want to get changed?" Harry asked.

"I-" Draco started before breaking off, "Sorry. What's happening? Harry, how am I here? The guard just gave me this stupid shoe and I don't-"

"The Ministry signed your release paperwork," Harry said. "They wouldn't let me come to get you, they aren't very pleased with me at the moment," he added. "I'm sort of banned from any official Ministry buildings now," he said, sounding oddly pleased.

"What happened?"

Harry looked at him longingly, "Later?" he begged. "Can I just-" he broke off stepping closer and crowding him against the wall, kissing him and crushing their bodies together. Holding him like he didn't care that Draco was smelly and hadn't been allowed to shower since arriving at Azkaban.

"Harry," he groaned, tilting his head back as Harry pressed kisses along his jaw and neck.

"Hmm?"

His fingers tugged Harry's hair until he tipped his head up far enough that he could kiss him again for a long moment. "Am I allowed to stay here?" he asked.

"Yeah," Harry breathed, nodding his head, their noses brushing against each other's. "You can go anywhere, do anything," he added. "We're free."

Draco shuddered as the words washed over him, the relief cool and bright. "Okay," he said. "First things first. I need a shower," he said.

Harry groaned, "Why does that have to be the first thing?"

He laughed, "I'm filthy."

"I don't care," he muttered petulantly.

"Come with me," Draco invited.

Harry pulled back far enough to wiggle his eyebrows, "I'll do my best."

--------------------

Later, after they'd showered off all of the dirt and grime, erasing all physical evidence of the week and a half they'd spent apart. After Harry had taken Draco apart; kissing him and touching him, healing all of the darkness that the prison had left seeped in his bones. After they'd eaten dinner curled up on the sofa together and drunk the tea he'd made and ate far too many biscuits. After they'd stumbled together through the house and crawled into bed. After Harry had laid him bare once more and kissed every inch of him, as though Draco was something treasured, something precious. Draco began to cry again.

"Hey," Harry whispered, moving back to the top of the bed where he kissed away Draco's tears, "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

He grabbed his shoulders and pulled his body down on top of him, allowing the familiar, welcome weight of his body to ground him. "I love you," he whispered through all of the emotions swamping him.

"I love you, too," Harry murmured, stroking his hair back and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "So much."

"Why?" Draco asked.

"Why do I love you?" he asked, sounding surprised by the questions.

Shaking his head he replied, "Why did the Ministry let me go? Why would they do that?"

Harry sighed and nuzzled into Draco's neck, "Because I know their secrets."

"What?"

He shrugged, "I did some digging when I had access to the Department of Mysteries information," he said in between kisses pressed to his neck, "so I just started exposing corruption that I'd found. People wanted to listen to what I had to say so I told them. Then people started protesting and here we are."

"So you blackmailed the Ministry into releasing me?"

Harry hummed, "Not really. I just helped the Ministry to see the error of their ways and be held accountable for the ways they've failed the people they were supposed to protect and serve."

"I can't believe you."

"Hmm?" Harry hummed, brushing his nose over Draco's collarbone.

"I can't believe you did that," he said. "How dare you have the audacity to love me that much?"

"Me?" Harry gasped, jerking up onto his elbows and looking at Draco like he was actually offended by Draco's words. "How dare I? What about you?" he exclaimed. "Draco you loved me so much that you were willing to go to prison for the rest of your life!"

"But you deserve to be loved that much," he protested.

"So do you!" Harry sat up, straddling his hips and glaring down at him. "I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you," he added. "If you'll let me."

He cupped Harry's cheek in his palm, "I'll let you. I haven't got another brave bone in my body."

"Good," Harry said. "Because I'm sick to death of people and their invasive questions. And if I never have to talk to a member of the press again it will be too soon. And I'm tired of having to protect myself from the ministry and playing their games," he grumbled.

He buried his face in Draco's neck again and Draco let his fingers stroke through Harry's still damp curls, heedless of the way it would make them frizzy.

"I hate everyone who isn't you," Harry mumbled.

"Well not everyone, I hope," Draco replied as he rubbed a lock of hair between his fingers, "I went through a lot of trouble to make it possible for you to be with your friends and family whenever you want," he teased.

Harry huffed a laugh, "It's ridiculous that you're making a joke about this right now. I have never been more terrified in my life."

"Oh come on," Draco said, "You literally died."

"I had a panic attack," Harry said, "When I thought I'd never see you again. I walked straight to my death without a backward glance." He pressed impossibly closer, "When I tell you I've never been more terrified in my life, I mean it."

"Harry," he murmured, awestruck.

The other man yawned and snuggled in. "But it's fine now," he said. "You're here and I'm here, and the Ministry is burning."

"Do we need to go back?" Draco asked.

Harry shook his head, "Hermione's taking care of it. She has better legal avenues and it's honestly more her thing than mine anyway."

"We can stay here for a while, then?"

"In bed?" Harry asked sleepily.

He chuckled, "On the island," he clarified.

Harry nodded, "as long as you want. Everything's on fire in Wizarding London anyway, it's a complete shit show. They wouldn't give us a moment's peace."

"I'd like a little peace," Draco replied.

He felt Harry's smile against his shoulder, "A little peace," he echoed. "A little happiness."

"More than a little, if we're lucky."

Harry nodded, "We're due for a bit of luck, aren't we?"

He pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead, "I don't need luck when I've got you."

And no matter what life threw at them, they knew how to weather the storm; clinging to one another and the life they built on their love.

--------------

fin. I'm having a hard time letting go of this one but I can't look at it for another moment. <3 Thanks for joining me for the adventure of writing this one.

(Part 10)

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

After reading your opinion on Molly Weasley, i want to know: What are you're opinions on the Weasley family? Besides Ron & Molly that is.

Five characters? In one post? Well, alright, here we go.

The Weasleys as a Whole

I’ve mentioned this before but JKR writes the Weasleys to clearly be a believable but ideal family. They’re all fiercely loyal, progressive per wizarding world standards, love each other and Harry deeply, and have this wonderful off-kilter joyous house where there’s always some rambunctious thing going on. 

Harry comes to associate the Weasleys with family and, personally, I believe a large part of him marrying Ginny boils down to it will make him a Weasley for real. 

That said, they’ve got some major issues. They’re very righteous people who, as a whole, will ice you out the moment they even suspect you do something that disagrees with them. You don’t even have to do it, what you did or didn’t do doesn’t even have to be something terrible or something bad, but god help you if the family decides they’re done with you. 

They’re very resentful of people like the Malfoys. This isn’t just because Lucius is a smarmy, pompous, ass (he is) or that he indirectly almost murdered Ginny but seems to mostly be because Lucius has so much money. All of their interactions seem to boil down to the money. More than this though, the Weasleys seem fully supportive of laws that... well, used against themselves would be a travesty but used against the likes of the Malfoys it’s about damn time.

They’re unquestioningly loyal to Dumbledore. Granted, most people we see in canon are, Dumbledore’s very very very good at convincing people he’s a saint. However, these guys are practically his cult member to the point where they do things like refuse to have Harry over the summer, even before Voldemort returned, because Dumbledore told them not to. 

They also never really adopt Harry into the family. Oh they give him a nice sweater, he comes over every once in a while to the house, he’s very good friends with Ron but he’s mostly treated just like that, a good friend. Now, there’s nothing wrong with this, except the way JKR sets it up we’re supposed to believe this is the family Harry found. It’s just that the family Harry’s found let’s him stay in a house with bars on his window where twelve-year-old Ron tells them, “Harry’s muggle family is really really awful” in a way that should have been raising red flags. Hermione practically lives at the Weasleys, Harry never does.

Now, are the Weasleys evil? No, far from it, they’re ordinary people who act in ways I’d expect ordinary people too. Technically they didn’t have to do anything more for Harry than they did, they didn’t have to hate Lucius Malfoy for better reasons, and they don’t have to be even slightly less worshipful of Dumbledore. They’re people, and they’re fine characters, but the overwhelming worship and love of the Weasleys we see across fandom does get on my nerves.

But you asked for individuals, so here we go.

 Arthur Weasley

Arthur is the epitome of “Pretty Fly for a White Guy” in the worst of ways and is, frankly, a giant awful joke to me. He’s the white kid you see going around with dread locks, a beanie the color of the Jamaican flag, smoking weed, and attempting to speak like Bob Marley 

Only, because he does it with muggle things, we’re supposed to find him funny and progressive.

Arthur is absolutely, albeit unwittingly, condescending in his love of muggle knickknacks. He has no idea how any of it actually works, not limited to how muggles could possible survive without the gold standard, but ardently believes he does because he can enchant the car to fly. Seriously, that he believes he’s an expert on muggle culture, as a pureblood wizard who heads an office in the ministry on it, is the worst part. His love of toasters comes across as, “Wow, look how cool it is that these poor little muggles made all this neat stuff. We should absolutely love the muggles because of it!” And that he heads an office in the ministry called “The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts” which is all about catching down Jackass style pranksters who think it would be hilarious of they enchanted toasters to bludgeon muggles to death...

Goddammit Arthur, why do you exist?

Right, otherwise, he’s got some pride issues going on. Part of the reason Percy is excommunicated is not so much that Percy doesn’t believe Harry, but because Percy dared to do better than Arthur in his own career. Arthur is stuck in his position as head of a joke of a department, he is an underling at its finest, and frankly likely only has that position because he’s a pureblood and the idea of putting a halfblood or even muggleborn at the head of a department dealing with muggles just made the higher ups shudder. (Don’t tell Arthur that though, he likes to think he’s not benefitting from nepotism). 

Arthur goes so far to accuse Percy as Fudge’s secretary as spying on him. Arthur, the guy who heads “Misuse of Muggle Artifacts”. Yeah, Arthur, I’m sure Fudge is really wasting his time using his straight laced secretary to find out all your dirty secrets. 

He also tends to see the world as very black and white. When Skeeter in book 4 writes an article after the Quidditch World Cup disaster complaining about the ministry’s lax security in enabling domestic terrorists to enter (something completely valid and true by the way) Arthur is so personally offended that both he and Percy go straight to the ministry to complain about Rita Skeeter and her daring to assume freedom of speech! HOW DARE SHE CALL THE MINISTRY’S NON-EXISTENT SECURITY AT THE WORLD CUP LAX! (To be fair, she also cited Arthur as having been in attendance at the event, a ministry employee, and having done nothing but, well, this is also true Arthur. You’re in a guerilla, underground, resistance movement. If I didn’t already think the Order was a joke this would kind of highlight it for me).

He’s also very resentful of Lucius Malfoy, and it seems to mostly be about the money. Arthur and Molly have a severe spending problem and actively resent that Lucius is swimming in money. That Arthur is ardently pleased about a law being passed in which the ministry without warrant can ransack Lucius Malfoy’s home... 

Well, Arthur, imagine the slippery slope if the government decides that it would like to search the Weasley home without warrant? In fact, he doesn’t even have to imagine it, as the beloved government in a few short years turns against him and then it’s all about how corrupt the ministry is. 

Arthur’s delightfully narrowminded, basically, and reminds us at nearly every opportunity.

Percy Weasley

Mostly, I just feel bad for Percy. Percy’s the son/brother that nobody likes and he’s painfully aware of that fact. He doesn’t fit in with the others, he has far too much ambition for the Gryffindor family and they resent him for it, and then he dares to say things like “I don’t know guys, Voldemort resurrecting from the dead after decades doesn’t sound plausible, we know Harry’s a little off kilter, and Dumbledore’s one shady dude”. Percy happens to be wrong about Voldemort resurrecting (and admits as much when the evidence is plainly visible), but he’s pretty on the money with the rest of it.

Regardless, growing up we see Ron constantly hating on Percy along with the rest of the siblings. I’m sure Percy is obnoxious, and certainly full of himself after making prefect and head boy, but he’s very clearly even before Order of the Phoenix the Least Favorite Brother (TM).

Then the Weasley family completely ices him out for a) getting a very high ranking position very quickly as Fudge’s secretary and b) not being gung ho about Dumbledore saying crazy things in the paper. Remember that to Percy Harry is Ron’s weird friend who seems to get into highly illegal activities every other week. From Percy’s point of view, it’s probably a matter of time before Harry becomes a crack head in Knockturn Alley (or given how behind the times wizards tend to be, an opium den). 

He’s constantly getting Ron into not only trouble but life threatening situations, is erratic and apparently a parseltongue of all things, and now Harry’s flipped his lid and saying that Voldemort has been resurrected after having gone through a very traumatic experience of watching a classmate somehow die. 

While we see Percy kind of (sort of)  make up with the family it’s clear that for Percy to have any relation with these people he’s the one who will always, ALWAYS, have to come crawling back on his knees and begging for forgiveness. It’s the Weasley way or the highway and I imagine, at some point probably a little after/during that epilogue, Percy will just slowly drift away because it’s just not worth it anymore.

Percy’s very much the black sheep of the family.

Fred and George Weasley

You all are going to kill me, but I actually don’t care in the slightest about Fred and George Weasley. This is because they basically have no personality aside from “funny”. 

They just have their weird, tandem, twin act and are either playing jokes on the school or else serving as Deus ex Machina in giving Harry magical items such as the Marauder’s Map for no apparent reason. The plot told them it was time, I guess. 

Their jokes, while not as bad as Sirius and James’ “Let’s sexually harrass Severus Snape by pantsing and beating him at the edge of Hogwarts lake” or Sirius’ “Let’s get Snape eaten by a werewolf!” are still often needlessly cruel and... kind of pointless. They harass Slytherin house constantly just because they happen to be Slytherins, they’re acceptable victims (which of course makes house tension that much worse). Harry gets sent a toilet seat in the hospital because... that’s funny? Har de har? 

They’re so indistinguishable from one another I routinely see people mistake which one got his ear chopped off and which one died. Because the point is, that we can’t tell the difference! It doesn’t matter who lived and who died because all we know is that Freorge is dead! 

Similarly, you see tons of fics around where character of the day ends up in this weird twincestuous relationship with Fred and George and it’s not only for a) that delightful twincest but b) because they’re such a singular unit that any attempt to pair one with somebody else feels weird. So you just get these porn fics about Fred and George being weird rapey teenagers who seem like they’d be more interested dating each other. 

Charlie Weasley

I really have no thoughts on Charlie. He raises dragons in Romania, the family loves him. Now, dragon raising feels like one of the most dangerous jobs in the Harry Potter universe, like Charlie had just gone and signed up to be a lumberjack but he seems to like it?

We really don’t see much of Charlie, he’s just the obligatory older Weasley son so that the Weasleys can be this ridiculously large family.

Bill Weasley

We see slightly more of Bill, but again, not enough to really leave an impression. We know that his marrying Fleur sent Molly into a complete state, and that they’re going to have awkward Christmas dinners forever because of it where Fleur just sits there and pretends not to loathe every second of Molly’s presence while Molly notes how bad it is that Victoire got stuck with that ugly pink hair instead of the Weasley red. 

Bill doesn’t seem to really do anything about this. He still marries Fleur, but we don’t really see a major confrontation where he tells the family “Look, I’m marrying her, so grow up.” So, I imagine he just tries to smile pleasantly and tells Fleur to just endure it for another few hours. He loves his family, his family’s great, but they only have to see Fleur once a year at Christmas.

Ginny Weasley

Ginny is weird. She’s this weird, frankly, almost personality-less void whose sole obsession in life seems to be marrying Harry. She and Harry end up in the world’s weirdest relationship and I honestly have no idea how people ship it other than canon told them to.

Ginny’s... well, first off, she’s very much in love with an idea. She had always worshipped Harry Potter but then he personally saves her life in what was a horrifically traumatic year and so that feeling just grows even more. Despite being Ron’s sister, she barely seems to know Harry, and everything she seems to like about it are just things she made up.

I imagine her and Harry’s marriage will be littered with affairs on her end. Not divorce though, because Harry would never admit his wife is having affairs on him all the time even if someone directly confronted him. Harry also won’t admit he’s gay. 

More than though we get hints of a personality. Ginny’s a fiery red-head tomboy with a temper. But... Well, it’s only ever hints. She never felt like a real person to me. She has I think one throwaway line about the Chamber of Secrets incident and how it personally affected her. We’re told she’s great at the bat boogey hex so we know she’s a fiery independent woman.

She feels more like a character sheet than an actual person. 

Whenever she’s around I always had this nagging question in my head where I ask why Ginny’s here. She has a lot of potential but nothing’s ever done with her. And when something is, it’s to get her into this bizarre relationship with Harry where he imagines there’s a green rage monster in his chest that loves her skin.

Okay Harry, if you say so. 

TL;DR: The Weasleys aren’t evil or anything, I’m not on Team Bash Them All, but they are shortsighted, ordinary, people who don’t deserve to be worshipped as all that is good in this world.

[poisonintopositivity]

(My Very Own) Top 20 Sterek Fics

Here is my very own Top 20 Sterek Fics (out of order)

For me, these fanfictions are a “MUST READ NOW!!!” kind of deal. These authors have so much talent, it’s incredible. These stories are just marvelous and deserve LOVE ! So, I decided to share them with you.

I’ve read most of these fics several times and some of them are even my bedside table books (with Harry Potter and the Prisonner of Azcaban and Jane Eyre)

So here we go!

1:  Enemy Lines by @qhuinn -  150k - Explicit - Dystopia - Enemies to friends to lovers - Action/adventure

This is the story of werewolf Derek Hale and human Stiles Stilinski: two people who grew up in the same town but completely different worlds, their realities split by the war between men and wolves.

Years later when Derek returns to Beacon Hills, he does it as Alpha of a military pack on a mission to capture those responsible for the region’s resistance. With his main objective, Sheriff Stilinski, out of sight, he settles for the next best thing: his son, Stiles.

Neither of them suspects they’ll need to trust each other if they want to make it out this alive.

2:  Actions Speak Louder than Words by @isthatbloodonhisshirt - 435k - Explicit - The BEST and slowest burn there is - Spark Stiles/Mute Derek - Friends to Lovers

“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.”

That was a bad word. Not found.

Have.

Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment.

One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.

3: Radio Tower by @hyperlittlenori - 130k - Explicit - Dystopia - Hope - Slow Burn/Build 

Everything was different. The world he knew was gone. It’d been a long time since he’d started thinking he was probably one of the last humans on earth, that out there the only sentient beings were those that would devour him whole. He wasn’t sure why he continued with the radio broadcasts, continued to talk into nothingness. The only explanation was that there was a spark of hope in him yet that he wasn’t alone. The lonely safety Stiles has built around an old radio tower in the middle of nowhere is about to be broken. Stiles isn’t sure if Derek is a harbinger of chaos or hope at the end of the world. 

4:  The Hollow Moon by @thepsychicclam - 180k - Explicit - Fix-It - Memory Loss - Slow Burn/Build

It's the summer after Stiles' first year of college, and he's working a crappy job and dealing with nightmares and anxiety - but he's okay, he swears. He makes it through most days without too much trouble. Then, a certain werewolf comes back into town. Which Stiles doesn't care about, nope, not at all.

After two and a half years, Derek returns to Beacon Hills with his small Pack. Though he tried to move on, something just kept drawing him back to Beacon Hills, he's just not sure what. Now, he figures he can start building something like a life - but he keeps getting distracted by Stiles Stilinski of all people.

5 :  Amor Fati by @alocalband  - 43k - Explicit - Consent is sexy - First Time - Fluff & Angst

When Stiles gets thrown into the bank vault about twenty minutes after him, Derek isn’t even surprised.As it turns out, neither is Stiles.

6 :  (not so) Pure Imagination by theroguesgambit - 33k - Explicit - Shared fantasies - Angst with a happy ending - hotdamn! 

"There is a world where whenever someone fantasizes about you, you can physically feel it, but you have no idea who is thinking it about you."

Stiles knows it's wrong, but he's been Fantasizing about Derek and he can't bring himself to stop. Derek doesn't know who's taken an interest in him, but he's enjoying it way more than he probably should.

7: What I Did On My Summer Vacation by grimm - 119k - Explicit - Wolf!Derek - Slow Burn/Build - Friends to Lovers

There's something weird about Beacon Hills that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone in town knows his name the day he arrives. The way they insist the melancholic howling that echoes through the forest every night is just a dog. The way his dad denies getting a dog, even though Stiles comes home to find one sprawled across his bed, some big black thing whose eyes gleam red in the right light. The way that massive oak tree out in the woods vibrates under his touch, pulsing with sickly life.

There's something weird going on in this town, and Stiles is determined to get to the bottom of it.

8:  Stand Fast in Your Enchantments by @devildoll - 77k - Explicit - Captivity - Feral!Derek - Angst with a happy ending

"Stiles knew damn well what a pissed-off wolf sounded like, and every hair on the back of his neck was telling him that somewhere in this room was a very pissed-off werewolf." An AU in which Derek is feral, Stiles is magical, and they eat a lot of fast food.

9 :  What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by @isthatbloodonhisshirt - 196k - Explicit - Soulmate - Slow Burn - Misunderstandings 

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!”

Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her.

“What?! What was that sound?!”

“You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder.

“Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!”

“Mike,” she argued.

“Who’s Mike?” Scott asked.

“Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

10 :  taste your beating heart by @cinematicnomad​ - 112k - Mature - Pack Dynamics - Slow Burn/Build - Stilinski Family Feels

Something was wrong in Beacon Hills. Derek was halfway across the country when he felt a call to return to his hometown, and somehow Stiles had been talked into letting the werewolf stay in his guest bedroom. This could lead to nothing good.

11 :  between the click of the light and the start of the dream by @thepsychicclam 105k - Explicit - Pack Dynamics - Getting Togheter - Fluff & Angst

A twig snaps, and then Stiles hears breathing and the rustle of leaves. He strains to get a better glimpse into the darkness, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing but a black void.

It's Stiles' senior year, and he's trying to concentrate on normal things - like the lacrosse championship, spring break, prom, graduation (and definitely not Derek) - when he starts having nightmares and waking up in the middle of nowhere. Oh yeah, and he's being haunted by a hag. Great.

12:  And You Say You're Alone by taelynhawker - 30k - Explicit - Pack Dynamincs - Bad Friend Scott - Romance

Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.

13:  Trust Fall by Stoney - 144k - Explicit - Body Swap - Hurt/Confort - Slow Burn/Build

Stiles is fairly certain that a case could be made for every bad thing in his life coming back to Peter Hale. This time it's pissing off a powerful witch, who retaliated by swapping Stiles and Derek a la Freaky Friday, because sure. That makes sense. Um, there are GPAs on the line, not to mention the whole thing where his dad wants to shoot Derek on sight. Except who he sees as Derek is actually Stiles, and Stiles did not sign up for filicide.

Great. Wait...does this mean he's the Alpha until they figure this out? Holy. Shit.

****

Derek had stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a few minutes trying to control the panic as he saw himself as Stiles. As the loud mouthed human friend of the pack. He was going to kill Peter. He was going to kill the witch, then he was going to kill Peter. Maybe even resurrect him again just to kill him all over.

They were going to have to play this cool. They would have to stay calm and focused. Which is of course why the universe threw him into this situation with someone who physically couldn't be calm and focused.

Of course.

14:  Gravity's Got Nothing on You by @zosofi - 84k - Explicit - Fake/Pretend Boyfriends - Humor - Romance

“Three weeks,” Derek says.

“Still don’t want to,” Stiles says.

“I’ll pay you,” Derek says, and that… that has Stiles interested. Alf’s Antique’s may be a great job, but it’s not a high-paying job, and half of Stiles’s tuition is coming from financial aid, so…

“How much,” Stiles asks, “are we talking here? Because I know your family, dude. And it’ll be kind of awkward after.“

“My family thinks you’re some sort of fucking gift to the world,” Derek seethes, like he’s jealous, “they’ll probably be pissed at me when we break it off, so don’t worry about that. Five hundred bucks.”

“A thousand,” Stiles says, because screw ethics. Also, the Hale family is loaded. Derek can deal.

15:  Every Step You Take by @nokomiss - 49k - Mature - Magic - UST - Secret Feelings

Stiles accidentally ends up magically bound to Derek. It’s super.

16:  Baking My Way Into Your Heart by theSilence - 179k - Mature - College AU/Coffee Shop AU - Slow Burn/Build - Friends to Lovers

Derek is an uptight college student, all work and no play. His carefully scheduled life is thrown kilter when his regular barista is replaced with someone new.

17:  Windows by @drgrlfriend - 83k - Explicit - Blind!Stiles - Friends to Lovers - Found Families 

Derek has a new neighbor who won't stop looking.

Excerpt:

“You’re blind,” Derek said flatly, the anger draining from him so suddenly he felt almost woozy. His vision cleared, his claws sliding back into blunt fingernails.

“Thanks for the memo, genius,” the kid said acidly. “I can still fucking defend myself, so don’t take another damn step.”

“Fuck, I...I’m sorry,” Derek stuttered.

“What?!” The kid’s brow crinkled. “I mean — what?! You’re fucking sorry!?” His lips thinned into a harsh line. “What, is this some kinda Hallmark movie where you’re discovering the error of your ways because you don’t want to rob a blind person?! That’s fucking condescending, man. I’ll have you know that —”

“Just, wait.” Derek interrupted what was apparently the start of a convincing argument as to why he should rob the kid after all, feeling his head start to spin. “This is — it’s a misunderstanding. I’m — I’m not robbing you. You’re — you’re safe, okay? I’m taking three steps back. Just — just let me explain.”

“Explain why you came busting into my apartment? Yeah, go right ahead, man, I can’t wait to hear this epic tale.”

18 :  Just to See You Again by MellytheHun (@loserchildhotpants​) - 15k - Explicit - Love Letters - Getting Together - College AU 

A sterek college!AU where writing student Stiles specializes in love letters, runs a blog about it and can be commissioned to write love letters on behalf of lovers who are at a loss for words.

He makes some cash, he’s good at what he does (especially when he gets to be a little more explicit in his letters), it pays for his textbooks and that’s all he’s really looking for and life is fine. That is, until someone anonymously commissions him to write a love letter to mathematics student, Derek Hale.

19:  Chasing Slumber by @hyperlittlenori - 21k - Explicit - Post-Nogitsune - Porn With Feelings - Fix it

Stiles finds solitude and a glimpse at recovering from his ordeal with the Nogitsune in a dingy motel far from Beacon Hills. Inhuman blue eyes follow his silent struggles in the darkness of the room and he can no longer pretend to sleep, pretend he hasn’t been profoundly changed by all that has happened. He can only let his fingers stretch out across threadbare but clean sheets and clench around them, in a failed attempt at not reaching for Derek.

20 :  the thread is ripping by @thepsychicclam - 36k - Explicit - Pinning - Angst with a happy ending - Flashbacks

Stiles is 27 now, with a master’s degree and a career and a house and a serious boyfriend and a life in San Francisco that doesn't include Derek. But then Stiles unexpectedly shows back up in Beacon Hills, and Derek would recognize that scent anywhere.

If you are interested, feel free to check out my Sterek Fic Recs Collections on A03.

On this lovely note, happy reading guys!

[wizardofahz]

High School Reunion

A/N: Midvale is coincidentally set around the time Alex’s 10-year high school reunion would’ve been, so that’s when this is set.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Alex heads down to the beach.

Spending the night in her childhood bed and the emotional release of her conversation with Kara had been nice, but leftover pent up energy is making her restless. A difficult run in the sand should help.

It does at first. It’s been a while since she’s run on a beach. All her energy is spent on reacquainting herself with the lack of solid footing, the way the sand deforms under her feet, how much harder her muscles have to work to extract her feet and carry them forward.

Not long after she falls into a steady rhythm, Alex spots two women walking ahead of her. They’re going in the same direction as her, but she passes them easily.

The monotony of her physical movements allows her mind to wander. Inevitably her thoughts return to Maggie. Actually, no, not Maggie but the coming out journey she had helped along. Alex’s self-realization may have come in National City, but the signs had started here in Midvale.

Vicki hadn’t been her only crush, she’s sure. Over the past year, other memories have come back to Alex, puzzle pieces falling into place with a startling new clarity. Alex wonders how many she’s forgotten. Her mother hadn’t been surprised when Alex came out to her. Maybe she remembers more.

Eventually Alex decides to head back. At this point, she can run half the way and use the last half as a cool down walk.

The two women from before are still walking in the same direction. Alex glances at them, prepared to give a courtesy nod, but recognition stops that plan in its tracks.

It’s Josie.

And Vicki.

Crap.

After Kenny’s death, the friend bubble that had shattered so quickly around Alex hadn’t lasted much longer for Josie.

Except Vicki.

Vicki had been so unfailingly kind to and well-liked by everyone that she had the unique ability to stand up for anyone regardless of social status. And so she did for Kenny, Josie, and Alex.

Until Alex had screwed that up.

Alex hopes they won’t recognize her. She really doesn’t need this reunion now of all times.

No such luck.

“Alex?” Josie says as Alex nears.

Alex skids to a stop, momentum carrying her past Josie and Vicki, so they all have to turn to see one another.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Josie continues.

Feeling more off-kilter than just her sudden stop can explain, Alex says, “I-- Josie, hi. Come to what?”

“The reunion.”

Josie’s words ring a distant bell though Alex doesn’t know how. She doesn’t really keep in touch with anyone from high school, though she sees the occasional update on social media. Maybe her mom mentioned it on a phone call. Either way, Alex has a vague recollection of hearing that her 10-year high school reunion is being held sometime around now. Apparently exactly now.

That also explains Vicki. From a brief moment of weakness when Alex googled her, she knows Vicki hasn’t lived in Midvale since she left for college either.

Vicki alternates between averting her gaze and shooting Alex odd looks. Once upon a time, Alex would’ve known what those looks meant.

“Oh, that’s this weekend?” Alex says. “Umm, I’m actually not here for that, just coincidence really.”

“Well, even if you hadn’t planned on going, since you're here, why don’t you drop by the reunion anyway?" Josie offers. “I’m sure we’ll be well-stocked with booze if nothing else.”

“I’ll think about it,” Alex says, her version of ‘thanks but no thanks.'

Josie seems to understand. “Either way, I’m glad we ran into each other. I wanted to say thank you and I’m sorry. The whole thing with Mr. Bernard...” She grimaces and shudders. “The more time passes, the grosser it feels. Thanks for ending it.”

“Just glad I could help,” Alex says. Maybe if Vicki wasn’t here, she’d ask how Josie is doing. But Vicki is here, which means Alex would very much like to be anywhere else. “I should finish my run before I cool down. See you around?”

Josie nods, looking a little lighter. “See you.”

Alex takes one last glance at Vicki.

The odd expression now looks like jealousy.

... 

Alex watches the waves crash into the rocks below.

As the water recedes, she hears the shuffle of someone approaching.

There are very few people who know about her hideout. It’s not the sort of place people find by chance. The rocky cliff face is sloped but occasionally steep. Getting to her particular little hole in the wall requires knowing that sometimes the best way across is going down then up.

Her father is MIA. Her mom wouldn’t know to come looking for her now. This area is remote enough that Kara typically flies, which only leaves--

Alex sighs.

“I’m not in the mood to fight,” she says.

“Me neither,” comes Vicki’s voice moments before she appears. “I thought you’d be here.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Josie?” Alex wishes she could sound calmer, neutral at least, but her voice comes out reeking of resentment. “Doing... whatever, walking? Something?”

“I’ll see her tonight,” Vicki says evenly, and Alex’s resentment grows. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Vicki tilts her head towards the empty space beside Alex, asking if she can sit. The cave can probably fit three or four people, but given the giant elephant in the room, the prospect of two seems cramped.

Alex nods anyway.

An uncomfortable silence settles between them until Vicki clears her throat.

“I wish I knew what to say sorry for,” Vicki says.

Confusion proves a preferable alternative to discomfort. “Why would you be sorry?” Alex asks.

“You know, when we were kids, I remember hearing a lot about heartbreak,” Vicki says, and Alex’s own heart convulses in her chest. “No one ever told me you could feel it as deeply with friends.”

Friends. Right.

“I missed you, you know?” Vicki continues. “In college and even now, whenever I learn something interesting but super nerdy, I think, ‘Alex would love this.’”

“Ouch?” Alex says--she's a nerd but is she that nerdy--but she knows what Vicki means. When reading feel-good stories on the internet, she often thinks that Vicki would do something like that.

Vicki smiles, a subtle quirk of the mouth. “Watching you with Josie just now... it seemed so easy. I wish I could remember why we fought. If I said something stupid or insensitive... I remember it was after your dad died and then Kenny.”

“What? No!” Alex says immediately. “At least I don’t think so. To be honest, I also have no idea what we were fighting about.” Then because she feels guilty about Vicki’s guilt, she adds, “I did sort of have an epiphany last year about why though.”

“Last year? That’s random.”

“Not really.” Alex's face is burning now. She wishes the cave was bigger, provided at least a facade of an escape. But then again, maybe with an escape, she wouldn’t be bringing herself to having this conversation. “I, umm, I came out last year. I guess I’m coming out again now. To you. But I-- last year I came out for the first time, and it sort of made me think about things, and I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think I had a crush on you, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Vicki looks stunned, and Alex immediately regrets saying anything. All of her coming out experiences until now had been positive, but now Maggie’s story about her and Elisa is rattling around her head. Alex racks her brains, trying to remember if Vicki said anything in high school that even hinted at homophobia.

An even more panicked thought runs through her head. Alex is pretty sure she’s the stronger of the two of them. If someone is getting pushed out of this cave, it’s not her.

“You know what,” Alex says quickly, desperately retreating from that terrible thought. “We can forget I said anything.”

“No, I… Thanks for sharing. I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to,” Vicki says.

Relief floods through Alex’s body. It’s not enough to calm her pounding heart and twisting stomach, but it provides a moment of clarity. She’d been talking a mile a minute and given Vicki less than half a second to respond before she went into panic mode.

“To be honest, I think I’m more surprised that you had a crush on me specifically,” Vicki continues. “You’re such a perfectionist. That you of all people could think that I was worth crushing on... It’s kind of flattering.” She’s quick to clarify, “Not in a weird way!”

Alex laughs, shaky but sincere. “Well if it helps, I don’t have a crush on you anymore.”

Vicki nudges her leg against Alex’s. “My turn to say, ‘Ouch.’”

Silence settles between them again. Alex wishes she could say this one is less awkward than the previous, but they still have ten years of distance between them.

Again, Vicki is the one to break the silence. “So what brings you to Midvale since it’s not the reunion?”

“I’ve been going through--” Alex lets out a weary sigh “--something. I don’t want to talk about it, but Kara thought it’d be a good idea to get away from National City for the weekend.”

Vicki respects Alex’s wishes and pivots. “And how is Kara? Seemed like Supergirl also had it rough for a while.”

Alex thinks she could rival Kara’s super speed with how quickly she turns to Vicki. “What? Why would you--”

“I’ve never said anything to anyone,” Vicki says with her hands up, “but I grew up with you. It’s kind of obvious.”

“No.” Alex sinks her head into her hands. “You can’t know.”

“I think it’s kind of amazing,” Vicki continues, oblivious to the panic once again coursing through Alex’s veins, “you two saving the world together.”

“You don’t understand,” Alex chokes out. “Do you remember Rick Malverne?”

Alex knows she’s breaking confidentiality by saying this, but she needs Vicki to understand the scope of the problem. If Alex missteps, it won’t be a great solution, but J’onn can wipe Vicki too.

Vicki’s brow furrows in thought before saying, “He liked you, right? Used to carry your backpack or something?”

“He also figured out that Kara is Supergirl, so if he knew, and you know, then how many other people in this town know?”

“Okay, uhh, even if other people do, no one is going to--”

“Earlier this year, he kidnapped me.” 

“Oh my God.”

“He wanted his father freed from prison, so he went after me, said that if Kara didn’t break him free, he’d kill me. Nearly did too. But the point is that I can’t do that to Kara again.”

“What about you though? Are you okay?”

Alex looks down at the water below. The tide is rising much like the water in the tank. Alex shakes her head to wash the memories away.

“I’m fine.”

Vicki looks at her skeptically.

“I’m fine enough.”

“Well, if it helps, when I said it’s obvious, I meant to me.”

Alex shakes her head. “He knew because of that day on the beach. You know, when Kara saved that woman and her baby from the car? Our whole class was out there.”

“Yeah, but Rick moved away not long after, right? That’s one of his last memories of Kara, and it left an impression. No, hear me out. Everyone else who was there remembers her as that weird kid they picked on or avoided for years afterward. I’m pretty sure at this point the ‘weird kid Kara’ reputation is not the good kind of weird you’d expect to find in a superhero--no offense to her. It’s obvious to me because I know you, and especially in senior year after everything with Kenny, Sheriff Collins, and Josie, spending time with you meant spending time with Kara. I got to see her for the good kind of special that she is.”

“I don’t know.” Alex rubs her temples. She wishes it was that simple, but she doesn’t think it is.

“You know,” Vicki says playfully, sending off alarm bells in Alex’s head, “one way you can make sure is to come to the reunion tonight.”

Alex rolls her eyes. “I’d rather be kidnapped again.”

“Want me to sleuth around?” Vicki offers. “I may not be a super spy or whatever it is you do, but I’ve got skills.”

“No, we have other ways of dealing with this.” Alex makes a mental note to talk to J’onn. “And I was serious about the ‘you can’t know’ part. At the very least, you’re going to have to sign a lot of confidentiality documents.”

“Fair enough. Do I go to your office or something? Does that mean we’ll get to spend time together again? This has been nice.”

“We have another field office closer to where you live, not that I know where you live,” Alex adds quickly, but to her relief Vicki just laughs. “So, umm, maybe we could do something non-business related sometime?”

“I’d like that.”

[dangermousie]

Watched 'Till The Blood Clear' which is an ep I love. It makes me giggle and sigh and everything. I hate Furlow. Stupid, selfish, greedy horror. I will not remember Infinite Possibilities. I will not. I will not. So much to love about this ep: Zhaan's photogasms (She basically spent this whole ep in bliss, good for her!), the design for sand planet, the continuity continuing to be amazing. But, hey, this being me, I want to talk about John and Aeryn. Do you know what I noticed this time? The brief, arrested look on Aeryn’s face when she finds out that John may, in fact, be able to go home. She has slowly come to rely on him, and he is her constant in the Universe that has shifted almost as crazily for her as it has for John. (Rygel, Zhaan and D’Argo are much less lost than those two, aren’t they?) And I love that John is so drawn-in by that wormhole, that he almost acts reckless for a moment and only Aeryn’s repeated and almost panicked comments about the wormhole not being stable, keep him from going in, even though he has no idea where it will come out. No, he isn’t at the chop-Pilot’s-arm-for-a-map stage, but it’s a theme of the show, isn’t it, how the desire for ‘home’ (which comes to mean so much more than the physical space: it comes to mean belonging, the one thing or person most desired) throws everything awry.   But yes. John and Wormholes. Throughout the show, this will grow to be a relationship as crucial as that of John and Aeryn, or John and Scorpius. Love and comfort and sanity for the former and hate and fear and darkness for the latter, but wormholes? Will both save and curse John all over again, but really are also a reflection of John-the-scientist, John-the-obsessive. Here, he is pure excitement and giddiness only. And  yet the seeds of obsession are there. The Ancients picked him - and I can see why they chose him. But to get back to Aeryn. As in so many early eps, Aeryn’s isolation, her inability to go back and her ambivalence towards it (she finally gives that ambivalence conclusively in AHM in her confrontation with Crais) are rather heartbreaking. If Farscape is about breaking John and putting the pieces back together again, one can say that the same applies to Aeryn, in a different way. She doesn’t want John to go, and she’s realized that, and I don’t think this knowledge is welcome to her. She is Peace Keeper, she does not like relying on another: this ep demonstrates it when she goes temporarily blind from solar flares and shakes off John’s help, snapping at him. She is afraid of helplessness because as DNAMS demonstrated, her upbringing left her with the belief that her tuned and well-functioning efficient body is the most valuable thing about her and she is slowly learning about soul and spirit and intellect and heart being even more important traits of her, but a part of her will always maintain the Peace Keeper worship of body-as-self-sufficient-machine. It actually shows how far she’s come and how much she loves Crichton, that her reaction to his slowly going insane in S2, does not involve in any way diminishing of her love. Or her pity. John and Aeryn never pity each other, do they? Not even when they see each other at their worst or weakest? I think that is one of the most crucial things about them as a couple. I think why a lot of the thrust of wounds for Crichton are psychic wounds and for Aeryn physical (though of course they get plenty of vice versa) is because if Aeryn has been taught to prize her obedient body, her strength, her instinct, for Crichton, lost in a strange crazy world, himself, his sense of self, his way of thinking are not just his strength, but all he’s got. So those respective hurts lash out the most at their sense of self. And this is a heck of a digression. OK. Right. Back to the ep. I love that John casually mentions to Aeryn that his offer (of going back to Earth) is still open. But for Aeryn, Earth isn’t home. Peace Keepers are still home. And that is why her reaction to Crais’ beacon is like John’s reaction to that wormhole. You know it’s a bad idea, you know it’s unstable, you know no good can come of it, but you cannot help but be tempted nonetheless. She wants to believe because somewhere she still feels a bit like a Peace Keeper inside. Notice her unconsciously standing ‘at rest’ in front of the beacon. It’s hard to give up the previous idea of home, for both John and Aeryn, hard and takes time. I do love how Crais tells Aeryn that he will restore her blah blah ‘my word as a Peacekeeper,’ and John interjects bitterly: “well, we know what it’s worth.” I love that ref to ‘That Old Black Magic.’ Oh John. I really love the interaction with Volcarians. John’s impersonation of the tough-as-nails alpha male is hilarious. The funny thing is, yet again, John wins through his brain. But while he is a lot tougher than John of Premiere or I, E.T. or what not, this is still a huge put-on act. S4 John wouldn’t even think of this sort of thing. He’d just walk in and own the place, really. But yeah, his telling Aeryn to keep her ‘damn mouth shut’ and her look at him are just...it’s funny because it’s so the opposite of their actual dynamic. I love that we know so utterly that John doesn't believe in any of this one bit, himself, and it's completely an act, that is so amusing precisely because it's so the opposite of who John is, someone who loves Aeryn for her strength. And when he tells the Volcarians that Aeryn is “one of” his mates? Ahahahaha In your dreams, you poor geeky darling. And I love John’s telling the Volcarians that his and Aeryn’s names are “Butch and Sundance.’ Heeeee. I love John’s off-kilter sense of humor. It will stick around even through the worst. And then of course D’Argo gets caught and Volcarians make John torture him and John turns it into that ‘clearing D’s blood so he’d live’ thing but the thing is: he has to hurt him. And I love that he doesn’t want to, he tries to get out of it, but he ends up doing it. And he says some very nasty things to D’Argo and they are mainly play-acting for purposes of Volcarians (and you can tell that John is horrified he has to say that stuff) but also there is a real frustration at D’Argo, all the real resentments and issues in that relationship, that inflect that incident. And I love that he says it’s a waste (the torture). And it’s true. He is stuck doing something senseless to pacify morons. Because they are dangerous morons. The senselessness of the Universe manifests again and it’s just the start. I do love his conversation with D’Argo, full of frustration, and caution, but also a new beginning, of agreeing to be allies (even if not friends because at that point it’s ‘too much to ask.’) I think it does reflect that D now sees John as more of an equal. Oh, and we end with Furlow. Whom I hate. You know, later John would just hit her and take the data and the ship with him. But this one? Not yet. 

[yeojaa]

( TEASER / devil in a new suit. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag.  You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.  

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash.  You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  a nice balance of fluff and angst (gasp?!).  smut at some point, certainly...  this teaser is family-friendly, though.  😇  

tags / warnings.  mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole.  y’know - the usual. 

wc.  1.1k for this teaser.  undetermined full story. 

beta reader(s).  i forced @hobi-gif​​ and @snackhobi​​ to read this over cause they are my hope and joy, but this is...  just word vomit tbh.

author note.  this idea came to me in the shower and now i’m obsessed with it.  i hope you like it as much as i do! 

He’s a sucker.  That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him.  It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard. 

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove.  Sometimes, she’s by herself;  often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste.  They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique.  Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be.  You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit. 

“He has no idea.”  It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts.  “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder.  How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair?  It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie. 

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”.  Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else.  Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention.  Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him.  Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face.  

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work, like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back for months and months.

“He’s cute,”  she really badly whispers, voice carrying because it always does.  She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough.  Zero tact, though.  Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble.  You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested.  “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags.  (God, what awful taste.)  There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best.  (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points at him, jerking her chin in his direction.  You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place.  Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on.  When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes.  He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW.  Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him well to the point you wonder who his seamstress  is.  

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect.  It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.  

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?”  He upspeaks.  It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first.  A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect.  “What’s the item and the name it’s under?”  You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine.  Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” 

You’re floored.  This is Jeon Jungkook?  This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot that’s wrapped around Barbie’s finger?  You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face.  It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers.  “I’ll grab it!  The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly.  He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends.  He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance.  It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears.  There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.  

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend?  I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.”  Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off.  “She said she was leaving on Friday.”  Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made.  “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall.  You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.  

You do feel bad.  Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this.  For hurting this stranger.  (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”  Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality.  He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip.  He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ @snackhobi​ @codeinebelle​

[the-ginger-is-loose-again]

Just finished rereading the Uglies series (from Uglies to Extras, I just saw today that Imposter and its sequels are in the same world, will get on those next) and I'm so glad I did

I remember reading them as they were coming out, my last two are hardcovers cause the soft wasnt even out yet, so I had to have been around 12 or 13, and there was a lot in there that had obviously stuck with me over the years. I didnt remember everything, or even a lot of things, but the themes of being too hard on your "ugliness" because of what society told you, trying to fit into the little boxes and always be perfect, always trying to be right and wanting to run away when you're proven wrong, they stuck deep within me.

Uglies has what I will always think is the most memorable book opening I have ever read, its actually why I reread it. My coworker and I were doing something in a biological safety cabinet at work (let's just say, brains can kinda look the color of cat vomit) and I said as much. We laughed as I explained the book to her, how it had my favorite opening line, all the tech I could remember, and she immediately went home and bought them. She's been ahead of me the whole time, but we have both finished now and have been talking about it.

I had remembered the cat vomit, the hoverboards, the counterclockwise time telling eye jewels, the brain eating nanos, etc, but I almost wish I could remember more of what I had thought about Tally and Shay. This time around, I think I was a lot more sympathetic to Shay. I had always been on Tally side, understanding that she wasn't perfect and had made bad decisions, but was genuinely trying her best, and couldn't quite understand why Shay couldnt look past her own problems to see Tally's.

Shay and Tally were almost destined to be together, they clicked so well in just a few weeks, yet they never got fully on the same page. Once one would come to an understanding of the other, something would change, something would be done or said and they'd be off kilter again. Shay believed so heartily in the paradise of Smoke, she couldn't see why Tally would come to "rescue" her. She had been told about it for months and had already been there for days, once Tally saw Smoke, she agreed that it was important and not something to be rescued from. But Tally had made her choice from a small room in an unknown building surrounded by people engineered to be predators, how do you explain that to someone when you are so far removed from that fear? How do you get someone who is already mad at you about something you didnt start (read the room david) to listen to you longer than the initial "hey I WAS a spy, but now I'm not I promise"? She is 16 and has never been taught the social skills required to get through an ugly conversation because they are told that that's not going to matter after you've turned, why develop the skills?

God, when they are pretties and they start getting bubbly enough to fight, it just didnt feel like a fair fight, they are both trying to deal with partially remembered fights that were never resolved while piling on a new one, and nothing ever gets fully explained! And we the reader get to sit there knowing none of this is truly Tally's fault, but Shay is as justified in her anger as any of them. Shay was the first to be forced under the knife, she had her rightful feelings dragged from her, made to be pretty friends with the girl she still felt had betrayed her. Tally should have pulled Shay in much earlier, she says they didnt because they couldnt count on the others stay bubbly, but if she hadnt been attached to Zane she might have noticed that she already was. And if that was a real concern, her and Zane should have been split up and divided amongst them anyways. Again, I get it, 16, even if they arent pretty headed, they're still stupid. That being said, I wish the books had a longer timeline, the first 3 should have been more than a year long.

Shay introduced Tally into everything they did, and then had to watch as Tally surpassed her and saw that Tally was always given and surrounded by these special circumstances (pun intended). The only time she is consistently ahead is when she is engineered to be so, and even then they are so messed up they can't have single conversation! Their brains get so scrambled that Tally still just focuses right on Zane cause it was the only time she could remember being stable, however vague the memories are, when Shay wants her to focus on her. She didn't have David treating her seriously or Zane treating her bubbly, she had Tally, who listened to her, who talked with her, who trusted her and was trusted in return. Tally who was her friend, until the next thing happens and the next problem occurs before the last one has even ended, and the next time their brains got scrambled and fixed and changed.

I just realized how valid Shay's feelings were this time around. Her reactions may not have always been, but she was wrestling control of her life back inch by inch in the only ways she knew how. They were purposely not taught how to function and I just cannot express enough how very much their brains were fucked with before they had even fully developed, not to mention the lack of support prior to the surgeries that meant they weren't developing healthily anyways! She just needed someone, anyone, looking out for her, where were the adults, oh right, performing these atrocities! These were children!!! Every choice was made for them and then they were manipulated until they were forced through a hole in a way that made them feel like it was their idea or their only option.

[svnflowervol666]

could u probably write one where h is dating a girl that’s a lil curvy? (You can look up someone like julia kelly and katya elise henry on ig/tumblr if u wanna know) and she gets a lot of comparisons from a few of his friends and fans, it kinda brings her down a bit bc idk man I’m a bit curvy too but i get so insecure sometimes knowing that people could be so judgmental but i know harry would love his girl no matter what 🥺❤️

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: smut-ish (at the end)

Something was off with Y/N. Harry had known this for the past few days. It wasn’t that she’d been acting completely different, just so much so that being the caring and attentive person that he is, Harry had picked up on it.

At first, it was turning down second helpings at dinner. He didn’t think much of it aside from giving her the side-eye, because it was her favorite meal that Harry only cooked for her on special occasions. Next, it was her offering to pleasure him in the morning with her mouth instead of letting him take care of them both. Again, it was odd for her to turn down early morning sex, but he’d assumed she was just tired. Then came the nights when Y/N refused to sleep naked. Harry and Y/N always slept without clothes on, Harry claiming that it was just one more layer keeping them apart, which he hated. Again, he thought it was weird, but the weather had been particularly nipply lately so he’d chalked it up to her simply getting chilly throughout the night and needing the extra warmth.

The last and final straw, the whistle-blower that tied all of her off-kilter behaviors together, came to Harry when Y/N was in the shower. She was rinsing off after dinner, which she had only picked at anxiously with her fork without actually eating much of, and Harry was cleaning up the kitchen and living room to prepare for the movie night they had planned. When Harry went to move Y/N’s open laptop from the coffee table, he accidentally woke up the screen, and what he saw puzzled him to no end. It was an article pulled up on her browser, one from a tabloid company titled, “Reasons Why Y/N is Harry Styles’ Best Girlfriend.” The article was filled with photos of not only him and Y/N but of him and his past girlfriends as well. The point was to prove how much happier Harry looked with Y/N as opposed to his exes, but Harry was peeved regardless. Sure, some of these women had done him wrong in the past and left him feeling absolutely gutted, but he hated seeing them being put up against each other in this fashion.

Only adding to his frustration, the next tab over from the article was twitter account that Y/N and Harry had made one drunken night in order to spy on his fans and have a good laugh at how funny some of his followers were. They logged on and scrolled through the tweets together occasionally, but the tweets pulled up on the screen were all about Y/N’s body rather than jokes about how badly they wanted Harry to run them over with his car or memes made out of the horrid candids people had taken of him on stage. They claimed that Y/N was better than Camille because she “actually has an ass,” and that Taylor could never pull off a dress like the one Y/N wore on New Year's Eve because she didn’t have the right curves like Y/N did. Again, not necessarily negative comments, but this coupled with the other article Y/N had been looking at was enough for Harry to comprehend what was happening here.

It didn’t take much for Harry to put it all together, and it broke his heart when he did. She was comparing herself to the other girls Harry had been with. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what people said about Y/N and he knew very well that she looked much different than the other girls he typically went for. People certainly picked up on Harry’s “type,” seeing as he was always a hot topic for the press. Therefore when Y/N came along, everyone had tons to say on the matter. He avoided the comments as much as he could, but it was clear that Y/N was unable to say the same.

In the midst of planning how Harry would approach her on the subject, Y/N emerged from the top of the stairs and made her way over to the couch, dressed in an oversized shirt of Harry’s and a pair of her favorite underwear. Harry quickly closed her laptop and moved it into the kitchen as if he hadn’t just been snooping through her browser history.

“Alright,” she huffed as she plopped down onto the plush cushions of the sofa, wet hair sticking to the nape of her neck, “What’re we watching tonight?”

“Dunno,” Harry pondered, “Should we just search romantic comedies on Netflix and see what we find?”

“You know me too well, bubby,” she sighed contently.

A smile tugged at the corners of Harry’s mouth at the nickname she’d used. She appeared to be in a good mood, so he decided not to push his luck and try talking to her another day.

“Ye’ want some popcorn? Bought a new box at the store yesterday.”

“Uhh, no. I think I’m good. Still pretty full from dinner.”

You hardly touched your dinner, Harry thought to himself. He nodded (extremely hesitantly) at his girlfriend before situating his own self on the sofa next to her.

They settled on some independent film they knew they’d both hate, but that was the fun of it. Cracking jokes about how bad the acting was or about how inconsistent the main character’s accent was was almost more fun to Harry than watching a film that was actually good, which was why they ended up watching shitty, low budget ones on their designated, weekly movie nights.

Nearly halfway through the film, Harry absentmindedly slid his arm that was draped around her waist down to reach for Y/N’s thigh to place over his lap. He loved cuddling her this way, which their bodies morphed together and their legs intertwined under the coziest blanket in his house. Y/N loved it too, so Harry was shocked, but up until recently, not surprised, when she quickly pulled her leg away from Harry’s grip and off of his lap.

“Wha’s wrong? Ye’ don’t want to cuddle wi’ me?”

“What do you mean? I am cuddling with you?”

Harry huffed dramatically and rolled his eyes at his girlfriend’s feigned ignorance.

“Ye’ know exactly what I mean, baby. And it’s not just that. You’ve been acting weird lately. I know ye’ think I haven’t noticed, but I have. Ye’ don’t eat as much at dinner anymore, ye’ sleep with a t-shirt on. Ye’ don’t even want me touchin’ ye’ right now. Plus, I saw what was pulled up on your laptop while ye’ were in the shower. I’m not dumb, Y/N. Just wish you’d talk t’ me about it’s all.”

Y/N felt the embarrassment creep up her chest and spread to her neck. Her cheeks burned hot as she stared directly into his emerald green eyes that were begging, pleading for her to open up to him and tell him why she’d been so clearly obsessed with her appearance as of late. She’d had no idea that she’d even made a pattern out of her behaviors must less that Harry had picked up on them. 

“I-...Harry....I don’t want to talk about this right now,” her voice barely came over a whisper.

“Well, I do. What is it? Ye’ think your too big f’ me or somethin’?”

Y/N sighed frustratingly in Harry’s direction. 

“It’s not that. Not entirely anyway. It’s hard to explain. You’ll think it’s stupid.”

She tried not to look at Harry, but his burning gaze made it impossible to tear her eyes away.

“Baby, nothing ye’ say or feel is stupid. Talk t’ me.”

He placed his ringed hand on her kneecap. She was hesitant to not pull away from his touch, but she tried her best to relax against his grip.

“It’s just that...I don’t....look like the other girls you’ve been with,” Y/N chewed her bottom lip anxiously as soon as the words left her mouth.

Harry still didn’t see her point.

“So?” he questioned, “There’s a reason why I’m not with ‘em anymore.”

“I’m just...I see all of these comments about what people say about me...about us and it makes me feel weird.”

“Weird? Like wha’?”

“Weird like I don't really see why you’re even with me, H. I am the polar opposite of all of your exes.”

Harry had half a mind to be angry with Y/N for more or less accusing him of not loving her when that couldn’t have been further from the truth, but he was able to see things from her side and keep his urges to himself. He knew exactly what it was like to be under constant scrutiny from the press, but she didn’t. She didn’t ask for this, she didn’t deserve this, and she certainly shouldn’t be feeling the way she’s feeling right now. 

“Baby,” Harry cooed her, “Wha’ever it is that ye’ read or wha’ever ye’ thinkin’, ‘ts not true. I swear on me mum that you’re the girl I want t’ spend forever with. Ye’ don’t have to change anything about ye’self to get me t’ love ye’ any more than I already do.”

“But-”

“But nothing,” Harry interrupted, “Promise me ye’ won’t read that rubbish anymore. And promise you’ll stop hidin’ ye’self from me, too.”

Y/N nodded slowly, feeling the tension built up in her shoulders slowly dissipating into thin air. Harry was her favorite person in the world, and hearing that from him meant everything. Of course, she’d still have her moments when she’d feel like she wasn’t good enough, but everyone had those. 

“Good,” Harry leaned over to press a chaste kiss over her forehead, “Now give me a proper cuddle.”

He leaned over to grab her by the waist and hoisted her up completely on top of him.

“Harry, no!” Y/N sheepishly exclaimed through embarrassed giggles.

“Y/N, yes!” Harry taunted her as he made them both comfortable on the sofa once more. 

He pulled the blanket up over their shoulders and wrapped his arms securely around her back so that he could pet her spine whilst they finished the movie. She nestled into Harry’s shoulder and breathed in his scent that lingered on his fitted, white t-shirt. Twenty minutes ago, she’d have felt like she was crushing Harry under her weight, but not now. She felt at peace knowing Harry loved her for who she was.

As movie nights typically go with Harry, he started to get quite handsy towards the end of the film. He was starting to shift about the sofa and his palms were navigating towards the supple skin of Y/N’s bum. At first, it was a comforting hand slipping in between the hemline of her panties and just resting there against her bare skin, but soon turned into Harry kneading teasing, firm motions on her ass. His lips had found their way to the sensitive patch of her neck, sucking and tugging the area lazily, but still intense enough to mark her up. 

“Angel,” Harry beckoned when he was able to pull his lips away from her momentarily.

Y/N hummed in response, too intoxicated from the tingling sensation caused by Harry’s tongue mouthing at her throat.

“Sit up f’ me,” Harry demanded, his voice dripping with lust and desire. 

She did as she was told, sitting up so she was still straddling Harry’s chest as she looked down at him. Harry kept a close grip on Y/N’s thighs as he slid further down the couch and his face was now inches away from her core.

“Harry, what’re you-”

“Shh,” Harry’s eyes were blown out and glassy as he switched from looking into her eyes and the damp patch that was slowly but surely forming at the front of her cotton panties. 

“Just let me love on ye’ for a bit. Come closer t’ me.” 

He tried tugging her thighs so that she’d sit down a bit more against him, but she tensed up.

“But I don’t want to-”

“Ye’ not gonna crush me or wha’ever it is that ye’ worried about.”

“I might,” she mumbled to herself.

Her self-depreciation caused Harry to nip the inside of her bare thigh with his teeth, which made her jerk in response.

“Hey!” she scolded.

Harry took advantage of her moment of disorientation and kissed her heat over the front of her panties so that he could taste the juices that had accumulated there. Her chuckles quickly died down into moans when she felt the beginnings of his stubble graze the part of her body where she’d always needed Harry the most. 

“Ye’ gonna listen t’ me now, pet?” Harry asked as he replaced his lips with his thumb, where he began rubbing tantalizingly slow circles against her clothed clit.

“Mhmmm,” Y/N mewled.

“Though so,” Harry finished off with his infamous cheeky smirk.

She settled down properly onto Harry’s face, hovering just over his plump, shining lips until he was ready to taste her again. When he pulled her panties to the side and latched onto her dripping, wet core, she sank even further down against Harry’s tongue, eager to feel him in every possible nook and cranny that he could reach. He drank from her like he’d never wanted anything else in his all of his days.

Y/N had no doubt in her mind that at this moment, Harry was being honest when he said that she was the only person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.