#even if the other person is engaged it's functionally great to make a lunch date last the whole afternoon into the evening.

[neverendingford]

.

[1kook]

viki & hickeys

the 8th installment to netflix & chill :~)

SUMMARY Just like in those Viki dramas Jungkook likes, the world around you is enveloped in shades of pink and red, kisses and hearts, so many goddamn roses it makes you sneeze. It’s absolutely perfect— nothing could possibly go wrong when there’s so much love in the air.  WARNINGS a little hurt + a lot of comfort, mentions of cheating!villain!jin, insecure!kook, emotional breakdowns, mentions of jk’s lonely past, jk cries :( smut in the forms of making out, eating out, fingering, clit play, hickeys, jk likes cum, double orgasm, squirting, tiny praise kink, blindfolding, rough + unprotected sex, doggy style, choking!!!, breeding/impreg kink, JEALOUS KOOK, mini hand kink, a lil bit of spanking, degradation, he gets progressively meaner lol oc cries MISC there’s a lot of fuckin plot omfg -_-, it’s Valentine’s Eve!, doyeon makes Some Points, mentions of park seojoon juicy ass, they go on a d8 😳, oc like rlly wants to marry him, oc commits double phone homicide  RATING m (18+) WC 16.3k !!!! ik its fckin LOOOONG

NOTES (!) in true Viki fashion, here’s an nc fic where there’s like 3 different plot lines n a hot male antagonist <3 this series started off as just me wanting to write smut n it still is! now i just like to infuse different levels of angst into it as well </3 as always, lemme know what u think!! i proofread it twice but one of those times had been at 4 am so if u see a typo no u didn't. also here’s a gif  of jungkook crying during a dolly parton performances and here’s another gif of jungkook crying bc it’s scary how pretty he looks

Being evil and hot does not come for free. As you’ve long since learned in the past twenty-three years of your life, you truly can’t have it all. 

There is always some deliberating character flaw the universe must bestow upon you in order to level you out, make you fall onto the same plane as all the other mortals. Everyone has one, no matter how small or insignificant. Doyeon’s is that she doesn’t know how to work a straightening iron. Namjoon's is that he can’t tell the difference between water and liquor. Jungkook, despite all his tech-y nerdiness, doesn’t know how to do his own taxes. And yours? You don’t know shit about romcoms. 

Your knowledge on the romantic genre is what leads to this predicament now, the ring on your finger heavy as Doyeon regards you with what is perhaps the most unimpressed look known to mankind. “This is a promise ring,” she says bluntly, the bustling sounds of the coffee shop around you the soundtrack to your sudden realization. 

“No,” you deny, even though you know she’s right. “It’s an engagement ring.”

Doyeon rolls her eyes. “Babe,” she starts slowly, talks to you like you’re a dorky high schooler with her first boyfriend, “did he ask you to marry him?”

The truth is, the timing had been weird. It had been a few days after you’d rocked Jungkook’s world so you understand if he felt the sudden need to pop the question. But you were also sick as fuck that day, had only vaguely remembered the events because you were too busy with the snot up your nose and the raging fever you were battling. Had Jungkook asked you to marry him? 

You’re not so sure. 

It’s been a little over a month since then, and sure his lack of proactive wedding planning was a little weird, but you had always assumed Jungkook was one of those people who liked long engagements. Liked to drag out the last few months as a bachelor. Maybe he was waiting until you were both financially stable or something, who knows. 

Doyeon had been on some soul-searching journey around the country, so she hadn't been home for a while, had only heard of the ring through a two-second snapchat. This is the first time she’s seeing you and it in person; you can tell by the expression on her face that she’s rightfully disappointed. 

“Have you no shame, woman?” she tuts, arms crossed over her chest. “You have me parading around the world bragging about your engagement— just for this?”

You knock your forehead against the table, know it’s dirty and icky, but you deserve it. “Listen,” you huff. “I’ve only seen The Notebook, like, once.”

She scoffs. “I can tell. This is so embarrassing, don’t tell me you’ve brought it up to him?”

At her words you startle, nearly send the drinks flying across the floor. “No!” you shout, mindlessly reaching to twist the ring around your finger. It’s become a habit these past few weeks, a comfort to feel it around you. Granted, the feeling is a little muted now. “Of course he’d get me a promise ring,” you grumble, gaze flickering down to the silver band on your ring finger. “Jungkook loves all that cheesy corny stuff.” He really did. 

You’ve had enough of Doyeon’s disappointment, decide this coffee date has brought you enough three am anxiety material for the next year and a half. You conclude your date by taking a walk around town, arms locked together as you laugh at people who pass by because you’re both a little mean. 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she says, and you agree. Well, a promise ring certainly meant something. It was, essentially, a pre-engagement ring. And the engagement ring that followed was a pre-wedding ring. And a wedding ring was, well, a wedding ring. Your heartbeat thunders at the thought. “You’re busy right now anyway,” she points out, snapping you out of your bumbling thoughts. “Aren’t you getting promoted at work soon?” 

Oh, you certainly were getting promoted at work. After many grueling months of hard work and dedication, the fruits of your labor were finally being recognized. Gone were the days of useless desk work, intern-like errands that barely required the use of any higher-order brain functions. You had worked hard these past few months, proved your worth over and over again, until you were here. Getting promoted into a new branch at your company— one where your talents were actually needed. And truth be told, there was one man to thank for that. 

Your friend and superior, Kim Seokjin. 

Seokjin is a great boss. In fact, you could argue he’s the best in the entire world and that, if it wasn’t for him, you would have quit this job that first month you started. But you had him to push you along, friendly smiles and encouragements that kept you going until this point, where you’re being promoted up into a branch where your degree finally matters. And it was all thanks to him! What Kim Namjoon was to Jungkook, Kim Seokjin was to you. 

So what if he cheated on his wife and flirted with the secretaries— Seokjin was practically a god in your eyes. 

And what Seokjin did in his free time was frankly none of your business anyway. You were colleagues at work, got along fairly well, but outside of work you were practically strangers. He was your beloved work colleague, someone Jungkook teased you about endlessly despite never having met him, and you were immensely thankful for him. “Should I be scared he’ll steal you from me?” Jungkook had joked one night, standing behind you as you scrolled through your company profile page. “He is a little handsome.”

You had pinched his side, smiling at his feigned concern when he pressed his lips to your temple. “You’re right,” you had joked back, “he is sooo cool.” And Jungkook had bitten you on the shoulder, laughed that pretty laugh when you yelped in surprise. 

Anyway, Kim Seokjin was a god, Jungkook was on his way to maybe, hopefully, one day, being your husband, and all was well. 

To honor this moment in time, you decide to swing by Jungkook’s place after your date with Doyeon, finding him lazily sprawled across his living room couch while What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim? plays on the Jumbotron. He’s in between projects right now, so he’s spent most of his time relaxing and catching up on all his favorite shows. 

Which brings you back to that deliberating character flaw of yours: no knowledge of the romantic genre to utilize in your everyday life. Your love language has always been blunt words, teasing jabs, the raw and unfiltered type of love. Emotions? Impossible to figure out. You’ve gotten pretty far in life reading verbal and physical cues; with Jungkook, you always know he’s upset when he does the little tongue-against-cheek thing, and it has saved you from many potential arguments. 

On the other hand, it is so obvious what Jungkook’s love language is when he spends fifty percent of his time on Viki, home to some of the most cheesy kdramas in existence. Most guys spend their weekends watching sports or dramatic action movies, but here was Jungkook. Watching some guy try to court his secretary. 

(Okay, he does watch sports and action movies too, but that’s not the point!)

“Hello, sweet boy,” you greet, plopping down beside him. Jungkook smiles back softly. He’s serving absolute pre-pre-husband deliciousness right now, cute glasses, fluffy curls, plaid bottoms that make him look so comfy. God, you were going to suck his dick tonight. 

Jungkook slots his mouth against yours, tastes like the chocolate cake you specifically told him not to eat without you. He blindsides you before you can scold him, pulls you onto his lap where the swell of his cock nudges against your thigh. Oh, you were definitely going to suck his dick and ride him well into the sunrise. 

“What’s my pretty girl doing here tonight?” he asks, cutely looping his fingers through yours. “Thought you were with the Wicked Witch of the West today?”

You roll your eyes, reposition yourself in a laughable attempt at pretending like you’re actually interested in the show. “We just went out for lunch,” you explain, watching the hot lead saunter across the screen. Juicy ass, but nothing compared to Jungkook’s. 

There’s a question lingering on the tip of your tongue, Doyeon’s explanations mixed with your worries, and you hold it for exactly ten seconds before you’re turning to face him head on, eyes going a little crossed from how close he is. “Hey,” you say bluntly. “Is this a promise ring?” you ask, wiggle your finger in his face. 

Jungkook blinks, once, twice, and then his face shoots up in flames. “Maybe,” he mumbles, lips pursed as he tries to avoid your gaze. He was adorable. You laugh, endeared by the red flush that crawls over his cute little cheeks and up his ears. Unable to stop yourself, you squeeze said cheeks between your hands, cooing at the annoyed expression that consumes him soon afterwards.  

“Aw, you want to marry me,” you tease, but it’s secretly a leading question for him to confess that yes, he does want to marry you. For as hot and confident as you are, you too are plagued with doubts. Doubts that can only be smoothed over by hearing it straight from Jungkook’s mouth. 

He rolls his eyes, trying to break free from your hold. “We’ve talked about this,” he murmurs, all embarrassed. But like always, Jungkook knows exactly what you want so he doesn’t deny it, and that’s good enough for you. He’s too flustered to look you in the eye now, childishly craning his head away from you when you try to force him into a staring contest. “Can I finish my show?” he whines, slightly not as hard now that you’ve reduced him into a shy, bumbling mess. It was a nice change of pace from his usual, composed self. 

But you relent, sliding off his lap to sit against his side, classic octopus hug around his waist. The episode is in full swing, not that you know anything about it. Like you said, romantic shows and movies were the least of your concerns. Jungkook, however, eats this type of shit up. “He still trying to fuck her?” you ask, not the least bit interested, but if you’re planning on sucking his dick tonight you have to listen to a few minutes of him rambling first. 

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah,” he says, “I don’t get it.” You hum, trail your hand over his abdomen teasingly. He feels so warm and lean beneath your palm, you were getting hot just thinking about it. “Why would anyone agree to dating their boss?”

You know that Jungkook’s boss is some old Facebook fart, pioneer of something on the site that neither of you two care about. So it makes sense that such a notion disturbs him. You shrug anyway. “Everyone wants to sleep with their hot boss,” you offer. “It’s like, the power dynamic, I guess.”

His frown deepens. “Would you?” Your boss isn’t exactly an old fart; the reason Kim Seokjin was such a renowned playboy is because, well, he had the looks to pull it off. Still, he had become a sort of respectable figure to you and the idea of sleeping with him doesn’t really sound appealing as much as it would to any other random bachelorette, which you admittedly were not. You glance at the screen, where Park Seojoon swaggers around in those tight slacks and fitted button-ups. 

“Hm,” you ponder, “maybe.” 

Jungkook laughs. “You’re supposed to say no, you idiot,” he says, knocks his forehead against yours softly. You can’t help but chuckle too, enamored with the happy glint in his eyes and the way his smile eats up his features. 

Oh, you loved this man. 

Because he was so sweet and good on Christmas, you let Jungkook make the plans for Valentine’s Day. After all, it’s his favorite holiday (“Why? Well, because it’s a day all about you, and me, and us,” he had sighed dreamily in the bathtub one night, hair adorably pushed back to showcase that handsome face of his. Bubbles clung to his chest, had made you dizzy with every breath he took.), so it’s only right that he gets to make the itinerary for the day, fill it with all his favorite things. After all, cheesy romantic stuff like this was right up his lane. 

He reserves a spot at the fanciest restaurant in the city, the one that has a months long waiting list. It sounds perfect, and the closer it gets to February 13th, the more excited you become. You say 13th because the 14th is a Sunday, and as much as you would love to get on your knees and praise Jungkook’s body until the wee hours of the next day, you have work. So Sunday is off the table. And it’s better this way, you tell yourself. Everywhere would have been packed that day anyway. 

It seems like everywhere you go, the entire world is gearing up for the holiday; from the fast food drive-thru to your favorite lingerie shop, there’s Valentine’s Day specials everywhere you look. Just like in those Viki dramas Jungkook likes, the world around you is enveloped in shades of pink and red, kisses and hearts, so many goddamn roses it makes you sneeze. It’s absolutely perfect— nothing could possibly go wrong when there’s so much love in the air. 

But what good is a lovey-dovey holiday without your own lovey dove himself? 

One glance out your window and your knees feel weak, because there he is. Dressed in a loose satin button up, shoulders broad, chest defined. He’s got on these fitted dress pants that accentuate his tiny waist too, thick thighs bulging beneath the fabric. There’s a coat hugging his frame, something to shield him from the cold while he waits out on the curb, does this cute little shivering dance in an attempt to warm up his muscles. Your heart feels like it’ll explode at the sight, and you can practically hear the corny, overused romantic song playing in the background of your thoughts, so you hurriedly distract yourself by slipping tonight’s dress on. 

It’s cold outside, but the sight of Jungkook makes you feel warm and fuzzy everywhere. He’s so hot it makes you dizzy, and the sap knows it when he meets you on the sidewalk. Instinctively, his hand reaches out to tangle with yours, the other slipping around your waist. “Hi, gorgeous,” he greets playfully, kissing your knuckles. His hair has grown out a little, curls up cutely when he lets it air dry and tickles your skin when he gets too close. “Lookin’ like Secretary Kim.” 

“Oh? So does that make you my hot boss?” you tease as you make your way to the car. 

As always, he opens the door for you first, flashes you this dorky little wink as he rounds the front of the car. “If it means you’ll sleep with me tonight, then sure,” he says, buckling himself in. You roll your eyes at his claim. You don’t get to see the proud little smile on his face; by the time you’ve composed yourself, he’s already pulling off in the direction of the restaurant. 

It’s a classy thing, a restaurant and bar in some insanely tall skyscraper. Of course your seats are right beside one of the huge floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the beautiful, glittering cityscape. “Fancy,” you murmur as you sit down, catching a glimpse of the eye roll Jungkook gives you. 

“You say that about any place that serves wine,” he chuckles, reaching for the bottle on the table to pour you a glass. 

The wine tastes like perfection, aged for the perfect amount of time. Whatever that was. You don’t really know, but it tastes amazing! Still, amazement aside, you manage a scoff. “I didn’t say that about your house on our first date,” you huff anyway, throwing him a playful glare over the rim of your glass. 

Jungkook laughs, full and real this time. It’s a little too loud for the classy establishment you find yourselves in, drowns out the jazz music for a second. “That’s because it was a house,” he says, wearing that big, shiny smile you adore, “and we were watching Transformers.” An amazing date, the mere memory of it makes your toes curl. He had been so dreamy— nearly two years ago now! —and had retained that aura up to the present day. You don’t think you’ve ever been so in love with anyone or anything in this world before, as cheesy as it was to admit. 

As if sensing your sudden wandering thoughts, Jungkook nudges your ankle under the table. “Hey,” he says so softly you could melt; his voice was so silky and sweet. “Everything okay?” he asks. 

A sigh, chin in your palm. You had to have been abducted by aliens or something— there was no way this was your life, this disgustingly romantic date with this disgustingly handsome man. An episode of Black Mirror maybe? One where you get forced to live in a romantic Viki drama with the man you love, every single day for the rest of your life? Maybe. 

Dramatics aside, you could practically feel that sticky sweet, sentimental monster begging to crawl to the surface, unleash the entire Shakespearean collection of lovesick sonnets on your unsuspecting boyfriend in the middle of this restaurant. But the weird ones, were you accidentally dedicate an entire six lines to the bulge of Jungkook’s thighs in his workout pants or the heart-shaped mole on his shoulder. Those kind. Before that can happen, you settle on an equally as gentle, “I love you,” murmured for only him to hear. 

Across the table, Jungkook smiles. One of those thin ones when he’s trying to keep his composure but is actually quite flustered, his subtle bunny teeth nibbling at his lower lip. “Thanks,” he responds, still trying to play it cool, but then he almost knocks his glass down and you’re reminded just how perfect he was, flaws and all. “Me too.”

You jab the pointed tip of your stiletto against his shin. “Say it back,” you warn and he laughs. 

“I love you,” Jungkook says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Straight out of a romantic drama, like the ones on Viki that require a minimum of four different story arcs just to get to this point. But with Jungkook, it takes a few shy smiles and maybe a kiss. It has a scorching heat rising on your cheeks, one you ward away with a hurried sip of your drink while Jungkook reaches for your hand, thumb rubbing over your promise ring as if for good luck. 

That singular phrase makes your world pause, its axis stalling while you deal with the overwhelmingly soft and gooey feelings in your chest. Oh jeez, you had to rock his world tonight. It was only right. He deserved it for making you feel like this— this silly and ditzy, like a middle schooler with her crush. 

Anyway the food gets to your table after a millennia. Jungkook orders some fancy lobster dish, one that you're pretty sure costs more than the purse you brought along tonight (to be fair, you’re a cheap buyer), and still has the audacity to poke around at your plate too. He eats enough to feed a schoolhouse full of children who’ve just come off recess, practically devouring the table cloth before you stop him. And then he doesn’t let you see the bill; “baby, don’t worry about that when you’re with me,” he purrs, warm breath fanning against the skin on your neck, drunk off pure love and strawberry lemonade because he was driving tonight. The hostess is a blushing mess, fumbling for his change as Jungkook practically gropes your ass in plain sight.

You swear he’s spending too much time on that Viki streaming service, because then, as if the romantic dinner date wasn’t enough, he whisks you off to an even more romantic walk along the river. 

If there was ever a world record for “Number of Times you can Make your Girlfriend Swoon,” you’re positive Jungkook had broken it in the span of a few hours. You feel so light-headed and in love by the time you reach the river. 

“You know,” you tell him as you walk, the serene sounds of the flowing water beside you the soundtrack to your date. Jungkook swings your joined hands between the two of you. It’s chilly but you’re so full and happy that you don’t let it bother you. “I was gonna throw wine at you when we first met.”

He cackles, that loud, airy sound again that he only lets you hear, with his head thrown back. “What?” he gasps, smiley and pretty, your pretty boy. “And why were you going to do that?”

You huff, feeling slightly embarrassed now to admit such a thing. But aside from Doyeon, no one else has ever heard this classified tale. And well, you’re feeling extra emotional tonight. An abundance of emotions in one night usually ended with you crying like a little bitch at some point or another, so you’re trying to push that off for later. “Because,” you sigh, squeezing his fingers, your lone promise ring versus his assortment of fashionable rings. “You sounded like an absolute fuck boy when you first texted me!” 

Jungkook scoffs, playfully scandalized. “Me?” he squawks, pausing to stand in front of you with wide eyes and a ridiculously huge smile, the kind that has his brows raised high, lips going thin, practically displaying every tooth in his mouth from how wide it is. 

“Jungkook,” you say calmly, shoving one finger against his chest. “You asked me to Netflix & chill for our first date.” 

He groans, using your entwined hands to pull you into his arms for a suffocating hug. “I already told you,” he laughs, patting the back of your head while you get in a few lighthearted punches against his sides. “I didn’t know what it meant.” 

“Whatever, you sleaze,” you say anyway, eventually melting into his hands. “Bet you tell all the girls that.” Jungkook makes another scandalized noise, but settles when you wrap your hands around him. He smells so good and familiar, comforting even. Like home and safety, a refuge for your heart. When you’re this close, you can hear the light beating of it beneath your ear, a steady rhythm that has you closing your eyes when he begins humming your favorite song. 

He gets about two verses in when your phone suddenly goes off. 

Everything in your body says to ignore it, to continue basking in the comfort of your boyfriend’s embrace and this absolutely perfect moment. But it’s the stupid ringtone you set for all your work peers when you first loaded the entire company contact list onto your phone, so the sound alone lets you know it’s a work-related call. And for work to be calling you on a weekend was definitely not a good sign. 

“Give me a sec,” you tell Jungkook, pulling away from his arms. He frowns but lets you go, staying close as you dig through your purse for the offending device. 

It’s Kim Seokjin calling at this peculiar hour, a fact that confuses the hell out of you. Jungkook’s bouncing on his heels in an attempt to fight off the chill, giving you his beautiful side profile as he glances down the winding sidewalk that follows the river, and then at his watch. His nose is a cute red color that you want to kiss so bad. But work calls, so you tighten up and let that dream go for now. You swipe your thumb across the screen. 

“Hello, Mr. Kim,” you greet, trying to keep the confusion out of your voice. “How can I help—“

“__, my love,” he beams through the phone, so fucking loud it has Jungkook glancing over curiously. You give him a tight-lipped smile, one he returns as he shuffles closer, trying to steal your warmth like a penguin. You let him snuggle close before turning back to the droning voice of your superior on the line. 

“Hello,” you repeat again, slowly. Jungkook takes your free hand in his; when he squeezes, the band of your promise ring digs into your skin just the slightest. “Was something the matter?” 

Seokjin laughs, loud and clear. There’s a lot of other noises filtering in through his line. Briefly, you remember that there had been some work-related party for the higher ups tonight so you write it off as that. “Does there need to be a problem for me to call you, love?” 

You falter. Beside you, Jungkook’s brows furrow together, his devilishly handsome features even more pronounced. He’s obviously heard the other man on the line. “Um,” you flounder for a second, “well, usually yes.” 

Without missing a beat, Seokjin carries on with a playful tut that you’re almost certain has him lifting the receiver up to his mouth, because it’s so goddamn loud it has you flinching away from your own device. “My __,” he says, sweet and… slurred? 

He’s never used this tone of voice on you, only on other women at the office. Something about his broken marriage and needing to heal a wound, you don’t fucking know. You can’t even begin to truly understand that logic, which is why you’ve always just ignored it. Still, in the last few months of knowing Seokjin, he has never made a pass at you. Until now, that is. And until now, you had kind of convinced yourself he saw you in a sisterly way. Which sure, was worse than being friendzoned. But this was your boss you were talking about. Whether you got sister-zoned or not by him was the least of your concerns. So what was going on? What had changed over the span of a few days that had him suddenly reaching out to you on a weekend? 

Beside you, Jungkook doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed, tongue prodding against his cheek as Seokjin rambles on the line. You wish you had lowered the volume before answering, but doing so now would appear suspicious, even you could admit that. “You’re amazing, you know that?” Seokjin praises. You nod, remember he can’t see you, and settle on a blunt thanks instead. Jin laughs. “You’re different from the rest,” he hums, voice soft and weirdly intimate. 

Jungkook’s frown deepens. “What does he want?” he murmurs, somehow managing to keep his voice calm as always. The deep furrow of his brows and the tongue-against-cheek motion he had done just a few seconds ago all indicate he’s annoyed, that much you can tell. 

You shrug, eyes wide as you hurry to get to the reason for the phone call. You’re almost certain it’s just Seokjin being drunk— many people drunkenly dial their friends and family to tell them how much they’re appreciated, this wasn’t anything weird! 

Is what you try to convince yourself, but then Seokjin’s voice is dropping an octave by your ear. “Did you get my gift?” he murmurs, voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of the event he’s at. 

“Huh?” you stammer, quite stupidly if you do say so yourself. Jungkook shifts closer, obviously trying to hear. A breeze ruffles his hair, his cologne wafting over you. “What?” 

A sigh over the line. “My gift, love,” Kim Seokjin says, loud and proud. Jungkook exhales, hard. “I had it sent to your house this evening. Something pretty for a pretty girl— don’t tell me the postman fucked that up,” he jokes and Jungkook huffs, practically breathing fire through his nose when he hears the words. 

You fidget. There had been no gift when Jungkook picked you up around sunset, not like you had expected anything to begin with. And aside from Jungkook and maybe your parents, there was no one else on this planet you wanted to receive a Valentine’s Day gift from anyway, especially not from your boss of all people. “Um,” you mumble, acutely aware of the way Jungkook’s face is nearly pressed to yours now in his effort to listen in on your phone call. “I— um, haven’t been home, Seokjin.”

Jungkook scoffs, spits out a particularly unimpressed, “Seokjin?” 

Said man doesn’t hear. “Oh, of course,” he says, almost sullenly. “I forgot you had that little boyfriend to entertain tonight.” 

It’s the breaking point for Jungkook, who leans back to glare at the phone with the heat of a thousand suns. You press it against your chest before he can hear anything else. “I’m sorry,” you rush out in a hurried whisper, eyes flickering over his face, trying to gauge the intensity of his emotions. “I think he’s drunk— he’s never said things to me like this before,” you stammer, feeling like you have to defend yourself for some reason. “I’ll- I’ll take care of it, okay?” No answer, just an aggravated shake of his head, like he’s trying to calm himself down. “Jungkook?” you say, can feel the panic begin to lace your voice when his eyes flutter shut. 

He calms your worries with a gentle head butt that has you gasping in surprise, one hard exhale fanning over you. “Okay,” he says, teeth clenched. “I’m gonna go sit.” And then he stiffly walks over to one of the many benches lining the pathway. He sits, just like he had said he would, and glares down at his hands instead. 

The sight makes you anxious, unsure of how to diffuse the situation because, like you’ve said many times before, dealing with emotions— especially someone else’s emotions —was hard. Your eyes refuse to leave his figure as you draw the phone back up to your ear again. “Hello?” you call, voice trembling when Jungkook finally looks your way. The soft look he had given you all night is nowhere to be found, replaced with this rather unreadable expression. Something between annoyance and confusion if you had to guess. You don’t know, and the fact you don’t know makes you panic. Your chest feels tight when Seokjin begins speaking again. 

“You know,” he says, “you’re quite something, __. Strong, confident. Beautiful.” Had you been anyone else, you might have been flattered by Kim Seokjin’s remarks, maybe would have swooned. He was, objectively speaking, a handsome man with a hefty bank account. 

But if that was the criteria for a man to make you swoon, then the man on the bench in front of you checked all the same boxes three times over. The man who’s brows draw closer and closer together the longer you linger on the phone. Jungkook’s foot does one agonizing tap against the concrete and you find yourself stammering into the phone. “I think you’re drunk, Jin.”

A scoff. “I am,” he agrees, and doesn't even bother to hide it. “But you remind me of her, you know that? I like that.”

It’s like he knows something is going on on the line, because Jungkook visibly bristles when you sidestep in surprise. What was going on, your brain screams. Having your superior compare you to his infidel wife was definitely not something you saw coming tonight. “Uh, okay?” you say, “listen, Seokjin— Mr. Kim, I’m... I have a boyfriend. And I really lov—“

He cuts you off. Jungkook bristles at the sudden stop of your sentence. “Yeah, yeah,” Seokjin drawls, and you can feel the sheer terror of accidentally jeopardizing your relationship with Jungkook step aside for the briefest moment to allow some annoyance to seep through. Annoyed with Seokjin and his audacity, his tone, his voice. “Mrs. Kim used to say that about me,” he chuckles humorlessly, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” A long pause. You’re unsure of how to respond. “It’s not real,” Seokjin says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. “Love, that is.”

You clench your jaw, gathering your thoughts to respond when Seokjin beats you to it. “But you know what, love?” You don’t respond. Seokjin pushes on anyway. “Someone’s gonna cheat sooner or later— why not beat him to it?” 

Your body reacts first, a startled gasp inhaled through your lips at his disrespectful preposition. Your phone slips out of your grasp. It bounces twice, lands on the ledge that gives way to the river, and you almost kick it in when Jungkook comes up behind you. “Hey, hey,” he says sternly, tugging you away from the phone you almost killed. “What’s wrong— what did he say?”

You exhale, face warm from the discomfort sitting heavy in your chest. “Nothing,” you huff, mind slightly foggy as you try to process that awkward conversation. “It’s— it was stupid,” you spit, pressing the heels of your palms against your temples, the raging anger and confusion making your head pound now. 

You had always known Kim Seokjin wasn’t the most faithful man, that the infidelity ran both ways in his relationship. But you had never imagined he would ever compare you to her, his cheating wife, in an attempt to win you over. Furthermore, you’re downright disturbed by the fact he would even try to hit on you after all the mentoring he’d given you, all the polite smiles he’d flashed you, all the praise you had bestowed upon him to Jungkook. 

Jungkook, whose jaw twitches as his hands graze your forearms. When you look at him again, you feel an immense wave of remorse wash over you at the way his own irritation is clouded by his worry for you. He had been wronged as well— disrespected just like you —but here he was, pushing his own emotions aside for your sake. He doesn’t want to see you upset. He was so good at dealing with your emotions, knew just what to do when things became too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, lips pursed together. “I don’t know why— he’s never— I wouldn’t do that,” you settle on, voice wobbling when Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “Jungkook,” you frown, reaching for his hands, “I wouldn’t—“ 

He shushes you with another one of those gentle forehead bumps. “Calm down,” he says, voice deeper than usual. “I know you wouldn’t.” 

Weirdly, it feels like you’ve committed a grave sin against your boyfriend. A crime. “I’m sorry,” you blubber anyway, heart thundering in your chest. “That was horrible,” you huff, desperately blinking away the stinging sensation behind your eyes. “You didn’t deserve to hear that.”

“Don’t cry,” Jungkook says, so soft and comforting; stable. You want his composure, his ability to process and understand things so quickly— his maturity. Sure he had been put off by Seokjin, but he had processed it all so quickly; adapted to the situation and stepped in to save you. Meanwhile, you nearly committed cellular murder because you couldn’t handle yourself. “He’s a weirdo,” he says, for both your sakes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.” 

Still, you sniffle. “I’m sorry,” you say again, the heavy feeling in your chest lightening just a little bit when he pulls you into his arms. 

“Crybaby,” he teases softly, a kiss on the crown of your head. You pinch his side. “Second phone you broke in a year.”

The mood for the riverwalk is off after that, and you only walk a few more meters before Jungkook decides it’s enough. “We can still enjoy ourselves at home,” he reassures you, and the way he tries to salvage that soft, fuzzy feeling from before is admirable. So Jungkook takes you home, holds your hand the whole drive back to your place, like he knows you’re still fragile from that extremely uncomfortable interaction, need him to hold you together. Jungkook’s emotional stability guards you like a shield, covers you in a wave of comfort as you calm down. You tell him about Seokjin’s preposition and he bristles. “Prick,” he murmurs beneath his breath, grip tightening just the tiniest bit. Your ring pinches against your skin a little painfully, but you say nothing. 

There’s a box of flowers on your doorstep when you arrive, one that makes Jungkook pause at the sight. “Wonderful,” he drones, picking it up for you as you unlock the front door. It gets left on the coffee table, practically mocking the two of you as you remove your shoes and coats. “That’s your favorite flower,” Jungkook notes. 

You glance at the expensive bouquet. “It is.” 

Jungkook drops down onto your couch, eyes flickering to the meticulous arrangement in front of him. “You told him?” Not really. But back when you had thought Jungkook and you were engaged (read: last week), you had spent days looking at different floral shops that specialized in this flower, frequently leaving the tab open on your work computer. Seokjin must have seen it then. At your extended silence, Jungkook says, “nice.”

You frown, setting your heels on the shoe rack. “Baby, I didn’t,” you tell him softly, reaching for the zip on the back of your dress. It comes down, and after clearing your hips, it falls to the floor in a dark heap you pick up quickly. It leaves you scantily clad in a black lingerie set. Meanwhile, Jungkook drops his head back, glaring at your ceiling. Tentatively, you step over to him, toying with the fabric of your dress in your hands. “You said it was okay.”

“I know,” he sighs, an unexpected confession from him that makes you pause. Despite all you’ve been through, he still rarely highlighted situations that upset him. “It’s just,” he says, turning his head to look at your form again, eyes not drinking you in like you hoped he would. “It’s scary.”

The couch cushion dips beneath your weight when you settle beside him. “What is?”

Jungkook shrugs, avoiding your question by reaching for the TV remote on the coffee table, right beside the box of flowers Seokjin had sent. He opens up the Viki app in a flash— the one linked to his account —and has even loaded up the next episode of Secretary Kim when you question him again. “What’s scary, Jungkook?” you repeat. 

On screen, there’s a beautiful scene on a bridge, the two leads happily conversing. It’s serene, something neither you nor Jungkook feel at the moment. 

Eventually, he says, “you could leave.”

You pause. “What do you mean?” Leave? Where on earth would you leave to when this was your home? He doesn’t meet your gaze. 

Another scene passes by on screen, some cheesy line and an even cheesier promise. Jungkook’s foot taps against the floor, the sound dull against the plush rug beneath you. It’s a nervous tick you’ve only seen him do at the height of truly stressful situations. Weird because just half an hour before you had dubbed him as the epitome of calm and collected at the river. 

“I thought he was cool before.” 

He did. But the word ‘cool’ didn’t always have the same meaning for Jungkook as it did for you. 

In the past, Jungkook had frequently joked about having to meet Kim Seokjin and thank him for all the help he’s given you at work. After all, up until now, you had only ever had good things to say about the man, raving about his cool demeanor and respectable work ethics. Now, the memories paired with the conversation from earlier leave a bad taste in your mouth. 

You’re a little confused with Jungkook right now; part of you had convinced yourself that whatever happened on the phone earlier with Seokjin was put behind you, marked off as an anomaly in the evening. After all, Jungkook himself had said it was okay. Park Seojoon appears on screen, and you can’t help but glare at the character, residue emotions from the river pushed off onto this innocent actor. 

Still, Jungkook surprises you. “It’s just that—“ he sighs. And then, “what if you leave?” 

You blink, eyes trained on his side profile and the way he’s nervously chewing through his bottom lip until it tints a red shade, gives way to sensitive skin when he bites too hard. “Why would I leave?” 

He says nothing. On screen, Park Seojoon says something so cheesy and romantic that it would have otherwise made you cringe, made Jungkook soft. But he’s stiff as a board beside you instead. You almost think he’s going to disregard the entire conversation when he finally speaks again. “Well.” You perk up at the sound of his voice, overly aware of the way he’s started picking at the skin around his thumb again, another nasty habit you’ve been trying to help him get over. “He’s cool. Rich.”

“And so are you,” you offer, covering his hand with your own. 

Jungkook ignores you, releasing a long, shaky exhale. Somehow, he’s exuding a similar energy as before; discontentment mixed with understanding. Like he’s greatly conflicted but forcing himself to remain calm. Another trembling inhale, and then Jungkook quietly recites, “everyone wants to sleep with their hot boss.” 

You recoil just the slightest, brows pinched together at the absurd conclusion he’s drawn. “Baby, that was just a silly conversation,” you say slowly, slipping your hand into his. He squeezes so tight you’re afraid he’ll break your bones. “And we were joking—“

“I know!” he exclaims, enveloping your significantly smaller hand in both of his before bringing them up to his face, lips pressed against your knuckles. It’s not a kiss, more so a desperate need to feel you against him. Eyes wide, you can’t do anything but watch as that collected exterior slips away, revealing a whirlwind mess of emotions. It’s a rather unexpected show from Jungkook. “It was a joke. We were joking. But I’m—“ his jaw clenches. His voice is so tiny when he speaks again. “I get scared sometimes, __.” 

His emotional outburst renders you speechless, watching as he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching, hands trembling. 

It’s a stark image change from the cool Jungkook that had comforted you at the river, had patted the back of your head when you had been so distraught. His chest heaves for air and you don’t know what to do; it’s always the other way around, him comforting you, that when it comes down to this you find yourself at a loss. It makes you feel like you don’t know enough about yourself or him or your relationship in general to help him, always so lost when things like this happen. 

Jungkook has never been good at expressing negative emotions, always preferring to bottle them up and only show you his very best side. Granted, he’s been getting better at letting go lately, has whispered his doubts to you in the dead of night after a particularly grueling project, an uncomfortable social meeting. But he always waits until you’re half asleep and in the dark to tell you how he feels, hushed worries that you barely remember the next morning. And by then, Jungkook’s moved on from them anyway, flashes you a pretty smile and purposefully guides you away from that conversation. You know he’s started keeping a journal recently, but aside from seeing the blanks pages when he’d first gotten, you don’t have a clue what happened afterwards. It’s probably hidden away somewhere, his feelings locked up in a cupboard or a box, the secrets it holds never to be spoken of aloud. 

He doesn’t like talking about his more personal problems, hoards them until you’re forced to intervene. Find him slumped over at his dining table with bags under his eyes, the skin on his lower lip bitten beyond belief. 

Rarely does he sit down and express himself like this, lays his heart out carefully for you to see. Had he not said so right now, you would have never known Jungkook struggled with such doubts about you and your relationship. 

(It makes your heart ache at the realization.) 

Jungkook always acts like everything is okay, always forces himself to hold it together for the sake of you and, quite frankly, everyone else. He’s there when Taehyung breaks up with his girlfriends, pats him on the back and lets him run through every video game he has on his PS5. He’s there for Namjoon when his thesis becomes too much, proofreads it even though he doesn’t understand a word just for the sake of giving his best friend another perspective. Hell, he had even been there for Doyeon when her new landlord had tried to overcharge her, had carried the bulk of your argument when you ran off to try and fight with the old man. 

(“He’s too nice sometimes,” she had murmured the next morning at her place. After the shouting match the night before, you had crashed with Doyeon on her new bed, your sweet boyfriend taking up her couch. Somehow, you and Jungkook had managed to knock a clean seventy-five bucks off her monthly bill. It wasn’t much, but for an apartment in the city it sure felt like a lot. 

You had hummed, patting the top of his head on the way to the kitchen. “He’s a good boy,” you had said, heart thrumming when he instinctively pushed closer to your hand, nuzzling into you even in his sleep. “He cares about everyone a lot. Worries to death about his friends.”

The state of their relationship was weird; they were always fighting about one thing or another, ‘eternal enemies’ as Doyeon liked to claim. 

But for the first time, she hadn’t denied they were, in fact, friends. Instead, she had quietly stood at the breakfast nook overlooking the living room with a somber look on her face that was completely unlike the Doyeon you knew. She didn’t respond with her usual backhanded compliments, didn’t even call him a gremlin either. 

“He even worries about you, Miss Wicked Witch of the West,” you had teased, reaching over to pull Jungkook’s shirt down where it had ridden up, exposing his cute belly button to the cold apartment. She had sipped at her mug of coffee, eyes foggy and distant. “It just takes him a while.” 

“He’s always cared about you though,” she had murmured then, and you had marked it off as her being half asleep. But Doyeon had given you this look, a look so profoundly wise, as if she was saying, “more than you’ll ever know.”) 

Most importantly, Jungkook is always there for you. He holds you in his arms, strokes your back comfortingly whenever something goes wrong. Listens to your concerns and offers you advice, learns new things for the sole purpose of helping you out. Lets you make stupid decisions and always saves you at the last minute. And you want to repay him for all that, want to look after Jungkook like he does for everyone else. But it’s hard, it’s so fucking hard, when he doesn’t let you in, when he holds his emotions at bay for the sake of protecting yours. When you don’t even know where to start sometimes. 

The beating of your heart is accompanied by a dramatic orchestral ensemble on screen, violins and flutes as the two lovers reconcile some issue with a kiss. Beside you, your own lover is one second away from falling apart. “Hey,” you say quietly, slipping your hand out of his to hesitantly place on his back instead. With your release, Jungkook uses his empty hands to drag over his face, hide himself from you. “I’m not going to leave you, Jungkook,” you try and comfort, “I love you.” 

He shakes his head, dark locks bouncing around. “I know, I know,” he sighs, but it doesn’t sound like he believes you. It sounds like he’s forcing himself into composure again, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “But— what if—” another aggravated huff, his thighs jumping anxiously. “You’ll get bored.” Not a question, but a statement. 

“Of you?” you ask anyway. He nods. “I won’t.”

He sits up so suddenly you have to move away to avoid bumping into him. “You will,” he urges, finally looking at you, distress painted over every inch of his face. “That guy, that Seokjin, he sounds more interesting than me. He sounds cool and put together, like the world is his oyster and,” he rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You talk about him sometimes and... and you call him a god, __,” he stresses, doesn’t leave room for you to object. “And I know you’re joking, but—“ a sharp inhale, and then, quietly, “everyone gets bored of me, __.” 

Your frown deepens. “But I won’t,” you argue, confident in your claim, shifting onto your knees beside him. Your dress is thrown over the armrest of the couch, and the draft in your apartment makes goosebumps rise on your bare flesh. “You’re not boring, Jungkook,” you tell him, voice softening when his features pinch up, nose wrinkling as he wards off the stinging behind his eyes. 

It’s teenage trauma. Jungkook had told you at least that much before, this crippling sense of loneliness and an inferiority complex that hindered him during an influential growth period of his life. It’s why he’s so quiet when he has so much to say, why he brings you along to every party he gets invited to; he’s never felt like he was enough by himself. 

Sometimes, it leaks into his confessions. “I don’t deserve you,” he says frequently, but some days you want to hot glue him to a chair and force him to listen to every reason why he does and always will deserve you or anyone for that matter. “You make me better,” he claims, but he does that all on his own, lights up the world with his smile alone. 

He’s gotten better, that much you’ve learned from Namjoon and Taehyung. And even you’ve noticed it on your own, watched as he animatedly talked with his friends and his coworkers, drew people naturally to him with his warm aura. 

Even still, there’s moments where he relapses. Moments like this. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs beside you, “I know I’m a handful—“

“You’re not,” you interrupt, cupping his soft cheek in your hand, turning him to face you. Jungkook leans into the touch, and your heart breaks in half when a tear escapes over his waterline, pretty eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not a handful, Jungkook,” you tell him, shuffling closer until you can press your forehead against his. The truth is, you don’t know how to comfort him, but this is how he’s always comforted you; it feels nice when he does it for you. “You’re just enough,” you say, voice soft because it feels like your precious boy is about to fall apart in your arms, his shallow breaths rivaling the volume of the television. “You’ve always been enough.” 

He sniffles, and another tear tickles the side of your thumb, catching the light. “I’m sorry,” he repeats anyway, a disbelieving chuckle tacked on at the end. 

“Don’t be,” you shush, pushing away a strand of hair when he leans closer. His frown is still prominent, pink lips red and soft under your thumb when you tap your finger against them. “You can tell me when things worry you, you know,” you inform him, heart swelling when his eyes fall shut and he leans into your touch. He’s so handsome, the cute little mole beneath his lip begging to be kissed. “I’ll always listen.”

Jungkook hums, breathing evening out. “I know you will,” he says. “But I like listening to your voice more, and I can’t do that when I’m talking.” 

You snort and Jungkook finally lets a tiny smile slip. “Don’t flirt with me so soon after your meltdown,” you mumble, kissing his cheek softly. 

Jungkook chuckles, real this time, and sniffles right afterwards. “I’ll flirt with you whenever I want.” And, because he’s just so full of surprises tonight, he sniffles once more before he’s unceremoniously tackling you back onto the couch. You squeal, the TV remote digging into your back painfully. It has the volume accidentally skyrocketing, startling the both of you with an ear-shattering orchestral piece at the height of some emotional scene. Jungkook scrambles to free the device and lower the volume before your eardrums burst. “I didn’t even know your TV could go that loud,” he says, and he’s speaking normally but the deafening violins are still reverberating in your head, making him sound quieter than he really is. 

“Come here,” you say instead, and he obeys, crawling into your arms, mouth hovering just over yours. “You feeling better?”

Jungkook nods, dark hair bouncing. “You make me better,” he tries, but after tonight’s realization, you respond to his corny words with a pinch against his doughy cheek instead. 

“Don’t say that,” you frown, toying with one of the earrings decorating his ear. The tip of his nose is flushed red, the exertion from crying catching up to him. His lashes are dark, probably feel so heavy with the residual tears that cling to them. 

Jungkook repositions himself, guides your legs around his waist. “Why not? It’s true.” He glances at your mouth. “You make my life better.”

“Wrong,” you say bluntly, brushing his hair back with your hands. “Your own perception and understanding of your experiences makes your life better. I just happen to be in it.” Jungkook looks the tiniest bit surprised at your suddenly logical argument. “Trust me, I saw it in a documentary the other day.” 

At that he laughs, full and loud, pecking your lips once with a sweet smile on his face. “Now I know you’re lying,” he grins, gently nudging his nose against yours. The drama on the TV is but a quiet hum compared to the pounding of your heart in your chest when he looks at you like that. “Because you don’t even like documentaries.” 

You kiss him softly, holding his hair back for him. He tastes a little bit like the chocolate cake he had at the restaurant and the lemonade he drank (he didn’t indulge in the sweet wine with you because he needed to drive). His lips mold perfectly against yours, and he sighs softly when he finally draws back. “But I like you,” you purr. 

Jungkook’s eyes darken, one heavy exhale fanning across the lower half of your face. You readjust the leg around his waist, pull him closer just the slightest bit. “Don’t flirt with me so soon after my meltdown,” he repeats, lips brushing against yours. You chuckle. “You don’t know what that means to me.” You can roughly guess, but that opportunity is taken away when Jungkook slots his mouth against yours, soft lips molding to yours. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, wastes no time slipping in when you open for him, hot and wet. 

Jungkook’s fingers are just as warm when he trails them up the back of your thigh, pulls you impossibly closer until the buckle on his belt is pressed flush against your mound. A tiny whimper escapes your lips, chest jumping just the slightest from the pressure. It makes Jungkook pull away with an easygoing grin, chocolate eyes half-lidded. “You okay?” he murmurs, breath a little shaky from the kiss. You nod, tangling your fingers behind his head and pulling him in close again. 

He evades your puckered lips, ducking down to press his own against your throat, right beneath your jaw. “Ugh,” you groan, digging your nails into his back through his satin shirt. “I wanted a kiss.”

Jungkook nips at your skin, this tiny gesture that couldn’t hurt even if he tried. “You always want a kiss,” he retorts softly, the quiet smack of his lips filling your ears as he bestows a series of smooches against your skin. And it’s so devastatingly tender how he handles you, like you’re made of glass and will break at a moment’s notice, like he wants to treasure your body for the rest of his—

Jungkook chomps down, hard, and you hiss. “Sit still,” he orders, soothing over the bite with one broad lick of his tongue. 

You whimper. “That hurt.” 

“And it’ll hurt even more if you keep moving,” he warns you, and before you can ask what that even means, he’s leaving another stinging bite just further down. It’s at the midway point of your neck, right in front, and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat when he sucks a painful mark over it. “There,” he says, mostly to himself. “All mine.”

Your legs tighten around him, and you fight down the wave of heat that threatens to consume you when he places one final kiss over the second mark— the hickey. 

Jungkook doesn’t usually leave them. In fact, you can rarely recall a time where he had purposefully gone out of his way to mark you up like this. It was always accidental, always unplanned, because he knew how troublesome it was for you to cover them up for work the next morning. Work, where your coworkers and your bosses and Seokjin could see. 

Brows pinched together, your brain begins to draw a connection, one that Jungkook is soon confirming himself. “Everyone will see that now,” he hums, kissing a trail down your neck. 

Of course. 

You pat the back of his head in amusement, hiding a smile against his soft locks. Before you can say anything more, maybe tease him for being so cute, there’s a hand on your hip that snaps you out of your scheming. Jungkook lifts his head, does that endearing little head shake that pushes his hair out of his eyes, before leaning in for another languid kiss. 

It’s even slower than the first, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with running his hands over your body now. It starts at your shoulder, teasingly snaps the strap of your bra as you push your tongue down his throat. Jungkook whimpers, that pretty sound that makes you desperate to hear more. It’s the same sound that he always makes when he wants to be pampered, wants you to kiss his entire body while he lays there and takes it. 

And you’re all too ready to act on it. 

Duty calls and you’re there to answer, tilting his head for him with your hands against his cheeks. He sighs against you, breath trembling as it tickles across your skin. That soft and tender way that makes you melt because he’s just so precious, so dreamy. 

But you’re too caught up in your plotting to remember the hand he’s got on your hip, the one that teases the waistband of your panties with one lone finger. It’s only when Jungkook pulls away from your inviting mouth, his other hand holding you down by your shoulder, that you’re snapped back into reality. His lips are swollen and red, slick from your tongue, and so tantalizingly kissable. He huffs out a breath, eyes flickering over your face. “Can I touch you,” he husks, and gives into the temptation to press a kiss against your jaw. 

“Yes, please,” you shiver, hypnotized by his hungry stare. 

Jungkook wastes no time, pressing another kiss against the bruising mark over your throat that dissolves into a series of lighter smooches he trails down between your breasts. His hands come up to cup your boobs over your bra, giving them one harsh squeeze that has you releasing a long exhale as he moves between the valley and down your tummy, over your belly button. “Open,” he says at your pubic bone, carefully guiding your legs apart until you’re spread wide for him. 

The dark panties you’re wearing tonight— the super expensive ones you had spent an hour measuring your body for the exact sizing —receive one light kiss over the front. “Always so pretty for me,” Jungkook murmurs, tracing one lone finger down the middle. Your stomach contracts when he nudges it against you, the soft material of your panties just barely pushed between your folds. 

As his hand occupies itself with some relatively light foreplay, Jungkook tasks himself with leaving another tingling mark against your skin. This time, it’s on the inside of your thigh. He starts it off slowly, a few littered kisses against the skin until he deems one spot worthy enough and abruptly sinks his teeth into you. “Not so hard,” you whimper, reaching down to bury your hands in his hair. 

Jungkook lets it go, sloppily licking over the area. “You like it hard,” he husks, meeting your gaze as he licks one, long stripe over the tender skin. “Don’t you?” You nod demurely, pressing your knuckles against your lips to hold back a tiny moan from slipping past your lips. 

With that new mark blooming over your skin, Jungkook transfers his attention to your pussy, hidden beneath the soft material of your panties. One finger hooks under the hem, tucking them aside until he can see you in your entirety. “Fuck,” he groans, pressing one light kiss over your clit that makes you inhale sharply, fingers digging into his scalp. Jungkook throws one final glance your way before letting his tongue slip past his lips, the very tip flicking against your clit. 

Your breathing becomes shallow, anticipation building in the pits of your stomach as he slowly but surely begins playing with you. His tongue is so warm and wet, nudges your throbbing clit, nose pressed against your mound. “Mmm,” he moans, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth works wonders. 

“Ah,” you gasp, whiny and high-pitched, when he dips one finger past your wet folds. The entry is seamless, his pointer finger sinking into the velvet walls of your cunt as his tongue swirls against your hardened bud. “Jungkook,” you mewl, knocking your heel against his shoulder. Jungkook huffs, suctions his lips around your clit. The cold metal of the rings he always wears— the duo set from that Chrome Hearts brand he likes so much —presses against the trembling lips of your pussy, makes your back arch when he twists his finger inside of you. 

He’s so precise with his tongue, knows just how long and how hard to lick against your pulsing clit until you’re trembling, thighs quivering. Briefly, he pulls away, flicks his hair to the side in one suave motion that lets you see his dark eyes when he glances back up at you again, covered in a thick sheen of lust that makes them appear almost black as opposed to his usual warm brown. His hands reach for the waistband of your panties, tug them off with one fluid pull. 

“So pretty for me,” he murmurs, the end of his words laced with a slight rasp that makes your hips jump. “All for me,” he says, roughly pushing his finger into you again. The harshness makes your entire body tighten up in surprise, eyes fluttering shut when he slips his middle finger alongside his pointer this time around. 

“Baby, wait,” you whimper, walls fluttering around the two digits. Jungkook leans back in, presses a chaste kiss against your clit that makes your breathing stall as he thrusts his fingers into you. 

He ignores your cries, locks his lips at the juncture where your thigh meets your body, sensitive skin that bruises all too easily when he sucks against it too hard. “Only for me,” he sighs, all pretenses discarded as he begins rapidly and roughly fucking his fingers into you. It’s intense, has your thighs quaking as he speeds them up. 

The coil in your stomach tightens, and you have to bite down on your knuckles to stop the litany of whimpers from slipping past your lips when Jungkook ducks down again. He bypasses your quivering clit, warm tongue licking at the warm, wet folds around his fingers instead. The proximity makes the tip of his round nose brush along the length of your cunt, a sight and sensation that makes you moan, his bangs harshly tugged away from his forehead to give you the perfect view. 

It’s with a particularly hard shove and twist combination of his fingers into your clenching walls that you cum, a gasp caught in your throat as your hips push toward him, chasing the feeling Jungkook bestows upon you. Your breathing is a mess, inhales too short, your exhales inconsistent, as Jungkook slows the speed of his fingers inside of you, lets your cum ooze out around them, coat his fingers and his rings. 

“No,” you cry, watching that look come over his face when he withdraws his hand, the look that usually follows him sucking your cum into his mouth. “Jungkook, you don’t have to do that—” you whine, reaching for his wrist and yanking it towards you. 

Jungkook follows, crawls back up beside you as he chases his own sticky fingers. “It’s mine,” he urges, has this weird look in his eyes you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. And just as quickly as it crosses his features, he’s lurching forward to catch his own fingers in his mouth. It’s lewd, the way his tongue wraps around them, leaves them sleek under the TV glow, tattoos and rings glistening. He has the audacity to moan, eyes fluttering shut as his devious tongue slips down between his fingers, so long and precise. There’s a tiny noise that tears itself from your throat, one that has him flickering his clouded gaze up to you as his fingers are released from between his own lips. “You like that,” he murmurs, wet fingers trailing down your cheek, capturing your chin to turn your face his way completely. 

His tongue is sinful as it slips past your lips again, the tangy taste of yourself clinging to him. His breathing feels hot, suffocating. But his kisses are so good, make your mind go blank. So blank, that the fingers that rub at your clit surprise you completely. “Kook,” you gasp, breaking away from him in surprise. 

Jungkook doesn’t let you get far, capturing your mouth with his again. The two fingers you had felt on your chin are gone, firmly pressed against your swollen clit, experimentally rubbing against it. Never mind the fact you were still sensitive from your first orgasm, thighs quivering when he drags them against the wet, soft skin. It makes you shudder, breaking away from him a second time for a desperately needed inhale of fresh air. Jungkook follows behind closely, pressing kisses over your jawline, your chin, as his fingers continue moving against your clit.

He has them pressed together, rubbing at the front of your slit where that bundle of nerves is hidden. It makes your stomach contract, hips jerking forward into the touch in an effort to match him, to speed up the process. “You were made for me, pretty girl,” Jungkook huffs against your cheek, nose pressed against your skin because he’s just so close, practically molded into your side as his fingers send rhythmic shocks of ecstasy up your spine.

Your mouth drops open, stuttered gasps filtering through your lips as Jungkook takes advantage of your sensitive body to draw out another orgasm. But there’s a weird sensation that builds in your stomach this time, one that brings with it a sense of panic. “Wait—“ you gasp, fisting the silky material of his shirt beneath one clenched fist. “Jungkook,” you warn, toes curling.

He responds with a harsh nip against your lower lip that makes you whimper. “Go ahead,” he purrs, rubbing his fingers over you at an insane speed, one that has your juices sloppily spread over your pussy, makes you buck into him and moan against his mouth. 

The feeling grows, an intense, unfamiliar thing that you rarely recall ever feeling before, gasping for air as Jungkook’s fingers caress your clit, pressing down hard. “Fffuck, fuck,” you sob, mouth opening in a silent scream, eyes rolling backwards as you feel your pussy lips contract harder than ever before, thighs quivering as your juices squirt out of you, lower body reduced to jello as Jungkook quickens his movements, wrists jerking back and forth as your pleasure sprays out of you. “Ju— Jungkook,” you wail, forcefully slamming your thighs shut when he doesn’t stop, the pleasure seemingly never-ending under such a torturous touch. “Stop—stop,” you beg, eyes filling with tears that spill over when his trapped hand manages one final rough rub against your clit accompanied by a final gush of wetness. 

Only then does he stop, leaning back on his knees to drink you in with dark eyes that make you quiver. There’s no trace of his usual post-orgasm cockiness, the smile he’ll flash you, the teasing jabs. Nothing, just a frankly terrifying gaze that has you self-consciously pressing your hands over your chest. 

Jungkook doesn’t take kindly to it, roughly snatching one of your wrists up until you’re sitting up, the traces of your own orgasm present in the damp couch cushions beneath you, inner thighs coated in a thin sheen of your own pleasure. Jungkook leans in close, nose bumping against yours. “You came like that for me,” he says quietly, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You nod, eyes wide and teary when he reaches for the front of his shirt, giving it the same treatment he usually gives yours; two hands at the front, yanking it apart until the buttons are torn from their stitches and bouncing across your floor. 

He throws it off to the side, his tan skin highlighted by the cool tones of the television, the dark sleeve of his tattoo especially prominent. The black ink almost looks blue under this light. You’re so distracted by the perfect swirls and doodles on Jungkook’s skin that you don’t realize that same hand is reaching for you until it’s too late, long fingers wrapping around your throat to jerk you forward, head tipping back to look up at him. “Say it, sweet girl,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The fingers around your throat squeeze once and then slowly begin tightening. You gasp, meeting his hooded gaze with yours, lips quivering for a response that’s stuck in your throat, trapped by your own surprise and tightening airways. Frantically, you reach for his wrists with both hands, not to pull Jungkook’s hand away, but to ground yourself from the hazy cloud of lust the moment evokes. 

Still, your body isn’t as strong as you thought, and once Jungkook reaches a certain tightness around your throat you find yourself coughing. Instantly, he loosens his grip. But not too much. “I- I’m yours,” you rasp out, gasping for air. 

For now, it satisfies Jungkook enough for him to release you. And while you’re grateful for the rush of fresh air that fills your lungs, the phantom ghost of his grip around your throat sends a new gush of wetness between your thighs. One that grows tenfold when Jungkook reaches for his belt, undoes it easily. It comes off with one fluid motion, carelessly shucked off to the side as his attention moves to the front of his pants instead. 

He doesn’t let you sit around uselessly. “On your knees,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. “Sit on your knees facing the table.”

You blink slowly, the dry tears on your cheeks leaving stiff trails against your makeup. It takes a moment for your brain to process his request, one long second that has Jungkook pausing in his movements, leveling you with one solemn glare that eventually has you springing into action. You hastily slip off the couch, shuffling toward the coffee table between it and the television. The rug is soft beneath your knees, a luxury you can’t enjoy to the fullest because there’s a ball of excitement and fear stuck in your throat. (Right beneath your bruised skin and recuperating windpipes.) Sitting back on your calves, it feels like every nerve is standing stiff as you await his instructions. 

“Bra off,” Jungkook says from behind you, and you’re startled by the sudden ripping of stitches behind you, almost turning to look at him. He stops you with one hand around the back of your neck, drawing a surprised gasp from you. “Sit still,” he commands, your back stiff straight, eyes focused on the screen. After a beat, Jungkook lets you go, pats the back of your head gingerly. “Good girl.”

A whimper catches in your throat at the praise, and you barely manage to bite down on it in time, hurriedly reaching behind you. Your hands fidget over the clasps on your bra, and you nearly jump out of your skin when one lone finger traces down your spine, undoing your bra for you. You don’t know why, but you say, “thank you.”

The television changes scenes in front of you, the bright colors a stark contrast to the darkness of Jungkook’s eyes. Your hands tremble in front of you, fingers anxiously tangling with each other. A few inches beside you, there’s a dark red box filled with the flowers from—

Suddenly, your vision goes dark, hands instinctively reaching up to your eyes. The pads of your fingers come in contact with a soft material, smooth and silky. Just like— “Is this… ?” you murmur, hands sliding across the makeshift blindfold Jungkook’s made for you, the same texture as his shirt had been. 

He doesn’t grace you with an answer, just a hand against your hip as he, presumably, settles behind you. “Does it matter?” Jungkook says instead, voice all too close to your ear. Your entire body locks up, hands quickly returning to their spot against the coffee table. 

Just as you’d suspected, Jungkook is all too close now, hands crawling over your body. They start at your waist, massage the skin tenderly, lovingly, before gliding up to cup your breasts. You shiver, a quiet exhale escaping you as Jungkook rubs his palms over your boobs, trapping your stiff nipples between his fingers. A sound threatens to escape you, and you trap it behind a bitten lip, fists clenched against the table before you. “You know,” Jungkook says conversationally, like he’s not pinching your nipples enough to make you squirm. “Who else do you think can make you come like this?”

You brain lags. “W- What?” you stutter, thighs pressing together to ward away the arousal. Not like they’re already sticky from before, from when Jungkook had made you squirt. 

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat, pressing a kiss against your shoulder that he trails up to your ear, nibbling at your earlobe. “Who else,” he says slowly, “can make you come like this?”

It’s not a trick question— no one could. You tell Jungkook as much. “I— no one,” you answer, rolling your lips in when he kisses the tender spot beneath your ear again. 

His kisses feel loud, but not as loud as his voice when he says, “exactly.” You swallow, gripping at the edge of the coffee table when he releases your boobs, trails one hand between your thighs, the other around your throat to pull you backwards against his chest. It makes your hands flail, landing against the tops of his thick thighs. 

Jungkook holds you close, fingers tightening around your throat teasingly. “No one else can please you like you want,” he exhales, letting his fingers trail over your skin. “Not the guy on tv, not your exes, not the fucking loser at your job,” he hisses, lips against your ear. “No one,” he reiterates, voice softer now as he presses a kiss against you. “No one but me.”

And it’s true. 

You can’t even muster your usual mouthy, bratty attitude when Jungkook serves you cold hard facts like this. Not when you can feel his aching member press against the small of your back, rest perfectly in the slight dip between your ass cheeks. “Isn’t that right, sweet girl?” he murmurs, voice low. 

You nod, tummy tightening when he uses the hand between your thighs to spread them apart. “Only you,” you agree, voice feathery.

Jungkook hides a grin against your skin, a mean chuckle escaping him when he rests his forehead against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he says, releasing your throat. “Such a good girl,” he praises, hands on your hips again. He uses them to encourage you up onto your knees, hips bumping into the edge of the table as he shuffles you forward. “Bend,” he says quietly, palm flat on the center of your back, pushing you down until your belly button is pressed against the cold wood, boobs swinging forward just the slightest. “Perfect.”

Jungkook shuffles up behind you, soothes a hand over your hip when you flinch at the first press of his cock against your folds. “You’re okay,” he comforts, voice like honey as he lines himself up. Your folds are slippery and wet, loose from your arousal and the two orgasms he’s already given you. 

Despite all that, the first push of his engorged cock past the tight muscles makes you gasp. “Baby, that’s,” you moan, nails scratching against the coffee table to make a sound that you would otherwise find uncomfortable. “I—“

Jungkook pants behind you, cock sinking further and further in. “I’ve got you,” he husks. His voice is like the light at the end of the tunnel, your dark vision forcing you to rely on him entirely as he guides you through the motions. “Made for me,” he repeats, voice airy.

You nod jerkily, arms trembling as his cock plunges deeper inside of you. “Made for you,” you gasp, head falling forward, forehead pressed against the cold surface in front of you. 

He moans, and there’s one deafening moment of silence when he finally reaches the hilt, soft pubic hairs at the base of his cock brushing against your folds. It’s a familiar sensation, having him buried inside of you, but it’s always different when he’s doing it from behind. He always feels fuller, bigger, mushroom tip practically kissing your cervix. 

“Kook,” you whimper, walls unintentionally contracting around him when he lingers a second too long. “Move.”

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses behind you. “I know, it’s just—“ he pauses, squeezes your hip so hard, you’re certain it’ll bruise. “I wanna… y’know,” he groans, dropping his head against your back, warm breath fanning across your slightly sweaty skin. 

It makes something in your stomach click into place, shifting back just the slightest. The small drag around your lips makes you brave. “Then do it,” you urge, desperate for any sort of friction. 

Jungkook practically growls, bucking into you once. “No,” he says, like he’s battling with himself, faced with a mental hurdle he can only cross alone. “You don’t understand,” he sneers, suddenly snapping back into position behind you, pulling you flush against his pelvis once more. It makes you whimper. 

“I kinda do—“

“You don’t,” Jungkook hisses, forcefully thrusting his hips into you enough to make your hips knock painfully against the edge of the coffee table, a startled moan falling from between your lips. And from there, it’s like you’ve unleashed a beast, because Jungkook shows you no mercy as he begins fucking you, his fat cock slipping in and out of you, his angry head flirting with your entrance. “I wanna fucking breed you,” he sneers, fingers digging into the skin around your waist to hold you still as he bucks his hips forward.

His vulgarity makes your skin heat up, the warmth probably tangible over your sloppily made blindfold, eyes wide despite the fabric that covers them. “That—” you gasp, thighs trembling with each powerful thrust. 

“It’s too much, I fucking know,” he huffs dryly, releasing one hip to press against your shoulders, roughly shoving you forward until your breasts are pressed against the surface, arms bent up beside you to stop yourself from hitting your head. “But— But,” he shudders, suddenly stopping his thrusts to grind his cock against you instead, pussy lips quivering around his girthy member. “I wanna,” he pants, “wanna see you so fucking full of me, because— you’re mine, __,” he seethes, “right?”

You nod blindly, dumbly, brain too flooded with the stimulation he’s bestowing upon you to think properly. “I- I am,” you confirm, gasping for air. “And you’re mine,” you manage to get out, one hand slapping down against the coffee table when he draws his cock out, slams himself back into you quickly. 

“I’m yours,” Jungkook slurs behind you, slowly picking up his pace again. The hand on your back lets go, and it’s with trembling arms that you manage to push yourself back onto your forearms, one hand blindly reaching for the hand he’s got gripping at your hips. 

“Oh my god,” you whimper, the sounds coming from your connected bodies so lewd and obscene, disgustingly wet when Jungkook slips back inside. He surges forward again, and you try to catch your balance, knees quivering underneath the force of his thrusts. Your hand slides over the tabletop in a feeble effort to hold onto something, anything. You can’t see, and even if you could there’s not much to hold onto on a flat surface. 

Except the box your hand knocks into. Your confusion lasts for only about a second because then Jungkook is ramming his cock into you, over and over, until you’re certain your hips are going to bruise and your knees are going to give out. Jungkook’s moans are soft and feathery, sighs that fan over your shoulder and make your back arch, eyes rolling backwards for the briefest second as if you were possessed. 

“Mine,” he whimpers, desperate and needy, fingernails digging into your skin as he pushes on. “Gonna be mine forever,” he growls. “Gonna— Gonna be so pretty and big,” he moans, “tits so fucking full.” The image he puts in your mind makes you dizzy. 

You nod dumbly, knuckles bumping against the box a second time. “Jungkook,” you choke out, fingers blindly nudging the box aside. But there’s no strength behind it, your entire body feeling weak and useless, all the energy concentrated in the coil in your stomach, the one that grows and tightens with every entrance of Jungkook’s cock into your pulsing walls. “There’s— There’s something,” you gasp, pinky finger tapping against it.

Behind you, Jungkook stills, harsh breaths deafeningly loud. Louder than the television and the corny music that plays, the mindless chatter of the characters you couldn’t name even if you tried. “Why would you...” Jungkook huffs, irritation lacing his words.

You don’t get to question it, because a second later his finger is tucking itself beneath your blindfold, yanking it off carelessly. It makes your head crane backwards, a tiny yelp torn from your lips as the blinding glow of the TV attacks your poor eyes at full force. Jungkook’s long since stopped his rapid thrusts, and it’s only when you glance off to the side that you realize why. 

It’s the stupid box of flowers Seokjin had sent you, the one Jungkook had placed on the coffee table when you first got home. 

Behind you, Jungkook releases one long exhale, both of you looking at the arrangement with various degrees of discomfort. “Did you like them,” he murmurs, cock throbbing inside of you. 

You shake your head, a soft, “no,” falling from your lips. The muscles in your thighs quiver like mad. 

Jungkook says nothing, but you watch as one inked arm stretches out from behind you, the movement of his hips pushing his cock deeper into you. A tiny whimper catches in your throat, watching as Jungkook hooks a finger over the lip of the box. One swift tug has it gliding over the tabletop, coming to a stop right beside your forearm. Jungkook leans back, the silence terrifying. 

“Did you think they were pretty?” he asks, tracing one finger down your spine. Your lower lip trembles as your eyes scan over the bouquet, at the pretty color selection and lovely scent that joined together to overwhelm your senses. 

“No,” you say, but it feels like a lie.

And Jungkook thinks so too, wrapping one hand around your throat and pulling you back forcefully. It’s the same as he did earlier, but with his cock deep inside your pussy, it sends a shock throughout your entire nervous system, a sob tearing itself from within you as he unintentionally pushes himself deeper inside. “Did you,” he says a second time, practically seething, “think Seokjin’s flowers were pretty?”

Your eyes flicker nervously across the screen in front of you, but everything is a blur, Jungkook’s harsh breathing against your ear. “Yes,” you confess, whimpering when his fingers tighten around your throat, press down against your windpipe as he inhales sharply. “But they’re just flow—“ He squeezes your throat so hard, your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets, mind growing fuzzy. Eventually, he lets go and you dissolve into a fit of coughs, bent over the coffee table again as Jungkook slips his stiff cock out from within you. “I’m sorry,” you sniffle, throwing a teary-eyed look over your shoulder.

What you’re not expecting is for Jungkook to grab that same shoulder and roughly push you onto your side away from the coffee table, falling onto the fluffy rug as he shoves you down. “Something pretty for a pretty girl,” he sneers, biting down a frankly maniacal grin.

“What?” you exhale, probably looking at him with the same maniacal look in your eyes. 

(You were made for each other, so crazy and in love.)

Jungkook stretches one toned arm out, and you flinch when he uses that same beautiful arm to send the box of flowers flying over the edge of the coffee table, a hard thwack resounding throughout the room when they land face down on the other side, petals against the floor, water dripping out from inside. 

With those out of the way, Jungkook wastes no time flipping you over, face shoved down against the soft rug as he angles your hips up. “Thinking about someone else when I’m right here,” he growls, ramming his cock back into you with no warning. You sob, clawing at nothing as he bucks forward. “What a mean girl,” Jungkook scolds. 

“I- I wasn’t,” you defend weakly, shivering as he snaps his hips against you, the rug irritating your cheek when the motion sends you forward. Jungkook uses the hands on your hips to pull you back, your skin clapping together loudly. 

“You think Seokjin would— would fuck you like this?” he spits, using you like a toy as he fucks basically for himself, cock sliding in and out of your squelching walls. “You think he’d push you down and—and call you a stupid girl?” 

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut to fight the wave of tears threatening your waterline. Truthfully, it doesn’t make much of a difference, especially not when Jungkook yanks your hips back again, your entrance sensitive from all the friction. “No, no,” you sob. ”He wouldn't.”

Jungkook scoffs, not bothering to slow his pace down. “Of course he wouldn’t,” he spits, and then, strikes your ass. Two hard cracks of his palm, rings and all, against the globes of your ass. You wail, unconsciously jerking away only for Jungkook to drag you back. “Stupid girl,” Jungkook sighs, cock twitching inside of you. You can feel the beads of precum oozing out from the tip of his cock inside you, their warmth making you shudder. 

Your other ass cheek receives the same treatment, two harsh smacks that leave the skin tingling, blood rising to the surface. “Stupid, stupid girl,” he repeats, palms rubbing over your cheeks for a brief second, only to strike down again. “Aren’t you?” You nod, fat tears dripping out of the corner of your eyes and down onto the fluffy rug beneath you. Your behind stings, pain blossoming over your skin. But it’s the good kind, the one that has drool escaping from the corner of your lips from how overwhelmed it leaves you. 

“I- I’m a stupid girl,” you agree, your words punctuated by a series of tiny sobs and sniffles. Your walls feel sensitive, raw, from his thrusts. You’re ready to come, trembling hands slithering down to reach for your clit. 

“Don’t,” Jungkook warns, snatching your arm up and twisting it behind you. 

You cry, tears and drool against the rug. “I wanna come,” you whimper, trying your other hand only for it to meet a similar demise. “Please,” you sniffle, turning your face the other way as if the angle will somehow be different. 

“You don’t come until I say so,” Jungkook hisses, using his grip on your wrists to tug you onto his cock. You moan, choke on your own saliva from the force, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix for real this time. It renders you stupid, just like Jungkook had called you, chin trembling as your eyes roll backwards. Behind you, Jungkook grunts something deep and raspy. “Fffuck,” he spits, pistoning his hips into your inviting heat. “You were doing so good tonight—“ a particular brutal buck of his hips, a loud moan torn from your lips “—but first those fucking flowers and now this?”

The rhythm of his deep thrusts cut your moans into stuttered little cries, your words broken with every ram of his cock inside of you. Your walls feel worn, every brush sending a tingling shock up your spine. “I- I’m sorry,” you weep, shoulders shaking from your own tears and the rumbling orgasm that’s just about ready to snap. 

Jungkook says nothing, too busy shoving his cock inside of you to grace you with a response. Instead, you’re subjected to his relentless thrusts, sharp gasps from his pretty mouth. “Fuck,” he pants, releasing your wrists after one particular thrusts, your walls clenching around him painfully when he draws his cock out. 

“I can’t,” you sniffle, knees giving out before he can catch you, sadly sinking down onto the plush rug. “Kook, I—”

Jungkook makes a sound, something between a growl and a roar in the back of his throat as he follows behind you, planting two firm hands on the sides of your head to use as leverage to fuck himself in. With your thighs pressed flat together, the squeeze is tighter than ever before, and your eyes roll backwards as he gets to work, walls fluttering from the overstimulation. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he pants, all games thrown aside as he begins pounding his cock past your folds, deep into your contracting walls, until that tight spring in your stomach gives out and you’re clenching up beneath him, entire body going stiff for one long beat. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you weep, thighs quivering as you cream his cock, make his movements so slippery and wet, almost dangerous when he’s going this fast. His name falls from your trembling lips, every nickname and pet name you’ve ever given him mindlessly blubbered through your orgasm. Jungkook pays you no mind, thighs tensing up as he chases his high, short breaths and moans filling the space as he fucks himself into you. Until, finally, a few deep strokes later, he’s coming with a shuddered cry of your name on his tongue, collapsing over you, forehead pressed to your back as he catches his breath. 

“Fuck,” he groans one last time, body going slack very quickly. He slumps down beside you, softening cock slipping out of your tender folds. 

The floor between the coffee table and the couch is dark, the television glow not reaching down here. Even still, the sweat clinging to Jungkook makes him look like a sparkly Twilight vampire, the dip between his pecs collecting the smallest pool of sweat. You can’t stop yourself from running your pointer finger along the skin, over his nipple. His pec jumps deliciously under the attention. “Stop,” Jungkook sighs, catching your wrist in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles in an attempt to distract you. “Or I’ll really get you pregnant next time.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, pinching his doughy cheek. “You won’t,” you tease. Jungkook flicks his hair away from his eyes to level you with a look you’ve never seen before, not a trace of his usual post-sex playfulness to be found. It has you retracting your hand, eyes wide when he doesn’t stand down. Still, you can’t lose. “...No you won’t,” you repeat, quieter, almost unsure. Almost a question. 

Jungkook rolls his eyes, tugging you into his arms. He’s all sweaty and sticky, just like you. He’s lucky he doesn’t have four separate loads of cum— three from you, one from him —sticking between his thighs. “Keep telling yourself that,” he pants, so smoothly. Too smoothly. It makes you clench your thighs, something Jungkook doesn’t miss. “Stop it,” he warns a second time.

“You’re just so dreamy,” you whine, sitting back up to play with his hand. “Like, when you made me squirt?” He chuckles softly, eyes fluttering shut. “Not gonna lie, I thought I saw the answer to the universe for a second.” 

He’s worn out today, more than usual, that he doesn’t bother gracing you with a response. But it had been a long day for Jungkook; from planning an entire date, to the Seokjin debacle, to the crazy hot sex he’d gifted you. It was only reasonable. You reward his efforts with a soft peck against his cheek that makes him smile, a light blush painting his cheeks. “You did good today,” you hum, patting chest comfortingly. 

“Felt like I was in a Viki drama,” he confesses after a moment, has that tiny smile on his face that makes the apples of his cheeks especially round, especially cute. “The kind that have twelve plot lines going on.”

You laugh, snuggling beside him. The rug feels dirty, but so do you so the feeling is cancelled out or whatever. “You’d be the Park Seojoon of any Viki drama,” you tell him, and Jungkook laughs.

That loud and airy one he reserves only for you. 

epilogue

Namjoon calls Jungkook’s phone a little after eleven, talking your ear off about some date he’d gone on while Jungkook is in the shower. You tell him about what happened with Seokjin and like all respectable college mentors, he just about flips. “You can sue him,” Namjoon hisses, furious for you. Not that you aren’t anymore, but in a weird act of impulsiveness, Jungkook had gone outside and ran the stupid box of flowers over with his car as you watched from the open window of your apartment. It was weirdly cathartic. 

He’s in the shower now, humming the lyrics to one of the songs from Secretary Kim, a song called It’s You by Jeong Sewoon (thank you, Shazam), that makes every inch of your body overflow with adoration when he hits that long note. Anyway, you’re perusing the rest of the streaming service for a movie to watch. Jungkook said you couldn’t watch Train to Busan tonight, something about it ruining the mood. So now you’re debating between a historical romcom or a modern romcom. 

Over the line, Namjoon is doing all the raging for you. “Men are trash,” he huffs one last time, before eventually letting it go. (For now.) “Hey, do you know how to cover up hickeys?” he asks suddenly, just as Jungkook reappears in the living room. His skin is glowing, looking like the hottest man alive. The window is still open, a feeble attempt to air out the smell of sex in the room, and the draft makes Jungkook shiver because his hair is still a little wet. 

“Hickeys?” you repeat, stretching a hand out for him as he rounds the couch. Jungkook takes it, places a soft smooch against your knuckles, close to your promise ring. Your heartbeat stutters just as Namjoon hums. 

“Yeah, this girl,” he says, cutting himself off with a laugh. One you recognize all too well because it’s the same one you let out when you talk about Jungkook to other people. Said boy settles close beside you, leans his cheek against your head when you snuggle into his neck. As soon as he’s there, you lose all rights to the remote, watching as Jungkook completely disregards all your searching just to click back onto Secretary Kim. He had missed a whole episode. “We went a little crazy tonight—“ you gag at the image Namjoon places in your head “—and Doyeon bites kinda hard—“

“Doyeon?” you interrupt, all mental processes coming to an abrupt halt as the name bounces around your mind. Jungkook, having mastered the art of listening in on your phone calls by now, freezes beside you. “You know a Doyeon?” 

“Yeah!” Namjoon says excitedly as you sit up. Jungkook meets your gaze, big Bambi eyes giving the performance of a lifetime, and gives your this overly innocent shrug of his shoulders that tells you more about what he does know than what he doesn’t. “Kim Doyeon. She went to your school— actually, she graduated with you and Kook.”

The world comes to a complete stop as you glare at Jungkook, his panicked features cueing you in to the fact he was aware of this, as you’d suspected. “Namjoon,” you say slowly, fist tightening around Jungkook’s phone. “Are you aware you’re fucking my best friend?” 

There’s a long silence on the other end, Namjoon presumably processing the information while Jungkook tries to calm the boiling anger within you. “He didn’t know,” Jungkook whispers, big pretty eyes on you as he tries to save Namjoon from you. 

All his efforts are in vain when Namjoon clears his throat and so eloquently says, “and you’re fucking my best friend?”

epi-epilogue

The Best Buy employee doesn’t ask questions when you and Jungkook go in to get your cracked phone screens repaired. He does, however, give Jungkook an over-exuberant sales pitch on a brand new line of computer monitors that are almost as big as the television at your house. 

You try to save him from the dangerous hands of capitalism, but the Hello Kitty bandaids decorating your neck are itchy, the skin still so tender, so sometimes it’s wiser to let him waste his money than argue otherwise. 

“Good girl,” Jungkook says as he swings your arms back and forth on your walk to the car, impressed by the fact you didn’t argue with him in a Best Buy today. “My perceptions and understanding of you in my life make me happy,” he beams, too smiley as he unlocks the doors. 

“Shut up,” you glare, painfully tearing the stupid bandaids off your neck as soon as you get in, brandishing the blossoming hickeys Jungkook had so graciously given you last night. At the sight, he bites down a smile. “You’re about to perceive and understand these fists.” 

And Jungkook smiles— he always smiles —as he leans over the center console to press his mouth against the darkened skin at the front of your neck, mindlessly rubbing his thumb over your promise ring. “Perceive this love,” he says, so cheesy it makes you gag. 

“Goddd,” you groan, pushing him away before he can see the smile on your face. “Someone get this man a Viki deal.”

Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[manonblaqkbeak]

The Reunion

Day 5--I had completely forgotten that I had written this lol. It’s more fluff as usual. Can’t wait to read everyone else’s later on!

Enjoy! :)

1.8k words

Rowan couldn't wait to get home. Today had been...exhausting, to say the least. He was a personal trainer, and with that came the territory that people would talk about their issues while working out. Which was fine, Rowan understood that letting out emotional issues when working out helped people to stay motivated. He himself had been known to rant about his issues when working out himself.

But today had been a lot. One of his regulars had put on weight over the Yulemas holidays and was beating himself up over it. Another regulars marriage was over and was dealing with that guilt.  Someone had lost a favourite aunt. Another one had to break off an engagement because it was a loveless relationship. And on and on the issues piled up.

Rowan was good at compartmentalizing, but after a while, he ignored his lunch break in order to go to the park to just...not think for a while.

Being at the park cheered him up a little, but his break was soon too over. And he was back to work, and that was when the skies decided to open up and pour down buckets of rain. Making a bad day into a shittier one.

His wipers were on the fastest setting and he was driving at a snails pace when he looked away for one second, one fucking second, when he heard a thump and a feminine voice yell out “what the fuck!”

Slamming on the brakes, Rowan came to a speedy conclusion.

He was at a pedestrian crossing and he just hit someone with his car.

He just hit someone with his car.

“Fucking hell!”

Pulling up the handbrake, Rowan got out, not sure what to say or do when he came across a golden haired woman, her eyes spitting out blue and gold fire.

Rowan blinked at her, because despite being covered in rain and sitting on her behind, hand rubbing at her hip, she looked familiar.

But now wasn't the time to thinking about that. He had to see if she was okay. “I'm so sorry,” he got out, “I have no idea what happened. I looked away for a second, that was all. I'm so fucking sorry. Are you okay?”

“My hip and my ass hurt, and I suspect that I'm going to have a wicked bruise, but I think I'm okay,” the stranger said. “You should really watch what you're doing, though.”

“I know. I'm sorry, again.”

The stranger sighed, and even that sounded familiar. “What a fucking day I'm having,” she mumbled.

“Bad day?” He probably made it worse, too. He should also really get her into his car, but she starting ranting before he could do anything about it.

“The fucking worst. I'm facing a deadline that I can't finish, because I'm having dreadful writers block. My landlord is a fucking creep who came to my place today saying that my underwear 'accidentally' got mixed in with his laundry. My cousin's dad recently came back into his life, so now he's angry all the damned time and it's leeching into me. And you just hit me with your car.”

Rowan nodded in understanding, but only could manage to say, “Yeah, your day definitely sucks.”

She glared at him, silently telling him that that wasn't really the best way to respond, but he was having a bad day, also.

Which wasn't an excuse he knew, but Gods, it wasn't really his day either.

Rowan helped her up, her hands warm despite the cold and took her to his passenger seat and pulled over to the side. He couldn't help but notice that she smelled like jasmine and lemon verbena. A calming scent.

“I'm not sure what the protocol is,” he admitted after handing her a hand towel from the glove box. “Do we call the police? Or my insurance? I should take you to the hospital, I know that much.” Even if all she said was that she hurt her behind and hip, it'd be best to ensure that she didn't fracture anything.

When she said nothing after a moment, Rowan turned, noting that the silence from the woman was a little concerning, scared to death that maybe she hit her head and was going into shock.

Her blue-gold eyes were wide. “Are you okay?” he asked again. He really should get her to the hospital.

“Are you...? This is...you couldn't be. Rowan? Rowan Whitethorn?”

Rowan blinked, his concern turning inward. “Yes, that's my name. How did you—?”

“I, uh, it's me. Aelin Ashryver Gala—”

“Galathynius?” He finished for her. She nodded.

They sat in silence as Rowan stared at her, taking in her blue-gold eyes, golden hair, the lemon verbena and jasmine smell of her. Recalling the familiar sigh. All of it.

Rowan wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel when all of it came crashing down on him. He had just hit his high school crush with his car.

Rowan, for whatever reason that he couldn't name, wanted to laugh. He never would have suspected that he would hit Aelin Galathynius with his car ten years after high school graduation.

He was fairly certain that high school him had been in love with her from the moment he saw her. Rowan had wanted to ask her out at least a dozen times, but he was an awkward seventeen year old that didn't know how to talk to women that weren't family members and never gained the courage to do so.

It was one of his biggest regrets from his teenage years.

The last time he had seen her was at the after party of their graduating day. She wore a daisy flower crown and was sparkling in a golden dress. He had never seen someone as beautiful as her—even to this day.

Unbeknownst to Rowan, Aelin had felt the same way. She was confident back then as she was now, but every time she wanted to go up to Rowan to talk to him, to get to know him, the butterflies in her stomach threatened to strangle her.

So she never did ask him out. And here she was now, ten years later, in his car. He was still the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

She was still pissed as hell though that he hit her with his car.

It had only taken a moment, a single moment, for her to realise who it was she was sitting next to. The moment that the hand towel touched her face and she breathed in the pine and snow scent of it, she was transported back to the past.

“How have you been?” Rowan asked her after long minutes. His green eyes still as pretty as the day Aelin saw them. She was sure that was what she loved about him the most all those years ago. Other than Lysandra's, Aelin had never seen such a stunning green.

Aelin snorted, her fond memories disappearing at the inane question. “You were listening when I was ranting, weren't you? My day has been shit.”

Rowan gave her a small smile, and her heart skipped a beat. He still smiled the same. She had liked that about him, too. Still did, apparently.

“No, I mean how's life been since graduation? You mentioned writers block. Are you a writer then?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I write fantasy-adventure-romance novels under the name of Celaena Sardothien.” She had liked the animosity of it all, with none of her books containing a single photograph of her.

“That's amaz—wait. You mean to tell me that you're the writer of the 'Fireheart' series?”

Aelin smiled proudly. “That's me. Have you read them?”

“I have. It's one of my favourite series.” They were his guilty pleasure, really, but it felt rude to say that out loud, as if it was shameful.

Aelin blinked, taken aback at the confession. “Really? You mean to tell me that brooding Rowan Whitethorn reads romance novels?”

Rowan frowned a little bit at that. “I don't brood. Not anymore.”

“You're brooding right now.”

Rowan grumbled. Okay, maybe he was, just a little bit, however.

“How about you, though?” Aelin asked. “How's life been?”

“Busy. And right now, it's a bit shitty. I'm sorry for hitting you with my car, truly. We should get you to a hospital, though. Just to make sure that you're okay, please,” he added, when he saw that she opened her mouth to likely protest. “I won't be able to sleep if it turns out you need a hip replacement or something and I didn't take you to get checked out.”

Aelin truly doubted she would need a hip replacement, but nodded anyway. “Okay, you can take me to the hospital. And then afterwards, I'll give you my number and you can take me out to dinner.”

Rowan blinked at that and then smiled. He had always like confidence in a person. “Okay, it's a date.”

“I've never had a date after a hospital visit.”

“Well, then, I better make it great.”

Aelin smiled, warmth filling her. The day turning out a little nicely, despite it all. “You better.”

x x x x x

As Rowan lead Aelin to the dance floor, he couldn't believe his luck. Never in a thousand years did he think that accidentally hitting Aelin with his car would lead to this.

To their first dance as husband and wife.

It had been exactly one year to the day when he saw her again after ten years. It was very much an Aelin thing to want to have their wedding anniversary to match the date.

The story had been re-told by a slightly tipsy Fenrys as part of his best man speech, about how Rowan would be the only man in the world to meet his future wife by way of a car accident. The story always made people laugh, with people saying that the universe must have wanted to get them together and was sick of them taking too long.

Because as it turned out, when Rowan and Aelin's relationship grew and they learned more about their ten years of life, they were always somehow minutes away from running into each other. From when Rowan was starting his hike in the Southern Continent, Aelin had just finished hers and was going back to her hotel—the very fact that they were staying at the same hotel, but floors apart.

When Rowan had missed out on book tickets to a signing of her third novel in the Fireheart series, and he had to turn around and leave the bookstore since it was a private function just as Aelin was moments away from going on.

From going to the same concerts, to the same festivals, from seemingly everything that they had in common, they had missed each other by minutes.

They silently thanked the universe, even if the way they ran into each other was less than ideal. But they wouldn't change it for the world.

Rowan kissed his wife and thanked his lucky stars.

[enigma-im]

Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

Rating: Teen Relationship: Space Orc x F!Human Warnings: angst, avoidance, emotional constipation, repression, fluff, space orc

Word Count: 3812

insecurities are like another person in a relationship, whispering in the other’s ears till something happens.

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

Soulmates are something to rejoice over. Which is understandable, it's the person who is perfect for you. How could anything go wrong? It's your other half, your partner in crime, your true paring. Everyone believed it was a simple affair, you meet and then happily ever after. It was the basics until we found out there was life outside of earth, then things got a bit more complicated. New cultures to take into account along with physiology.

Things aren't as straight forward after that.

When I was a kid I use to fantasize about my soulmate. Would they be tall, short, fat, skinny? What kind of music do they like, and will they also eat their sandwiches without the crust? I adored the idea of having a new best friend to hang with. As I got older the idea never really left, morphing more into adult-type thinking. It isn't till I could translate my mark did I begin to have doubts.

It was an off chance that I happened to see the language my soulmate spoke, a weird situation really. I was fumbling about online and I saw it, just a new article that had a picture of the written language. It as scraggly and difficult to read, like a doctor's handwriting. With further research, I found exactly what species my mate was likely to be.

Orc.

I was excited at the time, I figured it out. My mate was to be an Orc, large creature with mostly human parts. To better prepare I did some more digging, looking up anything I could that wasn't video game lore. It was all so new and surprising. I had a direction now, an image to apply to my fantasies.

Since then I have studied extensively on Orc culture. Learning the ins and outs of how they live, socialize, idolize, and talk. It was all so engaging and rich in lore. It felt like I was getting to know my mate already.

The more I researched I soon had an inching doubt. It started off small, basic insecurities. As I read about their courting did I really give it some thought.

Orcs value strength in their culture. A strong mate is heavily sought after. If a soulmate wasn't of great value then they are known to cast them aside. The idea puts lead in my stomach. I'm not strong, or large like their women. I'm tall but I fit more in the string bean category more than anything. I could never be what a typical orc would want.

As I spiraled in these thoughts one thing became clear. I will not be putting myself through that humiliation. I can't stand the thought of being viewed so lowly by someone who is supposed to be my perfect match. To be laughed at by them or be a dirty secret will kill me inside. I can't be an embarrassment, I refuse.

Thereafter I ignored my mark, keeping occupied in school and work. A little while later it became easy to avoid thoughts about him. It was like I never had a soulmate.

It wasn’t as freeing as I thought it would be.

After college I jump into my career, climbing the corporate ladder quickly. It's easy enough when you are married to your work. That even the thought of free time brings anxiety and stress. After a few years, I am exactly where I want to be. Traveling the world meeting new important people.

I have been everywhere and met every type of person. Orcs being one of those types of people. When I first saw one the excitement peaked its head, only for a moment. Then anxiety took over. What if it's him? The orc said his first words to me and the sigh of relief and disappointment was alarming. A few more introduction after that and the rising emotions settled. It was back to normal after that. Pretending that 'special' someone didn't exist.

Years passed and nothing happened. I didn't meet him or even get a trail. My soul felt numb, everything felt numb. It's hardly noticeable after so long, just a hole I've dealt with. I tried dating to fill the void but no one wants to date outside their partner. Anyone who does has lost their loved one already, wanting to also fill the void. Once they find out mine is still out there they break off quickly. So I focus on my career, it's all I have.

In my early 30s, I'm working in Germany. A lovely place but I always preferred the isles of Scotland, specifically Skye. At the embassy passing around some documents, I bump shoulders with an imposing figure. He is quite tall and buff, the poster child of orcs if I've ever seen one. He twists around, apologizing for the shoulder check.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there. Shouldn't have had my focus too far in the clouds while walking a crowded room," he smiles curtly.

I stare blank face at him, all primary functions failing. I can hear- feel- my heart beating against my chest. Everything is cold, my fingers numb but tingly. My vision tunnels and my brain just screams one thing. Run.

Rudely I turn and quickly walk away, giving no further reaction or words to my mat- to the stranger. I don't have a direction as I make it out the nearest door. I close it swiftly behind me, leaning against it. Sliding down to the floor I ball up. Pressing my knees to my chest and begin crying. Years of repression and closeting emotions are now boiling over. The sadness I ignored, convincing myself that they do not exist, is all on the surface.

I hiccup, stubbornly wiping away tears on the floor of a bathroom. All I can think is,

Fuck.

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

I have to say I've gotten good at not only avoiding emotions but people too. A week and a half of only catching glimpses of the orc. Which is a lot of glimpses, he is out and about often. It helps I'm stuck in my office for the time, only leaving for lunch. Still, he is always around when I'm out.

After I can pretend I've forgotten about him does he show up in my office. Knocking on my door a little after lunch. Too focused on work I don't hear him come in. I look up from my desk and choke.

"Hello again," he smiles," I have a folder for you, Reggie asked if I could bring it by."

"uh," I stare. My fingers grip the pen roughly, my fist almost shaking with the tension. The only thought running through my head now is, 'don't say anything'. If I talk then he will know. Then he will reject me. Then I can't go on pretending.

"You alright," he flicks the folder against his chest," didn't mean to startle you or anything. I know orcs can be kind of intimidating." I almost snort at the irony of that statement. Very intimidating indeed.

Instead of answering I hold out my hand for the folder, my other still white gripping the pen. He quickly crosses the room, handing me the folder before walking back to the door. With a curt wave, he is gone.

Once the door clicks into place I take in a greedy breath, slamming my head into my crossed arms. I groan, mumbling into my fist. My brain is muddled and my heart conflicted. I yearn to follow him but I also crave to leave back to the states. But one thought is resting quietly in the back of my head.

He looks good in those pants.

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

This idiot is now making it damn hard to avoid him. It's like he has made it his mission to get me to talk. Intercepting my way to my office in the mornings, meeting me at lunch, or delivering things to my office. He is determined, I'll give him that.

I'm almost running out of excuses. It's hard to make excuses without talking. I'm almost convinced he thinks I'm mute. Which would have been a grand way out if it wasn't for my coworkers plotting against me. As I talk with them they try to bring him into the conversation, promptly shutting me up.

I learn at some point his name is Garson. When I first heard I actually blushed, like a school girl! It was just his name and he didn't even say it. I will never understand the inner workings of soulmates but Garson always makes my controlled emotions run rapid.

As I sit in my office, absentmindedly writing my door opens. I don't look up, lost in thought for the hundredth time today.

"Hey," that deep -sexy- voice says. I sigh, shoulders slumping. I glance ahead, annoyed, and flustered. Garson waves shyly, holding up another folder. At this point, he has become my special delivery man. "From Vanya," he sets the file down," she asked I bring it on account of her bum leg. I told her it would be a bad idea to play soccer with her teens." his tense chuckle makes my heart throb. I want to ease his anxiety, but I can't. I just shrug, still writing.

He sighs, walking back out the door. The click echoed around the room and I find myself slamming my head on the desk again.

"Fuck," I groan, pounding my fist on the folder.

As I remind myself for the hundredth time why I'm doing this I notice my notes. I shift the paper and grimace at what I wrote.

Garson. Garson. Garson.

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

I can't fucking take it! He is more determined than I am stubborn. Watching him find more excuses to come to my office is almost impressive in its own right. He has upgraded from delivery boy to a food service. At some point he has found out my favorite snacks and drinks.

He interrupts me at the door, handing me a coffee while ranting about his night. As I ignore him, feeling like the biggest idjit, other coworkers join in. the number of dirty looks I get doesn't outweigh the appreciation I have for them talking to him. I feel like complete garbage when I don't respond to him, letting him look like a fool talking to someone who clearly doesn't want to talk. Thank the kindness of others.

Around lunch he pops in for a chat, offering a spot next to him in the cafeteria. I shake my head, pretending to be too busy to interact with him. Every time he offers and I decline he leaves so dejected. It's so heartbreaking to see him like that.

Day after day he tries his damndest to make friends with me. I cannot fathom this type of devotion to someone he doesn't know. I'm almost tempted to think he knows but its impossible. He is just too friendly for his own good.

Some coworkers have cornered me to ask what is up, some more confrontational than others. Some are casual in their attempts, asking simply why I'm so mean to the orc. Others are personally offended for him, being passive-aggressive to the point that I ask them to take his attention off me if they are so angry. Some do, which I'm grateful for. But he isn't swayed so easily.

I sit in my office, alone, contemplating my choices. I can't keep dealing with this. The heartbreak I feel rejecting him is as bad as him rejecting me. I'm doing what I was afraid of him doing, worse is he doesn't even know.

I have to leave.

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

It was weak, I'll admit that. Asking for a transfer was probably the easiest way out. I know I should just talk to him, let him have a choice in this, but I can't. he is a sweet guy, everyone knows that, but he is still an orc. He deserves someone strong and proud as his kind is. It's impossible for me to be that.

As I wallow on my last week of work I clean up my drawers to distract myself. I sort through some papers when the door bangs open. The knob slams against the wall, bouncing away towards that alluring figure. Garson walks in, grabbing the door and closing it behind him. His sneer is alarming, along with his clenched fist.

"You're leaving," he shouts," are you kidding me?" he walks closer to the desk, turning to pace the length of the room. " I tried, I thought maybe it's because I'm an orc and you were scared of me. I understand that, humans are super sensitive that way. But no! I was nice, patient, and doing everything I could to be nonthreatening. Yet that didn't help did it? It seems like nothing was going to fix that. So my question should really be why is my soulmate running from me?" I gasp, gawking at him. He stops his pacing, glaring down at me with crossed arms. He shrugs," well? Why are you running from me?"

I can't answer, shocked and startled by this admission. He doesn't allow me the time to stew on the question. He shoots forwards, slamming his hands on the desk. I jump.

"Why are you running from me," he chokes on a sob," It's been killing me to give you time. To watch you every day and not be able to hold you. If you want to leave, then fine. I won't stop you. I just want to know where I went wrong, what did I do? What could I have done? Was I always going to be not enough for you? Well?"

I bolt up at his words," I was scared! I was fucking scared, ok?" we both startle at my outburst. His self-deprecating look mixed with his attempt at a sneer melt off his face. I sigh, "I didn't want to be rejected, I couldn't handle that kind of pain." I drop my head in defeat.

Garson ducks down onto his knees, catching my eyes. "Why did you assume I would reject you," he asks.

"because you’re an orc and I'm not," I answer.

He scoffs," and you're a human and I'm not. Do you really see that as being a huge problem?"

"Yes," I slap the desk," of course it's going to be a problem. I'm not strong or proud, I'm weak and antisocial. I cry every time I watch sad dog movies. I can't lift more than half my body weight. I also don't have anything worthy for you. I'm an ordinary human while you are part of a devoted species. I am not worthy."

Garson just stares after my outburst. He looks between my eyes then gives me a once over. He huffs, standing straight. He combs his fingers through his long hair, turning away with a laugh.

"You have to be kidding me," he laughs again. His chuckles turn into full-blown laughter till he is lounging against the door.

"What's so funny," I snap. His laughs trail off as he watches me. When he doesn't answer, I sit, arms crossed and lip sneered.

"Sorry," he looks to his feet," it's just ironic."

"Yea, how so?"

I watch him straighten from the wall and casually flop into one of the chairs in front of my desk. Everything is quiet as he collects his thoughts. I faintly hear the sound of shuffling outside my door. No doubt some people heard the shouting.

"When I first found out what species my soulmate was I was excited. I had a direction now, I felt closer to you. I was so excited I told everyone I could. People of my clan held their tongues at my joy, only giving pitiful looks but no words. I never noticed it. It's when my parents sat me down to explain did I get it," he shifts in his chair," 'humans are scared of us' my mom said. 'they are weak' my dad said. I became torn between the fear of hurting you and the fear of you not wanting me because you'd think I'd hurt you.

"When I finally read what your words said I let their words alter me. instead of rejecting the idea of you I sent out to change. I got jobs that interacted with humans and kept myself small. I'm not a threat, I never was. I took every chance to chat with humans, to get used to them. It was all in preparation for you. I was- am- scared of you." he meets my eyes, his so full of fear. My heart patters, the view of vulnerability shaking me to the core.

"y-you were scared of me," I point to myself. The idea is laughable. "So we are a bunch of idiots too worried about each other's feelings to just ask straight out what we actually felt. That is funny," I chuckle. I huff, sitting back in my seat.

The awkward silence should be stifling but we are captured in our thoughts. It's amazing in its irony that he was also the one scared. I feel relieved and foolish all at once.

"so," he bounces his fingers on his thigh," what now?" I shift in my seat, also curious about our direction.

"depends," I nibble on my lip," do you want me despite everything?" the question lingers in the air for me. The answer I've dreaded my entire life. The choice that decides my happiness.

"Despite everything," he ponders," you ignore me for weeks, avoiding any interaction. Not talking to me less you wish to reveal yourself, and requesting a transfer. Despite all that, despite the ignorance and stubbornness, I want you." the satisfaction that flows through me is startling. My hand shakes from the previous fear and now incomparable joy.

"I never thought I would hear those words," I sigh," thank fuck."

He stands from his chair, walking over the side of my desk. "So you want me too? Despite everything," he crouches down. I grab at his face, finally allowing myself the chance to admire his handsome face. His long tusk and pierced lip. His dark green eyes and even darker green skin. He is so beautiful.

I answer him by leaning forward and capturing his lips. Pressing fiercely against him, showing him my cyclone of emotions. He returns it in full, shedding his insecurities to just hold me.

"I'm sorry," I mumble against him.

"it's ok, I'm sorry too," he kisses me again. He cards his fingers through my hair, petting down its length. I don't want to leave this moment, it filling the hole that sat too long in my heart. Though one question makes me part.

"How did you know," I ask. He traces his nose over mine with a hum.

"How did I know what," he asks.

"How did you know I was your soulmate, I didn’t say anything," I clarify. Garson answers by leaning down to my neck and taking a large inhale.

"Fresh baked cookies and honey milk," he kisses my cheek," only my soulmate can smell so good."

I laugh," you can smell your soulmate?"

"of course, all orcs can. Do humans not have this," he leans back. I shake my head, taking the time to lean in and smell him.

"pine tree and blueberries," I ponder," no, pine tree and strawberries."

"pine tree and fruit?"

"I guess so," I shrug, grinning like an idiot. He smiles with me, leaning back in for another heart stopping kiss.

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

After the week is over I transfer back to the states. The distance is aching, the void opening as he isn't there to fix it. I call him every night, regretting more than anything signing those papers. I belong right next to Garson in Germany. Though I can see now that I deserve to deal with the repercussions of my actions. Still, it sucks.

A month in I feel as empty as I did before he showed up. The daily calls help but seeing him would be better. My work suffers as a result, to the point that I consider taking vacation time to visit him.

Soon enough I do just that, putting in a week-long vacation request. I forgo telling Garson of my visit, wanting to surprise him. It's exciting to be able to this with someone. I always watch couples on tv surprising each other like this. It's nice to feel so normal.

The night before my flight I start packing. As I collect my clothes I hear a knock at the door. Tossing the items down I go over and answer. I throw open the door expecting some salesman but I'm greeted to a hulking figure.

"Garson!" I jump him with a hug. I pepper his face with kisses, too caught up in the growing affection.

"Hey, nice to see you too," he laughs, holding me close. He walks in, shutting the door behind himself as he goes into my living room. He sets us both on the couch, leaning down for a kiss.

"What are you doing here," I ask surprised.

"What, can't come visit my mate?"

"Oh shush, you know that's not what I meant. I'm asking because I was just getting ready to visit," I point towards my room," I'm in the middle of packing actually."

"really," he strokes my thigh," I guess great minds think alike."

"I guess they do," I smile. Having him here is like a weight being lifted off my shoulders. I underestimated his importance until now.

We can't help but make up for lost time, making out like a bunch of teenagers on the couch till we make it to the bedroom. Pushing the luggage and clothes off the bed we make love for the first time. When he first pushes in it's like a puzzle finally coming together. I can't believe I was going to deny myself this, even with the chance of denial this is too great of a reward.

We lay in bed, me resting against his broad chest and him petting my head. We bask in the afterglow and silence, overjoyed with each other's company.

"I got some news," he mumbles, breaking the quiet. I hum, nuzzling into his chest. "I got transferred here," he answers.

I snap straight, looking down at him, "You're going to work with me?"

"yea," he smiles," it's exciting, I've never been to the states before."

"really? It's not much but now that you’re here perhaps it is," I cup his jaw, stealing a kiss while my excitement is hot.

"you flirt," he teases," I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," I mumble against his lips.

We fall asleep that night, curious but excited about our future.

I'm glad things worked out despite our ignorance. How could anyone deny their mate?

----------------------- 

I just.... I just love orcs so much. soulmate stories ain’t so bad either.

Check out my Archive | Masterlist | Main Blog

[apparitionism]

Monday

I wrote the following brief scenes a while ago as part of a potential story that refused to coalesce. It may yet, someday, but for now this is merely a scrap of unfruited AU narrative; I’m posting only to prove to myself that I’m not completely incapable of doing writing-related things, even if it’s just tidying up generic, trope-y bits of dialogue. I intended Christina, about age seven, to be an important story lever in this, with this Myka and this single-mom Helena as coworkers of some sort (I was thinking insurance, possibly, because risk management has been on my mind). Such fuzziness was part of why the story as such never took off... in any event, it doesn’t matter. Here is what does matter: if you are a U.S. citizen who is able to vote, do it; choose Biden/Harris and every down-ballot Democrat. This HAS TO BE a landslide repudiation of that horrific, corrupt individual and the party that enables him.

Monday

Turning points arrive in their own time.

Myka and Helena were eating lunch together. That in itself was of course not unusual, for they were colleagues and friends. And as colleague-friends, they tended to eat lunch together.

“You seem upset,” Myka noted. Helena was picking at a salad, but differently than she usually picked at her salads. Usually she picked because she was picky and would eat only the most pleasing elements; today she was merely moving salad components from one region of the plate to another.

“I’m not upset.”

“But you seem upset.”

“Well... I have to break an engagement. It’s impolite.”

Being forced into incivility was indeed the kind of thing that would drive Helena to stab, lift, and re-place arugula. “Why do you have to break an engagement?”

“You know Mrs. Carter, the neighbor who usually sits with Christina. She was called out of town. An ill relative. This morning—but I had plans tonight.”

“Could your plans happen at your house instead? Without sitting?”

Helena wrinkled her brow. “It’s a first date. Far too soon to bring a new person into Christina’s life like that.”

A first date. The words punched Myka hard, leaving a queasy burning in their wake. Her analytical side leapt to make sense of this extreme response: It’s the first time you’ve heard Helena say anything about such a thing, so it surprised you. You’ve never liked surprises; ergo, you’re just reacting poorly to being surprised. Because of course Helena would go on a first date, because of course she would want to find someone, someone to be with, and Myka didn’t know why that hadn’t occurred to her before, but she and Helena hadn’t really talked much about relationships, so maybe Helena went on a lot of first and other dates that she hadn’t bothered mentioning to Myka, and maybe that meant their friendship wasn’t as close as Myka had thought, because maybe they really were more colleagues than friends, and... Okay, just stop. Whatever this is, stop. She breathed her way through the aftermath of the punch and said, “I’ll do it, then. Babysit.”

“You will?”

“You were planning to go out. You should go out.”

“You haven’t asked me with whom.”

“That’s probably not my business,” Myka said, because it wasn’t, despite her unexpected, inappropriate impulse to claim it as entirely her business. Just stop.

“Claudia’s new manager in platform development. Claudia described her to me as, and I quote, ‘absolute fire.’ Which I presume is good.”

“So you asked her out.”

“No, she asked me. And I said yes, because... well, is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

Was that intended as bait? But it couldn’t have been. Logicking it out again: Myka had never felt such a weird surge (no, a twitch, it was only a twitch) of possessiveness before; thus Helena couldn’t have identified it so quickly, and with such precision, that she would immediately challenge Myka on the point. Could she? “Of course not,” Myka said. “What time do you want me to show up?”

*

That evening, Myka kept her still-reeling gut at bay by concentrating on Christina, who was delighted to have Myka all to herself. “You and Mom talk about boring things,” she pronounced as soon as her mother left. “Tonight you don’t have to do that!”

No... all Myka had to do was imagine what sorts of non-boring things Helena was talking about with her date who was absolute fire. But she managed not to do too much of that imagining, at least while Christina was awake, while they were building with Legos and renaming her plastic and puffy animals and manipulating slime. This latter was a fad that had, according to Christina, faded some time ago, but she found the texture soothing; she asked Myka, very seriously—as if Myka’s verdict would be the final word on the subject—whether that meant it was okay not to give it up. Myka said that in her experience, truly calming things were few and far between, so she thought it was more than okay. Christina enjoyed the phrase “few and far between.”

Myka was tempted to let Christina stay up late, late and later, but she supposed it wasn’t fair to deprive a child of sleep just to rescue herself from herself.

She fell asleep on the sofa, and that was a blessing; she didn’t have to hear Absolute Fire’s car, didn’t have to think about anything that might be happening in that car. She awoke just as Helena was stepping inside and taking off her coat. Helena turned around and smiled, and Myka struggled to sit up and look alert, saying a sleep-hoarse “sorry” as she did.

“What for? Being asleep at ten at night? That seems reasonable. Ideally I’d have been asleep by now, if I’d been home.”

“It’s only ten?”

“Dinner was short. The fire may be absolute as far as Claudia is concerned, but there were no sparks that I could see. Or feel.”

Thank god, Myka thought, too fervently. Then, Just stop. Aloud, she tried for indifference: “Maybe Claudia should go out with her instead.”

“Maybe she should. Did my own small bit of fire behave herself?”

“She was great. I’m never going to fully appreciate the appeal of slime... but I can report that bath, story, and bed were peaceful. No conflagration.” This news would make Helena happy: meltdowns at bedtime were common. Christina was often fearful of some unspecified something that would happen overnight, and she was never clear on whether it would be a good something or a bad something, just something, of which she would be unaware.

Helena did, in fact, smile her relieved “Christina is fine for tonight” smile. “Did she wear you out completely? Or might you stay for a glass of wine?”

“Weird way for you to end your date. A drink with the babysitter?” Trying to sound normal. Like the friend she was.

“Better than the date. No, that’s too callous. It was fine. But it wasn’t anything.”

Myka had the drink. Just the one, slowly, as they sat and talked about what Christina would have deemed “boring things”... but Helena had two. And a half. She was eyeing the bottle like she might be inclined to head for it again, so Myka said, “I really should go.”

Helena said, “Should you?” Myka wanted (wanted so much) to make of that what she was pretending she didn’t want to make of it, but she determined instead to make nothing of it. No one should make anything of what anyone said when they’d had a couple of drinks at the end of a long week. And at the end of a failed date, she reminded herself, then cringed at the pleasure she took in knowing that it had failed. Whatever this is, stop.

Standing by the front door, Helena gave her a vaguely unsteady half-hug, a clasp of her left arm around Myka’s shoulders. Myka didn’t want to not reciprocate—trying now to act normal, like the friend she was—so she let herself move her own left arm fully around Helena’s waist, allowed herself to rest her hand for just the press of a second on Helena’s hip.

For that press of a second, Myka leaned close and inhaled against the sharp sweet angle of Helena’s cheekbone. For that press of a second, a slide to a kiss was a warm looming certainty; then the second passed, and it was a receding dream. Myka released Helena’s body and said, “I’ll see you Monday.”

*

NOTE: I’d say “TBC,” but since I don’t know whether this will ever function as part of a larger piece, I’ll leave it as a little misfit story-island. You know B&W will find their way to each other; they’re just not quite connecting, in that “this friendship means everything to me and I can’t stand the idea of blowing it” way, on both sides. Anyway I’m not sure who these characters really are, other than coworkers and friends (who clearly need to be something more); plus there’s a gaping hole where a plot should be. Why are these people here? What are they doing? Should any reader care? I have no idea. Again, here is what matters: vote vote vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris and Democratic Senate, House, and local candidates.

[im-gettingby]

30 Days of Carry On

posted (and written by?) @captain-aralias

(I’m doing most of these at once because I said so. it’s long so under the cut)

1. Favourite major character

I literally thought — Simon no Baz no Penny no, Agatha!

I guess I will pick Simon, since I relate to him the most — or at least, my connection to him led me into the fandom.

2. Favourite minor character

I think we all know this one 🐑🐑🐑

I have written many a treatise on Lamb Rights. I’ll spare everyone now

3. Character you relate to the most

Oops— I already answered this, kinda. I relate to them in different ways: I relate a lot to WS Simon because he has abandonment issues and “kid who was told he was extraordinary and then grew up to be ordinary” issues. We also both have a “fix all the things for everyone” complex, too.

Baz — It took me a while to get into Baz’s head, but I would say, I relate to him because of his intense emotional world and tendency to see the world through an intensely romantic/tragic lens. But also he’s a Pisces. and I’d never do that like a Pisces does. (Sorry, not sorry.)

4. Which character would you like to go to lunch with?

SHEPARD obviously. I don’t feel the need to elaborate.

5. Favourite non-Snowbaz ship

Ooh! Probably Lamb/Baz or Simon/Shep or just...literally anything. Like, I will read anything as long as it’s well written. The weirder the better. (Within...legal and moral limits.) in my other fandoms I’ve been a big multishipper and there’s not a lot of options for that in CO - which is fine - but wholeheartedly support rarepairs :D

6. Favourite non-romantic OTP

So, obviously Simon/Penny and Baz/Penny are great ones, but I think the nearest & dearest to my heart is Simon/Agatha. The kind of siblings/unwillingly dating/weird exes dynamic and the way they both shaped each other’s lives is just so interesting. And while Simon & Penny are closer, Agatha and Simon represent their aspirational selves to one another. And the way that they were both tied to one another along with their gender roles/places in society and both broke away at the same time is just...mwah

7. Favourite Baz outfit

I honestly dress kinda like Baz. Anything involving a printed silk shirt or a floral brocade suit, so like, all of them? I love WS Baz, his fashion sense is so thoughtful yet fun. He’s so expressive with it — in the sense of both being guarded, being sexy, and playing with masculinity/femininity.

8. How do you feel about Wayward Son?

In case it wasn’t obvious, I absolutely love it. I mean, from a writing/narrative standpoint, I don’t think it’s the most elegant or engaging book ever written, but it’s just so raw and fresh. I don’t see many examples of an author trying to do what Rainbow did, which is build a complex emotional AND plot-driven story with so many characters and so much lore. I’m very excited for AWTWB.

9. Favourite scene from Carry On, besides Chapter 61

I like what the book does/sets up overall. Honestly probably the first scene, where Simon walks to the bus stop & takes the train and just thinks about his life and makes lists -- I love Simon. I know Rainbow said she thinks that bit is boring, but it honestly says so much about his character in a short time. (and he’s an extremely complex character!) Also, Baz’s dramatic entrance. Also, the chapter where Baz says “and I’m hopelessly in love with him” because it’s just so dramatic, and it comes out of nowhere

10. Favourite scene from Wayward Son, besides Chapter 41

Baz and Lamb’s journey across the Strip - vampire lore, jealous Simon, Baz getting to be his own character— it’s beautiful.

11. Remind us about something in canon readers might have forgotten about

Ahahaha um. Simon says he thinks Baz’s cousin Marcus is fit. That’s pretty funny.

12. What are your hopes and fears for Any Way the Wind Blows?

I don’t have any hopes because I don’t want to be disappointed - and that’s not a cynical thing, I just want to go into it with an open mind. (I’ll take a break from fandom and reread the books beforehand so I’m (more of) a blank slate) I guess just...interesting emotional journeys, whatever that ends up being. There’s a lot that Rainbow has to do in the book and I don’t think any one person could get through all of it -- that’s why we have fanfiction.

Fears? I don’t know. I think just...the series ending. Even though I’ve been in fandom for less than a year I just really love this fandom & the thought of that kind of eroding away is sad. But also I don’t think that will happen immediately, and change is a part of life. I’ve never related as much to Cath as I do now :’)

13. An unpopular/cracky opinion you hold

unpopular: Lamb is the best character; I don’t want Simon to get his magic back; both Simon and Baz should have other romantic options.

14. Something from your head fanon

Hmmmmmmm well. Just mean things about Baz really. Like that he’s weird looking, not that great at football, and actually has kind of garish fashion sense. (which is a self-roast as well - see above.) I just feel like Simon/fandom put him on a pedestal, and Simon’s an unreliable narrator re: Baz anyway. So I like the idea that Baz is this average looking kinda strange nerdy guy who is everything Simon has ever wanted in life.

And before you tell me that Baz was hot at Watford and Agatha was into him, have you ever been to a tiny boarding school? Standards get weird 😂😂😂 and Terry being into him — come on. The guy’s a violent pervert.

also - back to Watford being a tiny school. Baz doesn’t have much competition to be the star of the football team. (also, does anyone except Simon even think that he is?)

16. Favourite location other than Watford

Vegas!

17, Favourite location in Watford

I’m pretty bad at Watford lore/geography bc again, I’m way more into WS. Probably the floor in the Cloisters where everything happens the same way, just a day later. There’s a fic there, but I can’t wrap my head around all the time travel implications enough to write it.

18. What would be your favourite subject at Watford?

Any potions-esque subject because I loved chemistry lab. Latin because I loved Latin in school. Uhhhh I don’t like history class, so not that — maybe a literature course focused on the derivation of spells.

19. What would your magical implement be?

Ooh! This is a good one. I’d like to think it would be a weird body piercing. Or a belt a la Gareth. Maybe some kind of traditional south Asian jewelry, like a nose chain or mang-tikka or something. maybe a hat. like, imagine your magical instrument being a fedora and you just have to...wear a fedora all the time.

21. Favourite canon spell

Hm. Kiss it better? Candle in the wind?I should try to think of a non-horny one. honestly they’re all so cool and clever - I love the magic system in CO/WS.

22. What would your eighth year spell at Watford be or do?

Maybe something from a poem I love. That would probably be pretty but not very functional. Or a healing spell.

23. Who would you want as your roommate?

Agatha is uptight, Penny is passive aggressive, Simon is a slob, Baz is both uptight and passive aggressive.

Definitely Shepard.

24. Favourite item of merchandise, official or unofficial

My @subparselkie sticker

25. Favourite book cover design

WS. Oh, another unpopular opinion - I don’t like the kevin wada cover of carry on. their faces look so weird and the colors don’t work for me. I own the version with the blue and yellow cover art instead

26. Do you want a movie? If yes - any fan casts for the movie?

Probably wouldn’t want a movie! Because I am way too possessive of these books/this version of the story. And I am historically extremely disappointed by adaptations — I get upset with the smallest of changes 😂

27. If they made a movie, what scenes do you think they’d cut that you’d be furious were missing?

See above. A LOT haha

28. If you could ask Rainbow Rowell one question, what would it be? (If you have already, you can share if you like)

What is Lamb’s full name????? Is it actually Lamb Lambert Lamborghini the third???

What is Rainbow’s relationship with sheep and goats. Why are there so many references to them

29. Have you read any of Rainbow’s other books?

Only Fangirl

30. How did you get into Carry On and/or Carry On fandom?

I read fangirl & the pages at the end mentioned carry on, so I read that, and enjoyed it but I wasn’t obsessed. Then I read WS spring 2020, reread it a bunch of times, reread CO, freaked out about the cliffhanger/cool vampire stuff/unresolved sexual tension, had pandemic cabin fever, got on AO3, and the rest is history.

As @annabellelux knows, I wrote my first (published) fanfic after reading her amazing fic Drop The Game. and the first fanfic I read was @captain-aralias’ Greener Grass. I was so obsessed that about a month later, I searched through the AO3 tags for it, because I couldn’t remember the title or author but kept thinking about it.

[witchkings]

The One Engagement Ring

An Angbang Modern AU drabble as prompted by the lovely @darklord <3

Three seconds. Barely any time at all. Negligible in the greater scheme of Mairon’s life, nothing to the ever-advancing flow of the universe, miniscule, dismissible, stupid. Three seconds was all it had taken to ruin Mairon’s picture book life. Melkor would kill him.

These were the facts as Mairon had them:

1.       He’d slipped into the bathroom at the university library for a short piss and to get a minute of quiet in the constant chatter of his study group which was spiralling head-first into a discussion about the meaning of life. Even though they were anthropology graduate students with at least half the group minoring in either philosophy or sociology, this was never a good idea.

2.       When he’d been in the stall, his engagement ring had still gleamed golden on his ring finger, a constant, warm reminder of the grand day to come. Mairon had planned an autumn wedding, complete with matching tuxes, a seven-course feast and was already training Draugluin to carry the wedding rings down the aisle with Thuringwethil as his reluctant guardian. Melkor, of course, would have preferred for them to pop into Vegas and have some drunken fat Elvis proclaim them married, or better yet, simply hand in the necessary paper work on his way to the office, but Mairon was having none of that. If for one day in his life he wanted to feel special, be marvelled at and fawned over, it was going to be this day, his accursed father be damned.

3.       After completing his business, he’d slipped the ring off and into his pocket to wash his hands. He wouldn’t chance it being dulled by hard water or rough soap. Mairon always did it like this, only putting the piece of jewellery back on whenever his hands were dry and spotless, but when he’d made to retrieve it, his pocket had been empty.

4.       There’d been two other people on the bathroom with him and he couldn’t remember whether they’d ever come near him at all, but their childish faces, curly heads, and mischievous giggles could only mean one thing: freshmen.

5.       For three seconds between drying his hands and reaching for the ring, Mairon had leaned over the sink and inspected his own face. The stress of upcoming exams together with his thesis‘ due date drawing ever nearer gave him red spots along his jawline and he’d glared at them to will them away before Melkor picked him up.

Conclusion: As Mairon had been caught up in his own flaws, one or both of those bastards had sidled up to him and stolen the ring out of his pocket without him noticing. This implied many things, for example that the fatigue was getting to Mairon’s mental capacities or that those freshmen were unusually sneaky. Chiefest of all was this though: Melkor had paid half a fortune for that golden band. For Mairon to lose it, well. It would spell disaster.

Mairon glared at himself in the dirt-speckled mirror, bracing himself on the sink. Three seconds, oh he would show those impertinent, stupid, drunkard gnomes what he could do to a person in three seconds. Mairon took a deep breath and marched out of the bathroom, back to the round table his study group occupied. Eönwe and Tilion were at each other’s necks with arguments dissecting Descartes’ meditations while Osse and Uinen had their tongues down each other’s throats with disgusting slobbering noises. No studying to be done here, one of the sodden constants of Mairon’s life. He grabbed his notes and tablet and shoved them into his bagpack with more force than necessary which had Curumo look up from where he had hovered over his mess of tiny handwritten notes. He looked a little like a deer in head-lights, always lost was poor Curumo. Mairon rolled his eyes and tugged at his classmate’s sleeve.

“What?” Curumo whined, reluctant to forgo the last stretch of productivity he illusioned himself with, but he was already packing up.

“Come with me,” Mairon replied. “We’re going to hunt down some freshmen.”

After a quick text to Melkor to explain he needn’t be picked up today, Mairon dragged Curumo out of the library. The dismayed reply came seconds later, and Melkor wasn’t at all happy with the excuse of needing to tutor Curumo on their upcoming French test. Melkor and Curumo had never gotten along and if Mairon was honest with himself, he would have ditched Curumo after the first week of the first semester, but sometimes the guy proved useful. Especially because, in spite of his timid disposition, he somehow knew everyone on campus, ranging from the most introverted freshman all the way to the creepy maintenance guy who smelled like he lived in the sewers.

“What for?” Curumo asked. They crossed the student-littered yard, dodging peer-pong balls and caffeine-crazed grad students to the cafeteria where Mairon figured his best bet would be. Freshmen were always hungry, and he had a vague memory of four curly-haired heads positively camping in there at all times, claiming they needed seven meals a day to function.

“They stole something from me,” Mairon muttered, raking his hands through his hair. He’d neglected to trim it to its usual chest length and it was getting quite out of hand, tangling at the lightest breeze. Still better than what Curumo’s mother had done to him over the last holiday, short and ragged so that he looked like Jack Frost.

“What did they steal?”

“My engagement ring.”

“What?” Curumo spluttered, and almost ran into the door, but Mairon held it open in time. Under the pretence of having lunch – Mairon never had university lunch if he could help it, the stuff was vile and Melkor was a great cook if he wanted to be – they both got into line, eyes darting about for the thieves.

Mairon spotted the usual groups as he scanned the perimeter. The musical theatre kids led by a haughty grad student with a harp who had a gazillion brothers around. The nature-loving hippies who smoked too much weed for their own good and gave themselves funny names and pretended to be trees on weekends. The burly punk rockers who rode Harleys and had a kink for arson, Mairon had met their gang head Gothmog in a colloquium once, he wasn’t too bad. Even the naval engineering students who usually spent all their free time down by the beaches to test their self-crafted boats where in attendance, picking at salads and discussing hydraulics. Not a sign of those nasty burglars though.  

The guy behind the counter handed him a tray, and Mairon took it, paying with his student ID chip card before turning back towards the room, just in time to see a pair of dark, curly heads disappear through the swinging doors of the cafeteria, chips trailing after them like crumbs. Mairon dropped his food and took off after them, spitting curses. Curumo, the good dog that he was, mirrored this. They tore out of the cafeteria and down the hallway together.

“Hey,” Mairon screamed. “Hey, stop!” The two freshmen threw hasty glances over their shoulders, hollering as they ran and dodged around students, but Mairon and Curumo were faster, knew these halls better and soon enough, they had the two cornered against a row of blue lockers.

“Now,” Mairon crooned and made to advance on them, but before he could, someone interrupted him. “Now you will repent.”

“Hey, what do you want with them,” he barked and two people stepped into Mairon’s and Curumo’s way, obscuring the goblins from view. They were both jocks, broad-shouldered and bearded, and towered a head over Curumo and Mairon. He knew the blond one, Eomer, an agriculture major, from a finance class they’d both taken as an elective, but he’d never seen the other man before. He was the one who’d spoken and wore a sports shirt of a team Mairon had never heard of. A white tree was their logo and their motto was written in a strange swirl of letters that looked almost Arabic.

“Just a friendly chat,” Mairon said through gritted teeth. “Not to worry.”

“That didn’t sound so friendly to me,” the guy growled and Eomer put a hand on his shoulder, nodding. His scowl deepened and his eyes burned, staring daggers into Mairon’s.

“Weren’t you that condescending guy at the back of Accounting 101 who called everyone peasants?” he asked and Mairon sighed inwardly. One bad day to haunt him. Or well, a whole semester of bad days, but who was counting anyway? Melkor had been abroad for that time and Mairon had suffered terribly.

“Why do you even care?” Mairon asked, and Curumo put a warning hand to his arm. It wasn’t unlikely that he’d seen these two beat someone up at some frat party before, but Mairon wasn’t intimidated by such mundane things as physical violence.

“Because they’re our friends,” the second jock growled, crossing his arms over his chest. It was hard not to laugh, these fully grown men proclaiming themselves friends of two troublemakers who weren’t even legally adults yet.

“Look, guys,” Curumo said quietly. “Merry and Pippin stole something very valuable from my friend here and he is rather upset about it.”

Eomer bared his teeth, but the other guy whirled around to stare at the two thieves in question who were huddled against the lockers, but silently giggling amongst themselves.

“Is this true?” he asked, and the tone of his voice implied he knew already. Helpless or not, they probably had a reputation for mischief-making.

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” one of them said with a thick accent.

“You said it yourself,” the other added, “he is a condescending ass.���

“Boys.”

“Boromir.”

“Enough,” Mairon hissed and pushed through the two jocks and bore down on the freshmen, holding out his empty palm. “You give me back my ring or I will make your lives here a living nightmare. You can hire as many football players and wannabe wrestlers as you want, I am very good friends with the dean, I have more than enough money to bribe every professor in the state to bully you and my boyfriend will beat every last one of your bodyguards to a pulp. Is that clear?”

Merry and Pippin stared at him, their facial muscles contorting in a series of impossible expressions, torn between laughing and crying. They settled for blankness and, at last, Pippin handed over the ring. It was smudged with grease from his fingers and Mairon pulled out a linen handkerchief to polish it with.

“I’m sorry, they’re still not used to their actions having consequences,” Boromir sighed and Eomer nodded sternly.

“Whatever,” Mairon said with half a shrug and he stalked off the scene, leaving Curumo to deal with the polite formalities or whatever the situation demanded. He had his ring back, he could call Melkor to get him after all, he would get laid tonight while all these losers were busy with their parties and teenager friends and studying until their eyes bled. It was not ten minutes later that Mairon was comfortably tucked into Melkor’s Chevrolet, the heated seat warming his ass-cheeks.

“Have a nice day?” Melkor grumbled, not taking his eyes off the parking lot around them. Mairon leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of his beloved’s mouth.

“Nothing special,” he replied and leaned into the backrest. “Nothing special at all.” The ring glinted in the low-afternoon sun and everything was as it should be.

[farooqposts]

Culture of Punjab Pakistan

Punjabi Culture is one of the most established in world history, dating from old artifact to the cutting edge time. The degree, history, intricacy and thickness of the way of life are huge. A portion of the principle regions of the Punjabi culture include: Punjabi cooking, theory, verse, imaginativeness, music, design, customs and qualities and history. A few urban areas of Punjab have more significance for Sikh people group from India. The author of Sikh religion was brought into the world in Nankana Sahib, an area of Punjab so Sikh from various pieces of world come and visits Punjab. Jahngir burial chamber and Badshahi Masjid in Lahore are the significant spots of Pakistan. Information Sahib is extremely frightened spot in Punjab and the greater part of individuals come and visit Data sahib consistently.

Individuals

Punjabi individuals are kind and carefree. Punjabis are heterogeneous gathering involving various clans, factions, networks and are known to commend every single convention of their way of life. Individuals of Punjab have solid convictions on pir-faqeers, jogi, taweez, manat-ka-dhaga, holy person of notoriety, dark wizardry, and different notions, anyway as of late because of increment of proficiency, individuals have gotten to some degree judicious . Punjabis likewise trust in cast framework yet as now individuals are getting instructed, the distinctions are getting obscured. Some well known projects of Punjabi's are; Jats, Maliks, Mughals, Arains, Gujjars, Awans, Rajputs, Gakhars, Khokhars, Sheikhs, Aheers, Kambohs, Niazis, Legharis, Khosas, Dogars, Thaheem, Mirani, Qureshis, and Syeds.

In towns' kin generally live in little networks (biradaris), anyway they live in harmony and congruity with one another. They take dynamic part in the bliss/lament of one another and give a lot of regard to their way of life, standards and run their lives as per their set customs. Punjabi individuals are acclaimed for their cordial and cherishing nature.

Dialects

Punjabi is the common language of Punjab. It is communicated in as the principal language by larger part individuals in Punjab, even spoken and comprehended in regions past the limits of Punjab. Statistical data points show that Punjabi language is communicated in as first language by 44% of Pakistanis. Urdu language is likewise regularly spoken in this district. Key Punjabi dialects/tongues are:

Pothowari

Hindko

Jhangvi

Shahpuri

Pahari

Majhi

Saraiki

Dresses

Outfits of Punjab are a sign of the brilliant and dynamic culture and way of life of individuals.

The ensembles are a blend of tones, solace and excellence and Punjab is notable for the utilization of phulkari(embroidery) in its outfits. In the greater part of the towns of Punjab men wear Pagri(turban), dhoti/lacha, kurta, khusa. Ladies wear gharara, or choridar pajama or beautiful shalwar kameez, paranda, choli/duppata, khusa, kola puri chappal or tillay wali jutti. While in metropolitan zones of Punjab people follow most recent patterns and design, by and large they wear various styles of shalwar kameez.

Food

The broad food of Punjab can be vegan and non-veggie lover. One shared characteristic between all Punjabi dishes is the liberal use of ghee or explained margarine flavors and Punjabis are enamored with sweet-meats too. Most Punjabi food is eaten with one or the other rice or roti. There are a few dishes that are select to Punjab, for example, Mah Di Dal, Paratha, Makai ki rotti, Saron Da Saag, and in urban areas Choley, Haleem, Baryani and other fiery dishes are mainstream. In refreshments, tea is burned-through altogether seasons and as a custom the greater part of Punjabis serve tea to their visitors. Punjabis are additionally partial to Zarda, Gulab-Jamuns, Kheer, Jalaibi,Samosy, Pakorey and so forth During summers individuals drink lassi, doodh-pop, aloo bokharey ka sharbat, lemonade and so forth These cooking styles have become overall luxuries with enormous scope portrayal.

Sports

Punjabi individuals have over the top interest in games. Punjabi's are attached to kabaddi, and wrestling, which is likewise well known in different pieces of Pakistan and it's additionally played on public level. Different games being played in Punjab area incorporate Gilli-Danda, Khoo-Khoo, Yassu-Panju, Pitho-Garam, Ludo, Chuppan-Chupai, Baraf-Panni, Kanchy and some significant games incorporate cricket, boxing, horse-dashing, hockey and football. Public Horse and Cattle Show at Lahore is the greatest celebration where sports, presentations, and domesticated animals rivalries are held.

Social Festivals

There are various celebrations which are praised by Punjabi individuals including some strict celebrations, for example, Eid-Milad-Un-Nabi, Jumu'ah, Laylat-ul-Qadr and so on Urcs (reverential fairs),which are held at the shirnes of sufi holy people, Melas and Nomaish (exhibitions).The Provincial capital Lahore is broadly well known for its engaging occasions and exercises. Lahori's are popular everywhere on the country for their festivals especially for Basant celebration (kite flying) in the spring season. Different celebrations celebrated in Punjab district incorporate Baisakhi, Teej, Kanak Katai and so on

Dance and Music

Bhangra is most regularly known Punjabi music kind and dance style. Punjabis enthusiastically love society melodies/music, Qawali and Punjabi music is perceived all through the world. The Tabla, Dhol, Dholki, Chimta, Flute and Sitar are on the whole basic instruments of this great culture. Punjabi dance is based around joy, energy and enthusiasm.Different types of dance in Punjab are: Loddi, Dhamal, Sammi, Kikli, Gatka, Bhangra, Giddha and Dandiya. Punjabi moves have been embraced by the American culture and others the same and now they are perhaps the most appreciated artistic expressions.

Custums and Rituals

A portion of the traditions continued in Punjab have no establishment in Islam. Nonetheless, the Punjabi culture has embraced those functions and conventions from Hindu culture.

Birth Rituals

Punjabis praise birth of their kid with extraordinary eagerness. Granddad or grandma or some regarded senior part from the family puts nectar with their pointer in youngster's mouth called Ghutii. Desserts are conveyed among companions and family members and individuals bring presents for the kid and mother. For the most part on 7thday youngster's head is shaven and Aqiqa service is held, additionally sheep/goat is butchered.

Punjabi Weddings

Punjabi weddings depend on conventions and are directed with solid impression of the Punjabi culture followed by a few pre-wedding customs and ceremonies (dholki,mayun,ubtan etc.)Punjabi weddings are exceptionally boisterous, vigorous, brimming with music,colors, extravagant dresses, food and moving. Punjabi weddings have numerous traditions and functions that have advanced since conventional occasions. In urban communities the wedding are praised following a mix of current and customary traditions and the function for the most part goes on for 3days, Mehndi, Barat (Nikkah+Ruksati) and Walima, trailed by Chauti (taking the lady of the hour back to her folks' home the following day).

Burial service Rituals

At burial services after namaz-e-janaza it is standard to offer lunch to individuals who came for sympathy. On 3rdday of the memorial service, Qul is held and each after thursday the Quran is discussed (jumah-e-raat) trailed by petitions for perished and after 40days the chaliswaan is held. After which the memorial service is finished. A few families notice commemorations yearly (barsi).There is no proper clothing regulation for Punjabi memorial services anyway individuals generally wear shalwar kameez and easygoing attire is noticed. Memorial services of Shia families are more exceptional. The two people wear dark shalwar-kameez and thorough crying and shouting is a typical event at such memorial services.

Writing

Punjab is exceptionally rich with writing and Sufis adds more in its writing. Punjabi verse is famous for its amazingly profound importance, excellent and cheerful utilization of words. The enormous number of Punjabi verse is being made an interpretation of all through the world into numerous dialects. Some acclaimed writers of Punjabi are Sultan Bahu, Mia Mohammad Baksh, Baba Farid, Shah Hussain, Anwar Masood and so forth Waris Shah, whose commitment to Punjabi writing is most popular for his fundamental work in Heer Ranjha, known as Shakespeare of Punjabi language. Bulleh Shah was a Punjabi Sufi artist, a humanist and a logician. The stanza from Bulleh Shah basically utilized is known as the Kafi, a style of Punjabi. Some other well known classic stories of Punjab incorporate Sassi-Punnu, Sohni Mahiwal and so forth that are going through ages.

Expressions and Crafts

Punjab is the significant assembling industry in Pakistan's economy and here every workmanship appreciates a position. The fundamental specialties made in the high countries and other rustic territories of Punjab are basketry, earthenware, which are well known for their cutting edge and customary plans everywhere on the world and are remembered for the best developments of Punjabis. bone work, material, fabric woven on handlooms with staggering prints is weaved in the provincial territories and the weavers produce beautiful fabrics like cotton,silk and so forth weaving, weaving, rugs, stone art, adornments, metal work alongside truck workmanship and other wood works. The specialty of Punjab is its basic soul and its art make its substance.

[news4bees]

Things I do to make my ADD/ADHD slightly more manageable.

Full disclosure: everyone is different and non-neurotypical behaviors are not a copy-paste situation. What works for me might put others in the exact opposite head space and that’s okay. I just wanted to share what I’ve learned works for me over the years. I’ve been really struggling with my ADD/ADHD lately and I need to remind myself of the healthy coping mechanisms I’ve developed so I can implement them again.

1. Have a morning routine.

Working from home as a freelance editor / publishing consultant, I have a lot of autonomy over my day. Which is great… if I make the most of it. I learned a long time ago that I am most productive in the morning, so it’s important for me to get myself into the right head space as soon as possible. I set an alarm to get out of bed at 7:00am every day, I try and go on a walk around the neighborhood first thing (weather permitting—we don’t mess around with rain or snow), I eat breakfast (usually including either coffee or tea for caffeine purposes and warmth) and take my supplements, and prep for my day. It sounds super simple, but it’s really all about inertia. A body at rest will want to stay at rest. I’ve had just as many days where everything goes according to plan and I’m able to have a productive day as days where I don’t get out of bed until I have to drag myself to my service job in the afternoon. So having that morning routine and sticking to it can honestly be a night and day difference for me.

2. Make a schedule for my day.

I have a terrible concept of time. I can look at a task, assume it’s going to take several hours, and abandon it before I even begin. Or I can see a gap of time in my day (such as the two hours between lunch and when I have to get ready for work) and be worried it’s too small of a window to accomplish anything so I lie around instead. By creating a schedule, literally an hour-by-hour layout of how I want my day to progress, I have a tactical roadmap for how to achieve my goals. I also make sure I schedule little breaks and time to eat, walk around, shower, etc. into my day so I don’t forget. It doesn’t have to be perfect, and I have to remind myself not to get upset if I end up deviating from the schedule for one thing or another. It’s mainly supposed to help me look at my day in a way that makes more sense to me and how my brain processes time. I fully understand that there are others that might see my hour-by-hour schedule and be completely overwhelmed—that’s fine! Find what works for you.

3. Set attainable little goals.

This one goes hand in hand with making myself a schedule. If I have a giant task I need to complete at a future date, I really struggle with conceptualizing it as something I need to get started on now. I see that future date, feel overwhelmed, try to calm myself down by thinking, “It’s okay, I have time,” and will sit on that task until the last minute when I have to scramble to get it done. It’s procrastination, yes, but it’s also not feeling too overwhelmed to act on something until there is that “go go go!” anxiety-inducing pressure to get it done. So I break it down into smaller pieces and set little goals. A 352 page manuscript I have to create an index for by March? Scary. But indexing one or two chapters a day? Much more doable. This also helps me accomplish non work-related tasks, such as calling the bank or scheduling appointments or canceling a subscription—things I would have trouble accomplishing on my own otherwise because my I have trouble differentiating between “important” and “immediate”. Goals don’t have to be solely task oriented either. Set a goal to reach out to a friend you haven’t connected with in a while; set a goal to meditate for fifteen minutes, or be intentional about doing something you love like reading or art or exercise. Personally, the more things I can check off my “to-do” list the better, so I write out everything I want to try and get done, even if I would have done it regardless.

4. Keep distractions out of reach.

This one is extremely tricky for me since I work exclusively out of my room since I moved back home. I’m always surrounded by distractions, from my phone to my bookshelves to the dozens of internet tabs I constantly have open on my laptop. I have little tricks I know work for me: keeping my phone on the charger in a different room (but close enough that I can still connect to the Bluetooth), leaving the book I’m currently reading and the journal where I write my fiction in my work bag downstairs, blocking YouTube and other distracting sites from my laptop, and making my bed each morning so I’m not tempted to crawl under the covers when I’m feeling burnt out. But knowing these things will help eliminate distractions and actually implementing these techniques are two very different things for me. As I write this, my phone is on the charger next to me, my fiction journal is within easy reach and I have corresponding document opened in another tab, none of my site-brokers are enabled, and my bed is a mess of cozy blankets—all major distractions for me that I’m blatantly ignoring. So what can I do about this? Set a new goal: move my phone and journal out of the room, close unnecessary tabs, re-engage the site blockers, and make my bed. Little things to reset my headspace and get back on track.

5. Have an accountability buddy.

While freelancing gives me a lot of personal freedoms, it also means I function as my own boss. Some people might enjoy such responsibility, but I personally really struggle when I’m not constantly checking in with someone and showing them my progress. An accountability buddy doesn’t need to function like a micro-managing boss, but they should be someone you can go to and say, “Here’s what I set out to do today and here’s what I accomplished.” Currently, I do not have a good accountability buddy (my ex was my accountability buddy when we were together during my last semester at college, but he often criticized me for only working in short sprints and needing to take a lot of breaks, so I’ve been really hesitant to trust another person in that role ever since), but my mom often lets me inform her about my goals and will share some of her’s in turn; my dad and sister on the other hand get uncharacteristically angry when I ask about goals, so I’ve learned to steer clear. Mirroring is also a common strategy for ADD/ADHDers. The visual stimulation of seeing someone else working can often be a bit of a jumpstart to my brain that says, “Okay, it’s time to do things.” In the old days, this meant I would spend hours in the library or at coffee shop doing my homework instead of my apartment because I was surrounded by others with similar tasks. Now, if I find myself needing a mirror I’ll move my operation to the kitchen table so that I’m closer to where my mom works and I can feed off her productive energy, so to speak.

6. Give myself grace.

Whenever I have an unproductive day, my first instinct is to be angry or upset at myself. What kind of person spends the entire day in bed and doesn’t get a single thing done? This would lead me down a self-deprecating path of calling myself useless and a garbage person, which is a big trigger for my depression and I can easily find myself spiraling. ADD/ADHD means my brain functions differently, but at the end of the day my brain still works. It doesn’t mean I’m stupid or lazy, and a bad day doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. My schedule and my list of goals are a template to help me focus, but if something happens that gets me off task, whether intentional or unintentional, I have to remind myself that it is not the end of the world. I have to give myself grace and forgiveness, because things happen.

I’d be really interested to hear what other strategies people have developed to manage their ADD/ADHD, especially in the midst of a pandemic that might have altered the way we approach our days. Keep being awesome!

[londonspirit]

Occasionally, Dan Levy will pick up his phone and send a text: “Can you believe it?” These messages are sent to Annie Murphy or Noah Reid or Emily Hampshire or Karen Robinson, former inhabitants of Schitt’s Creek, titular town of the series Levy co-created with his identically-browed father, Eugene. What Levy can’t quite believe is that a CBC and Pop network show that aired in the U.S. after reruns of The Young and the Restless became a no-shit international phenomenon and won every major 2020 comedy Emmy from Outstanding Series to Outstanding Contemporary Costumes, plus awards for the show’s four main cast members: Levy, Levy the elder, Murphy, and Catherine O’Hara.

Not that Levy has any qualms about the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Or, more accurately, the best thing he’s ever made happen: In addition to creating, writing, and starring as skeptical scion David Rose on Schitt's Creek, Levy occasionally directed episodes and sourced many of the award-winning costumes. But the endless wretchedness of 2020 is perhaps an inopportune time to publicly garner good fortune.

“What this year has done has opened so many people's eyes to so much of the social unrest that is happening in America and really forced people to learn more,” Levy says, sitting in the bland Toronto apartment the 37-year-old is temporarily renting until he can head back to LA. “Read more. Educate themselves more. Check their privilege more. And yet…” Levy’s magnificent eyebrows unfold from a furrow of probity to an arch of delight, and his mouth into a crooked tilde of a smile. “There are moments when I think it is important for your sense of self to also be OK to say, ‘Something good happened to me this year, and I worked really hard for it.’ And so did a group of really talented people that I love. You're kind of caught in this place where only you can talk about it amongst yourselves.” Levy’s conversations with his co-stars are couched in language familiar to anyone who doesn’t want to give off the vibe of an Instagram caption on a pandemic birthday trip to a private island: "Well, obviously, you know, this is not of much significance" compared to everything else that’s going on. Still, Levy has to acknowledge that, yes, a good thing did happen; after all, he says, “You're talking about breaking records at the Emmys!”

Since he began social distancing, Levy has engaged in something like a fame-offset program, matching his good fortune by taking, publicizing, and raising money for University of Alberta’s online Indigenous Canada course. Levy’s queasiness about his success happening with a 2020 backdrop seems to stem from goodness so pervasive he’s caught himself thinking, Am I going to seem too, like, sincere? (When I ask if he believes he’s a good person, Levy frets, “Is being a good person something you can proclaim? Or is being a good person something that someone has to observe about you?”)

And Schitt’s Creek itself is an oasis of kindness — it doesn’t seem coincidental that after a slow five-season ascent, the show’s viewership exploded in its final year as we quarantined with our own bad thoughts. Levy has said that the arc of the Rose family — a “Balenciaga” to “consignment Balenciaga” to “back to current season Balenciaga” story — is based on the question, “Would the Kardashians still be the Kardashians without their money?” To Levy, the answer is obvious: Yes, and they would be better for it because, he says, “There is a love to that family.” So of course when the Roses lose the fortune amassed from a video rental empire and are forced to move to a Canadian town purchased as a novelty gift, they learn what truly matters.

Levy’s father and collaborator, Eugene, who co-wrote Christopher Guest films Best In Show and A Mighty Wind, says, “There are people who work in the world of comedy where they like to push envelopes in terms of what they can get away with, but that may come at the expense of other people. If it's at all important to you to avoid then you, you know, avoid it.” With the notable exception of programs like The Great British Bake Off — Levy, naturally, used to host the Canadian iteration — it is quite a bit more difficult to be entertaining and kind than entertaining and cruel. But Dan Levy attributes some of Schitt’s Creek’s success to what he calls “a purity to the storytelling and the show that caught people off guard because it was so unexpectedly sincere.” “There was something badass about the fact that it didn't have the kind of edge that people had often equated with cable comedies,” he says.

Making Schitt’s Creek a source of goodness and light was an unrelenting crush for Levy. “How much anger and rage do I have to repress in order to get the light out?” he says, laughing and stroking his elderly dog, Redmond, so vigorously I worry about ginger fur getting on Levy’s David Rose-appropriate black and white JW Anderson T-shirt. “Um, at times a lot.”

When Levy was working on Schitt’s Creek, he was picked up every morning at 5 a.m. and driven to set, where he would rehearse and rewrite scenes. Next was making decisions about sets and wardrobe fittings for cast members like O’Hara. Moira Rose, the actor mother of Levy’s character with a grandeur as flamboyant as her choice of syllable emphasis, might have to go to meet someone who makes her feel exposed. Levy would supervise an outfit selection that functioned as a billboard for her emotional state. “How do you express vulnerability?” Levy asks. “Well, you put more clothes on, and more aggressive clothes on, so as to armor yourself.” Levy needed to approve budgets, which didn’t increase even as the show gained more attention. He would act and sometimes direct, and then be back in wardrobe picking out the right statement necklaces for O’Hara to wear to buy a used car.

After filming ended, Levy went to the writers’ room to work for a couple more hours. He’d get home at 8 p.m., quickly eat dinner, and write until 2 a.m. on some nights. Then he’d sleep for two hours and get in the car to go back to work at 5 a.m. When shooting wrapped for the year, Levy went into post-production, spending months in windowless rooms. Once a season was finally completed, preparation would begin for the next one. Levy charged himself with making sure every detail connected to each other and tracked with the personal histories he and Eugene had written for each character before the series began. Eugene can remember only one deviation from those bios during the entire run of the show. Originally, the father of motel employee Stevie had been a roadie for Fleetwood Mac before receiving a restraining order from the band; the detail was later transferred to the father of diner waitress Twyla, who was played by Levy’s sister, Sarah. Several times during the run of the series, Levy developed anxiety so literally paralyzing that his neck would seize up, forcing him to wear a brace and receive chiropractic treatments between scenes.

“Through every phase of Schitt's Creek,” Eugene says, “Dan had a very strong sense as to what it was he wanted the show to look like and what he wanted it to sound like and what the tone of the show was going to be and what the message of the show would be. He certainly makes himself responsible to make these things happen. He doesn't go with the flow at all.”

Total control let Levy create a perfectly realized world, from the menu size in the Café Tropical to the caws in Moira’s comeback film The Crows Have Eyes III: The Crowening. But it’s perhaps not the healthiest arrangement when the confines of quarantine feel normal to you. “Over the past six years,” Levy says, “I really haven't been outside that much.”

When he was a boy, Levy became so anxious that he did not want to attend birthday parties. He did not want to go to summer camp. He did not, in fact, want to engage in any social situations. Levy’s anxiety physically manifested as iritis, an inflammation of the eye which doctors feared would eventually take his vision. It was as if the anxiety that drove Levy indoors had then decided to draw all the curtains.

“I think that came from a deep-rooted fear of knowing that I was gay and not being able to be free,” Levy says now. “By the time I got to high school, when your brain is starting to catch up to your physical impulses, it led to a very confusing time. Because on the one hand, you are now being introduced to things like self-awareness and anxiety. At the same time, you’re becoming more and more savvy when it comes to hiding it.”

The escape was theater. Levy began writing, directing, and performing in school plays, including a student-run stage adaptation of Clue produced during a teacher’s strike. “I was starting to develop a sense of confidence by way of being able to entertain people,” Levy says. “It was like a decoy version of myself that I was putting out there to not have to live with the reality that when the bullying was happening — if someone was calling me a f----t or whatever it was — they were speaking the truth.” What a cursed blessing to discover you have a gift but to understand it as a distraction from who you really are and not as a true part of yourself. No wonder that Levy says of creating a persona — naturally, in the self-distancing second person — “Your sense of self gets chipped away. You lose sight of your own value.”

Levy had a ticker of fears scrolling through his mind broadcasting what might happen if people knew who he really was: “Fear of being ridiculed. Fear of being othered. Fear of exposing something that I think a lot of high school students at the time didn't have the tools to process properly, to make it comfortable for me.”

Then, when he was 18, Levy came out. Actually, his mother, Deborah Divine, invited Levy to come out, over lunch. Levy accepted, and was accepted in return. It was one version of an inflection point that Levy has explored in some of his most impactful work. In Happiest Season, Hulu’s lesbian Christmas rom-com, Levy delivers the film’s high point in a monologue; filmmaker Clea DuVall tells me, “I cried during every take.”

“Everybody’s story is different,” Levy’s John says to Kristen Stewart’s Abby, who is planning to propose to a woman whose family doesn’t know she’s queer. “But the one thing that all of those stories have in common is that moment right before you say those words, when your heart is racing and you don’t know what’s coming next,” John goes on. “That moment’s really terrifying. And then once you say those words, you can’t unsay them. A chapter has ended and a new one’s begun, and you have to be ready for that.”

On the Schitt’s Creek episode “Meet the Parents,” David’s future in-laws discover their son Patrick is gay before he can come out to them. “Did we do something wrong, David?” Patrick’s father asks, inadvertently head-faking homophobia before saying, “The thought that Patrick was feeling like he couldn't come and talk to us about this…”

Obviously not everyone who comes out gets the response they’re hoping for. But like Patrick, Levy had a happy ending sitting in front of him: accepting and caring parents wondering when their son was going to tell them he was gay and trying to respect his timeline for doing so. When I ask Eugene if it’s painful knowing that he could have potentially alleviated the anxiety Levy was feeling by approaching him sooner, he concurs. “I would have done things so much differently, you know?” Eugene says slowly. “I would have gotten more involved in talking about what was going on.” But he doesn’t know that it would have changed anything — after all, the flow goes with Levy. “Not necessarily that we would have gotten any direct answers,” Eugene says. “You can only get back what you get back.” (Levy confirms he was not ready to discuss his sexuality before he was; despite his parents’ openness and love, he had created Schrödinger’s Eugene and Deb in his head, simultaneously welcoming him and rejecting him at the news.)

Newly out, Levy went to college and began dating. However, he says, “I was not in any place to be of great value in a relationship.” Like David Rose, Levy’s pitch tends to ascend on the back half of sentences, making him sound like he’s interrogating his own thought process. “You then get into these habits where you're dating people who are totally wrong for you because they're seeking out people who are a bit damaged,” Levy says, “and you're seeking out people who have one foot out the door so that you don't actually give yourself over in any kind of way.” (After I mention that while watching Happiest Season, I wanted Stewart’s character to dump her semi-emotionally damaging girlfriend and leave with Levy, he says, “In this conversation, I'm brought back to many a relationship [where] ‘RUN’ was just, like, the subtitle flashing for about a year and a half of my life.”)

Dating, then, became another way to keep people out. “I really got to a point where I felt like if I didn't make an active choice to pull myself out of this shell that was becoming such a comfort,” Levy says, “I would not be the adult that I want to be.” He spent a summer in England, answering phones at the ICM talent agency as exposure therapy for speaking, unscripted, to strangers. A month and a half later, he auditioned to be a host on MTV Canada. Levy says it was “the ultimate exercise in pushing myself and getting myself out there. If I could get a job on television asking other people questions — which had previously been on the top five things that I would never want to do — this could be the final kind of exercise in changing myself for the better.”

Like Levy’s high school theater work, his success as a host was a gnarled little monkey’s paw of unfortunate wish fulfillment. He was charismatic on screen and became famous enough to travel to New York on the weekends and get into the clubs he wanted to get into. Levy also pioneered the now-prevalent televised after-show with his The Hills discussion series, which exists in the same tonal universe as Schitt’s Creek: sharp enough to make you feel smart for laughing at it, but warm enough that Lauren Conrad herself was a guest.

But much of the work felt limiting. The questions he had to ask celebrities were pre-negotiated with publicists and written by producers — as Levy notes, “No one wants to sit down with someone from MTV Canada and have a revelatory chat about life.” One of his last appearances before quitting was the MTV Movie Awards red carpet. “You could see a kind of judgment in the people you're interviewing,” he says. “They're not rolling their eyes, but you can feel them thinking about rolling their eyes. And I know that a lot of the times they were questions I didn't necessarily want to be asked if I were in that situation.” Pretending to be the version of himself he thought people would accept, Levy says, “kind of just didn't feel worth it anymore.”

You know the next part. Levy realized he could keep the traits people had responded to when he performed — his charisma, his humor — add sincerity, and still be compelling. He spent half a decade grinding out something that was truly of himself. And through Schitt’s Creek Levy became, his father points out, “one of the top showrunners in the entertainment business right now.” Eugene says, “After the [Emmys] broadcast I think there were probably some executives who — if they even remember us going in to pitch the show — are probably kicking themselves.”

Based on what he does next, Levy is now in the unique position of being able to calibrate how famous he becomes. It’s evening in Toronto, and Levy mulls the question over what simply cannot be good wine; when I ask what kind it is, he says, “Red?” Levy knows he could choose to stay behind the scenes and work on the ABC Studios projects he has in development. But Levy is also in the early stages of a romantic comedy he would star in. He worries that he wouldn’t be able to handle uber-fame with the aplomb his co-star Kristen Stewart does. When they went out to a dive bar while filming in Pittsburgh, he says, “I was just so kind of in awe of her confidence and comfort in herself. She's so at ease — [I say that] as someone who I think will always be on their journey to have that for myself.”

“Dan’s assessment is actually incorrect,” Stewart says later. “But what I have done is try to keep that experience [of fame] fairly insular, not make other people I’m with take on the weight of my own self-consciousness — or, God forbid, have someone think I’m up my own ass and loving the attention. It’s easier for me to pretend [people noticing me] is not happening, even though on the inside I still feel like the world is a big school yard of giggling onlookers. Are they laughing at me? Yes, no… Who cares.”

If Levy ever does find himself in the position of being Stewart-famous, she thinks he’ll be fine. “What I did notice was how absolutely wonderful Dan is with everyone,” she says. “He is so loving and gracious towards people that recognize him. The positive force he puts out into the world is clearly reflected in how people come back at him.”

What Levy is putting out into the world next: “I would like to date more,” he says, shoulders bashfully rising ceilingward. “Circumstance plays such a huge part in what we accept for ourselves. When you're doing something that you love it’s like, ‘I have a full plate.’ Even though [Schitt’s Creek was] super intense and even though at times I need a neck brace, it was never not inspiring, and it was never not thrilling and exciting and totally satisfying. So to [want to] make space for someone else…in a way, it is the ultimate filter. You’re basically saying, do I want to carve out the space in an already full and fulfilled life for this person? And a lot of the time, the answer is no. But it only makes it that much better when the right person comes along.”

For now, Levy’s plate is full of his multiple simultaneous projects. (He says there are more than three but few enough that you could count them on both hands, though he doesn’t want to talk about them in detail until there’s actually something to talk about — if Levy follows the Schitt’s Creek model, he jokes, he’ll “get five seasons on television before anybody sees them.”) Before he begins writing, Levy must make sure his entire house is immaculate. Even today, months after the series finale of Schitt’s Creek aired, Levy is negotiating the length of the “fuck”-blocking bleeps of syndication. But as we have all learned this year, not everything is under our control, even if we are Dan Levy. Stewart remembers him panicking as he tried to decorate a new home and realized none of the furniture he bought made any sense together. “The idea of him left and right showrunning and developing and acting and writing — and then his sweater closet confounding him — was very cute,” she says.

A certain amount of acceptance will be useful as Levy figures out how to follow up a beloved hit show. “The goal was to make sure that the first season was exactly what we wanted it to be,” Levy says of his Schitt’s Creek thought process. “To use the resources that we have as best as we can to get that season out there, so that we can go to sleep at night knowing that if people don't respond to it and it gets pulled off the air, there was nothing more we could have done.” Levy leans forward with a sincerity he’d surely second-guess if he were writing this scene and explains the daunting task of living up to yourself. “That’s the goal of anything I'm gonna do from here on out. It's just, try and do the best job you can. Try to make sure that you're loving it.”

[thelaudown]

hyouka poly slowburn so its like: (post-anime)

satoshi and mayaka are dating all through highschool and houtarou and eru are maybe a little more invested than friends would normally be, and step in when they have problems to a degree that regular people would call a boundary issue.

houtarou and mayaka still give each other shit at every opportunity, but theyre much more outwardly friendly than before, and if she ever argues w satoshi houtarou is the first to say that theres no way its her fault. maybe one time it is and he confronts her abt it in a way that forces her to take him seriously. its the respect and codependency for me. 

mayaka and satoshi have functioning eyes and houtarous feelings for eru are completely obvious to them. unfortunately shes a little harder to read, so they never really get further than being very close friends and committing to being together for the foreseeable future, as far as this road will take them - its the same dynamic for the entire friend group, but satoshi starts seriously considering a proposal in third year. 

he and mayaka will be seperated through college - she wants to go to art school, he thinks he might like to be a teacher (specifically of like, textiles or language) and he thinks long distance is too much to ask of her. after a serious conversation she agrees and they take a break through college, but they are tentatively engaged, will be keeping in touch, and want to pick things back up once theyre both in the same location again. 

mayaka and eru flat in college, bringing up mayakas long buried feelings for her, and theyve always been so touchy, and she has a feeling that erus guilty about something? but she doesnt want to get her hopes up. she gets really frustrated and confides in the only person who knows both satoshi and mayaka and isnt involved - HOUTAROU, who attends a less prestigious college than eru but is taking similar business courses (he hasnt forgotten) and is commuting from home. 

hes closer to them than satoshi, but theres still a little distance and they dont meet as often as theyd like, partially bc he doesnt often make the effort - the energy he does have is expended on his classes, bc he has a motivation to do well - if he does, maybe eru will consider him without him even putting himself out there. anyway she still calls him on the phone all the time tho. 

he doesnt really have any advice when mayaka speaks to him, but hes quick to reassure her that satoshi wouldnt be bothered by her feelings - "because its eru". functioning adults refer to each other by their first names. it was a super embarassing transition period but theyre used to it now. 

so mayaka takes the leap and eru admits that while shes never really been one to dwell on romantic feelings, she reciprocates but is concerned abt satoshi - she loves him too, after all, and he and mayaka were/are/will be a great couple. she ends up confessing this to houtarou, filled w apologies and assurances that he neednt worry abt her personal matters, but he doesnt mind listening. anyway it stings (in a sad way, not a bitter one) that she apparently has interest in both mayaka and satoshi but not him, but he REALLY cant blame her. he tells her that he doesnt know how to advise her and she thanks him for listening, and then he does probably the most meddlesome thing hes ever done and calls satoshi and tells him everything. 

satoshi is really cool abt it, and hits him w "lol if theyre dating what if i just take you out to lunch. fairs fair. what do you mean you dont know about my massive crush on you, mr observer didnt pick it up? oh wow okay youre really stupid when it comes to yourself. ill pick you up on friday" and then satoshi calls mayaka and gives her his blessing and assures that he loves them both and wishes them the best and wow they REALLY need to catch up soon. hell bring houtarou and they can compare date notes! and he hangs up. 

satoshi is still kind of a petty guy and he probably only confessed to houtarou bc he was taken off guard, but hes not being inauthentic by any means. this is the new improved satoshi 2.0, who is becoming more comfortable w there being things he doesnt like abt himself and working on them and getting his feelings out constructively, rather than pushing them down and refusing to put himself in situations that might turn out badly. he gets his hopes up again, and is happier for it even when hes let down. 

eru is shocked to hear abt houtarou and satoshi. mayaka isnt. they talk abt it, interspersed w making out, and are shocked to realise that they like both of them - mayaka is ESPECIALLY taken off guard, both by her own feelings and erus, which shed never noticed before. she almost tells eru abt houtarous 3+ years of pining, but stops herself lest things get messy. shes starting to get an idea, but needs to tread lightly. besides, its not like houtarou wld ever like her. theyre barely even friends. it doesnt all add up as evenly as shed like. 

for houtarous part, hes genuinely in wtf mode irt satoshis feelings for him, and hes been in eru chitanda hell for so long that he never considered anything else, but now that he IS.... satoshi isnt so bad. he was always really cute w mayaka, when he wasnt being annoying for fun and profit. sure. okay. so they do some gay double dating through college, but the cross couple pining dont stop. satoshi is absolutely still obsessed w mayaka, but houtarou doesnt mind bc he cant take his eyes off eru whenever they meet up either. 

she still calls him on the phone all the time, and when schoolwork picks up he often finds himself calling her w thoughts or questions. they do some more thought exercises, but they dont need to argue as an excuse, and she barely has to badger him anymore. one day he looks at himself and sees a functioning adult who spends a moderate amount of energy on things that arent necessarily necessary, and wants to sigh, but. hes happy. 

college ends and they all find themselves back in kamiyama - satoshi is student teaching at their old middle school, eru is hard at work for her family, mayaka is working while she works on her manga debut, and houtarou is working while he figures out what he actually wants. 

its clear to all of them that mayaka and satoshi need to have a talk, so they do, and they come up with... poly. its unconventional, but they really are happy, and they really do love each other, and mayaka would love to start wearing her ring again (satoshi never took his off, and she pretended not to notice but she had the biggest lady boner over it). 

so now sometimes eru and houtarou are hanging out while their boyfriend and girlfriend are out on dates being engaged, making up for lost time and considering the practicality of marriage while they both have sidepieces, and houtarou and eru are pining BAD, but neither notices the other and he asks how her business is going and maybe kind of offers his assistance platonically. 

so now THATS happening, and satoshi and mayaka get to talking one day abt how those two should date, shld we do smth? and if they did then the only pieces missing are mayaka/houtarou and satoshi/eru which is a beautiful dream but wld never happen, what do you mean he/she wld love to date you, wait really, oh my god, what, are we doing this, 

and houtarou who has been working himself up to confessing for the past SEVEN YEARS, never gets to bc satoshi and mayaka interrupt while theyre at work and do it for him 

[ill-skillsgard]

Against the Rules - Henry Deaver x Mistress

Warning: 18+ overall. Mentions of sex/cheating/spousal conflict/mature themes. Please read at your own discretion.

Note: Thank you all for the asks and for following me on this ridiculous journey. Hope you enjoy this part. Let me know your thoughts. Any and allreblogs/comments are very much appreciated!

Read more Henry x Mistress here >   Masterpost

Everything was changing so fast. One day you were pouring coffee, wiping down tables and getting stiffed on tips in a hotel cafe and the next you were taking the elevator to the top floor standing next to Henry who looked great in his new suit.

It took some restraint not to tell him how good he looked in the slim-fitting ensemble. You had approved the look during a shopping trip he had taken you on a few days prior. It stood out in his wardrobe but wasn't flashy enough to attract too much attention. There was just something different about him. A bubbliness, a lilt, a brightness that erased the exhaustion from under his bi-coloured eyes. His employees and colleagues complimented him, unsure of what it was about him that seemed different. All they knew was that Henry Deaver looked great.

You knew what was different. Henry was happy.

His office was in the Easternmost corner of the top floor of a building that dwarfed many other prestigious surrounding businesses. Half the office was floor-to-ceiling windows and the rest of it was painted starch white. He had a comfortable desk and chair, all recent modern design, functionality and no compromise on style. The artwork on the walls were soulful glimpses of foreign lands festooned with lights, cobblestone, rolling hills and squat brown, red, yellow and orange structures.

"Wow," your voice echoed in the office.

"You can see why I try to spend as little time here as possible," he gestured around the wide room.

"I don't see why... This is a beautiful office."

"Really? Feels like a prison to me."

"A five-star prison," you laughed.

Henry shrugged his shoulders, shelving his large hands on his hips with a soliciting smile. "It's basically you and I in here occasionally. You met the receptionist out front but the desk just outside is yours whenever we're here. Nobody walks through these doors unless authorized."

"Unless they have an appointment," you recalled.

"That's right," he nodded. "See? Told you this was going to be easy."

"Except when somebody asks me a question about what to do or where to go."

"It's not your job to know. Your job is simply to take my calls if I'm busy, pencil in meetings, schedule my flights, book hotels and reservations. You know... Anything that has to do with me while I'm occupied. You are an extension of me. And don't look so worried, you'll get to know my clients quickly. My phone isn't ringing off the hook like some of the other guys in here."

"That's good to know," you completed your walk around his office and stopped a few feet from him.

His eyes climbed down your body and then back up. The pleasant smile softened, taking on a tinge of lust. "God, you look so good in that skirt."

"Mr. Deaver... I won't be needing to file a harassment claim so soon, will I?"

Henry snapped his fingers, remembering an important piece of information that trumped any kind of romantic exchange that may have continued. "That reminds me... You'll have to go talk to Helen in HR to go over some things. Sign some papers. Probably a whole lot of other Human Resource-related things. So, why don't we do that before heading to lunch?"

"Sure," you smiled.

Henry walked you through the office and brought you to a contrite little woman with a tight bun and grandmotherly features. Helen took you aside and had you sign a few documents, read a few pages and then handed you a page about workplace relationships and harassment.

"Now, we don't scrutinize what you do in your personal life, but it is against company policy for any employee to engage in romantic relationships with any performance-appraising figure. Now, since the only person you answer to is Mr. Deaver, that narrows it down a bit," the woman chuckled.

Your skin flared as a nervous breath left you in the form of a strained laugh. "Yes, of course."

"He's married, anyway. I don't think we have much to worry about. Nevertheless, you must sign to state you understand and accept the policy. You'll also have to complete a one-hour workplace harassment course. It's nothing really. Just an old, out-dated video with a multiple-choice test that you can't fail."

"Right," you nodded cooperatively.

Helen had you sit down and watch the workplace harassment video right then and there while she input all your information into a computer. The video was on a DVD and you couldn't remember the last time you had heard the crack of a plastic movie case being opened. The media format was youthful compared to the age of the video and you snickered at some of the campiness of a low-budget sexual harassment training video. Some parts made you cringe, and others made you sweat.

"If you ever feel assailed by your boss, you can speak up! If your employer withholds raises and promotions from you because of your refusal to accept romantic advances, you CAN speak up! If a co-worker makes inappropriate comments about your race, gender, sexual orientation or religion, you CAN speak up! There are laws in place to protect employees from unwanted advances. Remember... You CAN speak up! Your Human Resources officer will assist you and provide you with the proper steps..."

You lost yourself in daydreams and hardly paid attention to the video after a while. Henry had been strolling by the HR office every few minutes to flash you a look. It was cute to see how eager he was to get the ball rolling. The formalities were more painful to him than they were to you. When you were finally released from Helen's charge, Henry met you outside of the office and sighed.

"Jesus, what did you do in there? Watch all of her home movies?"

You laughed at the hint of a pout that tugged at his bottom lip, making the dimple on his chin appear and fade. "I had to watch a video on harassment in the workplace and I have to tell you... I learned some very interesting information watching all those poor, shoulder-pad-wearing employees being assailed by their bosses."

Henry clamped down on the inside of his cheek for a moment, shoulders rising with a silent laugh. "Right. Assailed."

You followed Henry back to his office where a laptop had appeared on his desk. He sat down in the desk chair and motioned for you to approach. You looked down at the screen he had up and didn't recognize even a square inch of what you saw.

"I have a bit of a database on my clients that you can use. It might be useful for when you get those phone calls. They won't assume that you don't know them, so you can use this to get a better idea of who they are, where they come from and our roles. Might make you sound better on the phone... not that you don't sound good on the phone."

You bit back a smirk, but it showed anyway. "Sure thing, Mr. Deaver."

He used his long legs to push himself out from under the desk. "Since it's getting kind of late, I figured we could order lunch in and just sit around. You know... Go over some stuff. I'll have to brief you on the current project. We'll be heading to Prague next week, so I'll have to get you the company card and all of that."

The day matured, the sun started to go down and five o'clock had come and gone along with nearly every person on the floor. Nobody came by to bother Henry, so you had several uninterrupted hours of learning. And he maintained his professionalism even during the times you tested him. When it came down to work, he was a tough man to distract. It was only the first day but you couldn’t resist trying to irk him a little bit.

Henry got up, shrugged out of his suit jacket and took a few stretching steps around the office. The skyline was starting to melt into purple that would then turn navy blue as a bruise, swivelled toward the door and went to peer out.

"Guess everyone's gone for the day," he said under the distinct locking of the door.

"I suppose so. We stayed late."

"It's necessary. We need to get you up to speed as soon as possible. We fly next week. How are you feeling about everything? Is there anything that still confuses you?"

You thought about all he had taught you in those hours and shrugged. "If I think of a question, I'll ask you, sir."

Henry flashed a sage smile that soon faded as he looked out over the darkening city line. "You hungry?"

"Only for your cock."

"Babe... Come on. It's our first day."

"Not my first day wanting every inch of that--"

"I'm serious!" He turned from the windows and approached the desk.

His lack of playfulness was disconcerting, but you respectfully shut your mouth and waited for him to circle the desk. Henry pushed the chair you were in to make some space between you and the desk. Sidestepping, he came up close, peering down with that same humourless expression.

"Get up," he muttered.

"Why?"

"You're questioning me already? Get. Up." He hammered out the last two words.

"Okay," you murmured, rising from the chair.

"Bend over the desk," he then whispered.

When you were resting your weight on the flat surface, Henry took a step behind you. No contact was made, and you turned your head to see what the reflections in the windows told of. He let his palm slide flat against the back of your skirt before it pulled back in a flash and clapped you.

Henry had never done that to you before. Jaw distended and eyes wide, you looked back at him and couldn't tell if you should make light of it or entertain the perversity by playing along.

"When you're in my office," he began. "You follow my rules. Out there you get to be whomever you want. Mistress, sex kitten, the innocent-looking girl from the cafe... But in here... You're fucking mine. And you listen to me. And you never ever question my authority. Do you understand?"

Had Henry been capable of this the whole time or had he picked up this trick from hanging around with you too much? Either way, it sent excitement trilling all over your body, manifesting between your legs as pure arousal. Hearing his voice darken and those domineering words sliding down the back of your neck as his hand squeezed your ass made you shiver.

"I said... Do you understand?" His groin pressed into you from behind.

"Yes, sir."

"That's right." He undid his belt and sat down in the desk chair that you had previously occupied. "Oh, I love having my own naughty little office slut."

A trickle of his usual pleasant tone returned, and you smiled at him. The jangling of his belt falling away caught your attention and you watched him pull his cock out of the pants you had been admiring all day.

"Come sit on your boss' cock."

"Sir... Isn't that against the rules?"

"Do I look like I give a shit? Go ahead and run to HR and tell them about how your pussy got so wet from the thought of fucking your boss that you simply couldn't help but..." He reached out to hike up your skirt and wrench down your panties. "Slide your panties off and have a seat on his lap."

You indulged him. Of course. Because indulging him meant indulging yourself and the thought of Henry fucking you in the middle of his office, after hours, in front of a mammoth pane of glass while the city twinkled below was not a fulfillment you could take off the shelf any another day but today. It had to happen right then and there. So much of your time had been spent fantasizing about how delectable it would be to fuck Henry in his office. But this was even better. Henry was playing conductor this time.

"Come on, don't worry," his words rang sweetly. "Door's locked. Everyone's gone home. You and I can have a little more private time, right? I could have fucked you twenty times already today and nobody would have known."

"Why didn't you?"

"Oh," Henry chortled, not so easily derailed by your challenge. "Trust me, sweetheart... Daddy was thinking about it."

Your mouth opened but a quip could not follow how he had addressed himself. Shit, Henry had it in him. It was you who normally initiated the depravity. You wanted to be proud of him, but you could do that later.

Cashing in on that fulfillment, you relaxed against him like he was but part of the chair. He hissed when he spotted the right angle and slid every inch of himself into you dreadfully slow. He breathed next to your ear and hummed with delight when you sat flush against him, thighs spread out over his. The cold metal of his belt poked you too, but you didn't care. It was filthy and evocative of the spit in the face of professionalism that Henry seemed to hold so high.

Dark reflections in the window became an extradimensional porno playing on a crystal projector screen in the foreground of the city you had grown up in. Henry wasn't the quiet, apprehensive man-in-black that you met at your old job. And you weren't the girl with a simplified life of frugality and the less-than-average sex life. You had joined together at the right moment to cause this.

"Oh my god, Mr. Deaver... That’s so much. You’re so big," you whimpered.

The depth of the chair didn't allow for much leverage, even if he scooted himself and you down to prop himself on planted feet. You rose up suddenly, afraid you might fall forward until he encircled you, holding you to him so he could then splay you out over the desk. From his new standing position behind you, he used both hands to yank you down to meet his pelvis. Your skirt inched up your waist as the slapping of skin kept time with your pulse.

Four long fingers stroked your throat, squeezing gently to guide you up. He needed to tell you something, but he couldn't bear to stop the assault on your pussy from behind. You were glistening wet and the sounds of him slipping in and out of you made his balls tighten.

"Who's the boss of you?"

"You are sir," you choked beneath the grip on your neck.

"Yes, little lady. That's correct. You answer to me. You do as I say."

"Yes," he shook a gasp out of you.

Henry nipped the side of your neck and you jolted from the sting. "My nasty little assistant. What would I do without you? What would I do without that tight, tight pussy to shoot my fucking cum inside?"

"I don't know, I don't know!"

"Well, now I don't ever have to go without. I can have you any time I want. Oh, yes... You're mine all mine."

"I'm yours, daddy."

[diaryofasupergroupie]

How to accidentally walk into a relationship - again

At this point it has become a personality trait, something I am known for. I have spoken about talents which I have learned throughout my time being a groupie but accidentally finding myself in relationships is all me. A few of you have been following my new relationship with an actor which I shall call R (not at all his name so don’t try to guess). I suppose this can also act as an update and not just a demonstration of my stupidity.

After a lovely date and some time at home I travelled to London again to see him Thursday. When we have been apart we have been talking pretty consistently and without fail will say goodnight. I arrived in the middle of the day and met him at a bar where we had lunch. It was all very lovely and he talked to me about some drama he’s having regarding rumours started by his ex wife - apparently, you know I’m cynical about things such as this. So far R has been extremely nervous with certain things. We get on very well and he appeals to the part of me which adores the awkward nerdy men of the world. He is adorable and says wonderful things to me about how he’s surprised I even want to be around him. For reference he is around 15 years older than I am. The anxiety doesn’t put me off at all and the things he seems to be nervous about when we talk I find cute.

R ordered drinks and opened a tab and as the day went on became more at ease. He started to intentionally make jokes and touched me a little more than he would usually. At that point I didn’t know but he also had taken some anxiety meds. I have different levels of drunk and I became a solid 6/10 I was able to function and make choices but I was also doing things I perhaps wouldn’t such as ordering disgusting desserts when I’m apparently supposed to be watching my figure. R looked me in the eye and whispered “you’re so pretty K, are you sure you don’t want to be with some 20 year old you can take home?” I laughed and found this very funny because perhaps it’s just the trauma but he is irresistible. I told him no and at this point he was obviously feeling very confident and reached over and kissed me. He kissed me roughly and hot and his hand came up to run up my thigh. He was so heavenly and left me gasping as he pulled away. I grinned back at him and he took my hand and urged me along to walk to his apartment.

He looked at me as though I was something he had just discovered and we kissed through his apartment until he kissed down my neck and urged my jacket off. I pushed him down onto the couch and climbed on top of him. His fingers danced along my waist and with my arms around his neck his eyes didn’t look away from me. He has such beautiful eyes, the kind you remember. “K, we don’t have to do this. We can hang out and you don’t even have to stay here to find. I can pay for you to stay in a hotel.” R told me. He was so sweet. I kissed him and ran my fingers through his hair. “I don’t usually do things like this but with you I just can’t help myself.” I told him. Was it true? Not really but I knew it was what he would want to hear. That he was so desirable and wanted that I was breaking all my morals for him. “I can tell.” He replied. “God you’re beautiful.” Men will buy whatever you’re selling.

We kissed and bit and marked each other until we went to his bedroom and I was pushed down onto the bed. He was rough and delicious but didn’t seem at all the type. His hands gripped me tight and he left a trail of kisses down my body before his head came to a stop between my legs. I won’t go into details about what I like between the sheets for risk of this getting flagged but if you’re really interested I’m not at all shy. I wasn’t expecting what I got from him and perhaps it’s just my lack of experience of dating older men but I didn’t expect it to be as good as it was, not that I would ever tell him that.

It left me exhausted and collapsing back against the pillows as his arm wound around me and I played with the necklace he wore. This is a big step for me who for years wouldn’t stick around after because of my intimacy issues but my friend A has been helping me deal with those as he helps me deal with most things. I was drifting off to sleep as he whispered sweet things in my ear. “K, you’re beautiful. You’re so perfect, I haven’t felt this good since I met my ex wife.” Strange compliment but I was too tired to care. “That was so good. I can see a future with you, I can’t stop thinking about you.” Again forward but strangely typical for a groupie. I had used all my best tricks on him and musicians have said much more intense things to me after just meeting me. I’ve been told men would marry me because they’re so caught up in the moment after you have created such a fantasy for them. Everything was going wonderfully until he kissed the side of my head and whispered “if we were together it would fix all our issues. My ex wife would stop what she’s doing and people who stop saying you and A are having an affair” I don’t know if I didn’t process the words or I was already asleep but I replied “sure” and fell asleep.

Later I woke and the realisation of what I did hit me. I heard R on the phone on the balcony in what seemed to be mid panic attack. I did overhear him freaking out about how he thinks he may have scared me off and how he screwed up but I also overheard him say he had some of the best sex he’s had which was a confidence boost especially because I had been drinking so wasn’t on top form. I hurried into the bathroom and locked myself away while I phoned my lovely friend M who many of you know and love. The conversation was a blur of me swearing off drink (laughable really) and M making fun of me a great deal. I told her being in a relationship whether pretend (not my first, very common in the groupie scene) or real after 3 weeks was ridiculous. She replied that I had hopped into bed with men after 3 hours and I also once got engaged after 4 weeks. She has a point. It wasn’t that I didn’t want anything with R I just didn’t know whether me leaving for grad school fuelled it, his anxiety or whether it was genuine or just a bit of fun. Did I see a future with him? I hoped for one but it all feels quite rushed.

I walked out of that bathroom after M talked me up and R told me he was sorry for what he said but he meant it and he hopes there’s some kind of future and he doesn’t scare me off. I went to him and wrapped my arms around his neck as I kissed him. As I write this I’m not exactly sure whether I am in a relationship fake or real but I imagine I will find out. I’m scared to ask but as we’re going to a small gathering tonight with M and her new super famous man with a few others I suppose I will find out. When this has been posted I shall already hopefully know - hopefully. I will also have already spoken to A so he can’t become moody with me for not telling him as I did with V and he can write another song about how I drink too much wine and do things that go well with guitars and a drum beat. I’ll keep you informed.

I hope someone enjoyed this little insight into my current life and took something from it like perhaps don’t agree to things during pillow talk. If there are any posts you would like to see or if you have any questions or would like to hear more during my fake or real relationship with R please let me know! - K

[calligraphist-artemisia]

Harry Potter and the Best Summer (5 | An Unwelcome Visitor)

Summary: AU - canon divergence. Harry had barely been back at the Dursley’s for two weeks, when an unexpected visitor arrived at the door. He quickly finds himself spirited away back to the wizarding world and learns some secrets that have long been kept from him.

A sequel to Of Family and Unexpected Friendship. Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune.

And for anyone who’s interested, I made a Harry Potter discord server! Introducing, Virtu Alley! (like “virtually”, get it?) Feel free to pop by and chat if you’d like. (https://discord.gg/AUq3eXY)

[Sorry for the lack of hyperlinks, but my posts have once again stopped showing up when I search for them when I include them. I will reblog later to include links at the bottom of the post.]

- - - - - - -

5 | An Unwelcome Visitor

If Harry thought his first day at Oakstone Manor was hectic, it was nothing compared to the next morning, when he awoke to a loud crash coming from the hall, quickly followed by a stream of apologies from Nymphadora Tonks (who threatened to hex him if he dared called them by their full first name) and Andromeda's much quieter admonishment.

Harry found himself grinning despite the rude awakening. It was so much better than getting woken up by Aunt Petunia.

He'd met Tonks the night before when they arrived just as dinner was being arranged on the table. The very first thought he had was that they were the embodiment of everything the Dursleys hated. Short, bright pink hair was shaved on either side of their head and the length on top was gently spiked upwards. Several piercings dotted their ears and whenever they gestured with a wild flourish Harry could see that their fingernails were painted pink to match their hair.

“Wotcher, Harry,” they said with a wink and their hair shifted from pink to purple to blue and then back again.

Harry thought they were brilliant.

Andromeda's husband – Ted Tonks – was a cheery and friendly man who engaged Harry in effortless conversation about growing up in the muggle world and how shocking it was to be thrown into the magical one. He spoke only a little of his work in the pediatric ward of St. Mungo's, instead choosing to focus on learning more about Harry, as well as catching up with everyone else.

Altogether they were the picture of a healthy, functioning family.

Morning flew by and all Harry could do was sit back out of the way and watch everyone rush around in preparation for the rest of the day. Ted was the first to leave, kissing Andromeda on the cheek before flooing away to St. Mungo's. A short while later, Tonks headed out the front door, giving an explanation that they were meeting their mentor in a secret location. Harry watched as they spun on their heel and vanished with a popping sound.

Andromeda sat them all down for lessons after that. She gave Leona and Aquarius worksheets to do and then cast a silencing charm around Harry's chair so she could verbally quiz him and help fill in any blanks in his basic knowledge. He was pleased when he remembered most of what Leona had taught him, but faltered when it came to naming other Heirs he attended school with.

From there he listened with rapt attention as Andromeda covered the current active Lords and Heirs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, of which House Black was one.

Their studies took up the rest of the morning and it was only after lunch that Harry was saved from going back to it.

Remy went with him to St. Mungo's for his appointment, only stepping out of the room for the examination and vaccinations and returned once Harry said it was okay. He wasn't terribly surprised when his healer – Adam Rue – told him that he was undernourished and that his eyeglass prescription was out-of-date.

“I am prescribing a nutrient potion for you to take with dinner each evening. I understand you'll be going back to Hogwarts in September and I will make arrangements to inform Madam Pomfrey that you are to take one each day,” said Healer Rue.

Harry fidgeted, a little worried about his schoolmates finding out he needed potions. “Do I have to take it in the Great Hall?”

“If you truly wanted to, you could always travel down to the hospital wing each evening however, the way we typically handle potions like this is to simply charm it into your goblet so that no one else is aware. The house-elves of Hogwarts are quite talented when it comes to matters of secrecy,” Healer Rue said with a reassuring smile.

He then told Harry and Remy that they could visit the offices just down the hall to either update Harry's eyeglasses or have his vision corrected completely.

“Mr. Potter, I don't mean to make assumptions about your care growing up, however I'd also like to recommend visits with one of our mind healers for the rest of the summer,” Healer Rue told them. “If for no other reason than to ease your transition into a wizarding household. All of our mind healers are sworn to keep the secrets of their patients, but if you are still uncomfortable with speaking to someone in Britain considering your status, you could hire a private healer from overseas. I would be happy to recommend a few who I have personally worked with in the past.”

“Healer Rue, can I ask about the damage left by the Magic Block?” Remy asked.

“We have removed it, of course, and taken the time to examine the damage from the curse scar. It seems that the block prevented your magic from fully cleansing it, Mr. Potter, and now that it is gone you'll see a significant ease in using your magic. That being said, our recommendation is a minimum of two weeks before you cast any spells in order to give your core time to adjust to the influx of power. A month, if you can manage it,” said Healer Rue.

Harry nodded. It wasn't like he was allowed to use his magic during summer anyway. He was sure it would be easy to go another month without casting.

Remy asked a few more questions about Harry's health and then Healer Rue handed her the prescription for the nutrient potions, which was signed and marked with his magical seal to prove its validity, as well as a list of recommended mind healers. He then guided the two of them down the hall to the office which specialized in eye-care, stepping inside to inform the receptionist that they were there for a thorough exam.

While they waited for one of the healers to become available, Harry got the chance to browse through the different frames that were available and, at Remy's urging, tried on a few to see if he liked any.

Each one was an improvement on the cheap, circular frames the Dursley's had “graciously” given him.

Remy chuckled as she glanced over a selection of frames catering to the older crowd. “Your father was always fond of horn rims. He thought they made him look rather smart. Your mother always said it made him look like more of a ponce than he already was.”

“She really said that?” Harry asked, looking away from a pair of frames that was continually shifting colors.

“Well, at first,” Remy corrected herself. “Your father was a good man and a good friend, Harry, but as a teenager he was... well, a bit entitled. Sirius was as well. I imagine it comes from being part of an old pureblood family. It all made it so your mother was less than impressed by him which only made him try harder. He came around by our sixth year, but I'll have to tell you more about it later.”

She nodded towards something over Harry's shoulder and he turned to find a woman in soft green robes walking towards them. Her badge bore the name Healer Agatha Newmark.

“You must be Harry,” she said in a chipper tone. “I'm Aggie. You can both come with me and I'll get you sorted out.”

Harry and Remy followed her back to a smaller room, where Harry sat down in a chair that faced a poster with differently sized numbers and letters. She first had him remove his glasses and attempt to read the lowest line, which he found impossible. He couldn't fully make out any letter until the third line down, but even that was blurry enough that he struggled.

A few waves of her wand had an enchanted quill scratching out the details of his eyesight and once it finished, Healer Newmark went into detail on the options available to him. Harry could get a new pair of frames with his updated prescription, charmed unbreakable and scratch resistant for up to two years, or he could get his vision corrected completely and no longer need glasses.

“Everyone is a little different and I know just as many people who like the way they look while wearing glasses as I do people who jumped at the first opportunity to have the correction done,” said Healer Newmark. “The correction is, of course, more expensive than a pair of frames, but we do have a finance program for anyone who prefer a staggered payment.”

“Harry, it's up to you,” Remy said quietly.

He didn't think about it for long. From the moment he first heard there was a chance he wouldn't have to deal with his glasses any longer, he hoped it was true. No more crooked frames. No more feeling around for his glasses every morning. No more worry about a bludger knocking them from his face and leaving him completely blind.

“I'd like to get it corrected.”

- - - - - - -

Harry expected that they would be heading home after he was finished at St. Mungo's but instead, Remy whisked him away into wizarding London to a street near Diagon Alley named Asymetric Alley, which looked like a village out of a history book, with rough, winding cobblestone streets and old timber-framed shops all pressed close together.

It gave a cozy, warm vibe that Diagon Alley didn't have, giving the impression that loitering was welcome on the streets and stopping to chat with those you walked past was a way of life.

Harry didn't spare that more than a passing thought, too busy marveling over the clarity with which he was able to see the world. There were so many details that he hadn't been able to see before! Things that he'd come to accept as being blurry around the edges suddenly had sharp outlines and signs that he once had to squint just to read he only had to glance at and know what they said!

Remy treated him to ice cream and then they were off to visit a number of shops where Harry was asked to pick out clothing, new shoes, and then helped pick out ingredients for dinner that night so Cici could make his favorite meal. Their last stop was a used bookstore, where Remy picked up an order that was waiting for her and she encouraged him to take a look around.

Harry wasn't terribly interested until he spotted a small book titled Fallacies of the Rankings of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and after reading the back cover thought that if it turned out to be something he didn't like, Hermione was likely to find it fascinating.

He was about to turn to go when a heavy thump stopped him. When he looked, he saw a dark green book laying face-up on the floor. Swooping gold lettering informed him that it was called The Magical Court of Camelot – The Truth Behind the Legends and that it was written by someone named ML Black. He picked it up and took it to the counter.

“Aunt Remy, look at this,” he said, holding up the book for her to see.

Remy examined it with interest, her eyes lingering longest on the name of the author. “ML Black... It's not a name I'm familiar with, but it Andy might know it. Would you like to get it?”

Harry nodded. “And this one too,” he said, as he passed to her Fallacies of the Rankings of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

She seemed a bit amused by the second book but didn't say a word against it, quickly passing it off to be rung up. Remy paid for it all and even got Harry a tote bag to carry them in and then they were off once again.

“I think it would be best to side-apparate on our way back. Floo travel is more difficult when you're carrying packages,” said Remy.,

She explained what it was and how it worked as she lead him towards a sectioned off area marked: Apparation Point. One side was designated as Arrival and the other Departure, which Harry supposed helped keep things more orderly. He felt a little nervous as he looped his arm around Remy's and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as she directed him to spin on his heel with her. Harry felt the weight of pressure all around him and his stomach roiled uncomfortably, and then it was over and they were on the road just outside of the gate to Oakstone Manor.

“Unpleasant, isn't it?” Remy asked, sounding apologetic. “I know it's not a comfort right now, but you will get used to it as you get older. By the time you learn to apparate, the most you'll feel is that pressure around you.”

Harry didn't know how to respond to that and simply shrugged his shoulders before following her through the gate (which opened at their approach) and back into the manor.

“Evie?” Remy called out.

There was a popping sound and then a new house-elf in gray and blue appeared. She immediately bowed, which caused the bright yellow kerchief to start slipping off her head until it got caught on her massive ears. When she straightened up, she beamed at the sight of the bags in Remy's arms. “Do you need Evie to take them to your room, miss? And put them away?”

“That would be wonderful. Only the books go to my room. Everything else will go to Harry's,” Remy told her.

Evie nodded quickly and turned her attention to Harry. “Evie will organize them very nicely, young sir! If it's not to your liking you can call for Evie or Cici and we'll come help!”

“Oh, um, thank you, Evie. I'm sure you'll do great.” Harry wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say, but Evie didn't look upset as she bounced over to take the bags. Once she had them in her arms, she popped away without another word.

“Tonight I think we'll burn your hand-me-downs,” Remy said conversationally. “But for now, you deserve a chance to rest and do whatever you'd like until dinner. Leona still has another hour of tutoring to get through, but Aqua should be free by now. She'll be in the library, if you'd like to find her.”

Harry needed a refresher on how to get there and once Remy gave him directions on the easiest path to take – up the main staircase to the second floor, take a left and go to the end of the hall, where you take another left, and enter the second door on the right – he set off to find Aquarius.

Just like Remy said, she was sitting in the library in a squishy armchair beneath one of the windows, a heavy looking book open in her lap. Aquarius looked up when she heard the door open and beamed when she spotted Harry peeking inside.

“You're back! And you're not wearing any glasses?”

Harry grinned at her as he stepped fully into the library. “I don't need them anymore.”

“Brilliant!” Aquarius responded. “You have a letter, by the way. Butternut brought a response from your friend while you were away.”

Harry looked to the side table where she gestured and saw a envelop sitting there. When he walked over and picked it up, he found himself recognizing Hermione's tidy handwriting and eagerly ripped it open to see what she wrote.

Dear Harry,

I'm so glad to hear you're alright! Ron and I were terribly worried that something awful happened to you once you got home. Please thank Aquarius for sending me the letter saying that you're safe with her and Leona. She says that you're not going back to your muggle relatives. Is it true? Did they do something to keep you from receiving letters? I know you are all looking into what happened, but I think I'll do some research of my own and see what I can find. I'll keep you updated!

I've talked to my parents about visiting you this summer and they have agreed to it, though they'd like to talk to Leona's mum about it first. I think they want to make sure it's alright with her. Will Ron be joining us as well? He hasn't mentioned any visiting, but it does sound like the Weasley's have a full house anyway and I would hate to add to that. I think meeting up at Diagon Alley would be a far better idea, especially since it would let my parents meet the Weasley's. They didn't get much time to talk at King's Cross.

It probably won't surprise you but I've done quite a lot of reading so far this summer. Most of my homework is already complete, except for that essay on goblin wars that Binns assigned. I must admit, even I find it a bit droll and difficult to complete. All I can hear is his voice droning on. If you'd like, we can review our summer studies together when I visit! And please tell Leona that I've finished the books she recommended. I suppose I should just write a letter to her instead of using you as a personal owl.

What's Oakstone Manor like? It must be exciting to see a wizarding home!

Hermione's letter carried on like that as she wrote about whatever came to mind. She spoke a little of her parents and how excited they were to hear about her first year at Hogwarts and then went into more detail of how she spent her summer when she wasn't studying or reading. Every now and then she'd circle around to ask him a question about what it was like living with Leona. Was there a library? Had he had time to do any of the summer homework?

There was only one reference to Professor Quirrel, who had disappeared sometime before the End-of-Term feast, and that was to say there was a small article in the prophet about there being a warrant for his arrest and how any sightings should be immediately reported to the DMLE.

Harry wondered if Tonks knew anything about that. Would they be able to tell him anything if they did?

He folded up the letter and stuck it into his pocket, resolving to answer Hermione when he had time later. “Reading anything interesting, Aquarius?”

She silently tilted her book so he could read the cover and Harry was delighted to find he could see the words without having to squint. The Complete Beginners Guide to Potion Brewing was the name of her book and Harry wondered just how in-depth it went to make it so it was at least five centimeters thick.

“Leo says that Professor Snape will probably look for any reason to take points from me or give me detention, so I thought if I start studying now then he won't be able to find as many,” she explained with an easy shrug.

There was something about the idea of Snape harassing Aquarius that rankled Harry. She was a ten-year-old girl who hadn't done a thing wrong and she was already prepared to be utterly humiliated by one of her professors, who took issue with who her parents were.  It was bad enough that Snape targeted him and Neville – though he still didn't know why he demonstrated such loathing towards Neville.

Instead of saying anything, Harry left Aquarius to her reading and took a seat in a nearby chair to check out his two new books. The first one he grabbed was the one on Camelot, which reminded him of a question he had.

“Hey, Aquarius? Do you know of anyone called 'ML Black' who might be related to you?”

“Not in recent history,” Aquarius said slowly. “It does sound familiar, so there must be someone with those initials on the family tree. Why do you ask?”

“They wrote this book I found. The Magical Court of Camelot – the Truth Behind the Legends,” Harry told her.

Aquarius marked her page and set it aside, her eyes alight with interest. “And it's written by a Black?”

Harry nodded.

“Follow me!” Aquarius said, hopping up out of her chair.

Feeling a little bewildered, Harry left his things in his seat and got up to follow her through the tall shelves of the library and to a spot tucked away in a back corner. There was a heavy, navy blue curtain hanging across an elaborate archway and stepping through revealed a rounded alcove. Candles on either side of the arch lit themselves when they stepped through, illuminating the nearly black walls to reveal a massive tree painted in silver ink, its branches rigid and following a clear structure.

Most notably, it was upside down, with the base of its trunk resting where the wall met the ceiling.

“This is the Black Family Tree, which dates back to our earliest magical ancestor, Ambroise Fabron,” she said, pointing up to the top. “They were blacksmiths. He brought his knowledge of the craft to the magical world and then applied enchantments to make it even better. His greatest achievement was a charm embedded within cookware that made it easier to clean without repeatedly using scourgify.”

Harry's brows knitted together. “But that means... he was muggleborn?”

“If you go far back enough in a pureblood line, you'll find many muggleborns. It just didn't matter as much back then,” Aquarius said. She reached out and placed her hand on the wall, waiting for the space to light up silver before dragging her hand down. As she did so, the tree scrolled down until the trunk was nearly eye-level with them and the rest of the branches danced across the floor.

“Ambroise had three children. Two were girls who married into other lines and the other was a son, Michel, who continued the name Fabron and took up his father's work...” Aquarius continued to move down the three, explaining a little more about what little they still knew about their ancestors, until she came to Michel's third son, Célestin, who moved to the UK and changed his surname to Black before going on to revolutionize the production of cauldrons. “Oh! Harry, here she is! Mnemosyne Lucinda Black! She married Célestin! No wonder the name sounded familiar!”

“There could be another ML Black somewhere,” Harry pointed out.

“There could be,” Aquarius agreed. “But considering she was born in the seven-hundreds, I think it's probably her. It's too bad the tree doesn't list maiden names. I would have loved to know which family line she came from but I don't think any of our records have it listed. We can always ask Leo or Andy.”

Harry almost wanted to continue looking at the family tree to see if there was anyone else, but there were so many names. Not to mention Aquarius had a good point about the timeline. Mnemosyne would have been born close enough to the era of King Arthur's reign that she could gather correct details about that period. Maybe the book itself would have something in it to confirm his thoughts.

Aquarius released the magic that lowered the tree, allowing it to move back to its correct location across the wall. “I bet the Potter manor has a tree showing all of your ancestors too. You must be excited to go see it.”

“I hadn't thought much about it, to be honest,” Harry admitted. “Haven't had the time.”

There was a lot he suddenly had to think about and he wished he had the first clue where to start. Maybe if he had a moment to himself, he could slow down to think things through.

“If you want some time to yourself, you don't need to stay here with me in the library,” Aquarius said, sounding sympathetic.

“You don't want to look at the book?” Harry asked.

Aquarius shook her head. “It's yours to read first. I may take a look around and see if we have a copy on one of the shelves. Its likely, since it was written by a Black.” She pushed the curtain aside and then walked through, continuing to hold it for Harry as he followed.

After a bit of thought, Harry remained with Aquarius in the library and the two sat silently read their books until Leona came to fetch them for dinner.

“Hey, bookworms, it's time to eat!”

She grinned at the pair of them when they looked up, both surprised at how much time had passed. While Aquarius marked her page and set her book aside to read later, Harry put his back in his bag so he could take it to his room after dinner.

“How were your lessons, Leo?” Aquarius asked.

“Dull,” Leona responded with a groan. “Andy has me practicing with old speeches so I know how to properly present myself during Wizengamot meetings. It's important, sure, but I can't think of anything more boring.”

“History of Magic,” Harry responded immediately.

“The Annual Yule Ball at Malfoy manner,” Aquarius supplied cheekily.

“Brats,” Leona said affectionately. “Yeah, you might be right. Those are both pretty boring as well.”

Harry almost asked about the Yule Ball, wondering what it was and whether or not he'd be expected to attend it as well, but Leona changed the subject before he could say anything.

“Mum and Andy say that you'll officially start lessons tomorrow, Harry. She wants to go over a few things before you go back to Gringotts and talk to the holder for the Potter accounts. Mostly etiquette and stuff so you don't accidentally insult someone. Easy stuff,” Leona said with a shrug.

Harry hoped she was right about that. There was so much he felt like he didn't know. Stuff that Leona and Aquarius spent their entire lives learning and experiencing. He felt hopelessly behind compared to them.

Was it the same at school? How many of his peers had he unintentionally affronted with his behavior and language? It never seemed to matter that much in Gryffindor, but was that because he spent most of his time with Ron and Hermione?

Harry resolved to do better.

- - - - - - -

Andromeda smiled as she watched her family merrily converse over dinner.

Ted and Remy were in the middle of a rousing discussion on experimental medicines; a topic she hadn't expected Remy to show much interest in knowledge in, but the younger woman seemed to be holding her own even as Ted delved into more advanced potions.

The kids were all at the other end of the table with Leona and Nymphadora leading most of the conversation while Aquarius made comments and Harry primarily listened. Every now and then laughter would break out and Harry would grin, bright and carefree, and Andromeda was reminded of the way he was treated by his relatives and how glad she was to have gotten him out of there.

Dinner went well until just before dessert, when Milla popped into the room and got Andy's attention with a single tap on the arm.

“A guest has arrived, Miss. Milla be telling them it is rude to intrude over dinner but they insisting.”

“Thank you, Milla,” Andromeda said as she gently set aside her utensils. She patted her mouth with a cloth napkin and then excused herself from the table with a soft apology. She briskly walked to the foyer and made sure to compose herself before entering the room.

Standing near the door was an old man with a long beard and twinkling periwinkle robes.

“Albus,” Andromeda cordially greeted. “It is considered rude to visit during dinnertime.”

He met her aloofness with a polite smile. “I do apologize, Lady Tonks, however there was no other time I could get away and there is something of grave importance that I must discuss with you.”

Andromeda arched one eyebrow. “Oh? And what is so important that you would arrive completely unannounced and interrupt a family meal?”

“It has come to my attention that you removed Harry Potter from the care of his Aunt and Uncle. You have to understand how important it is that he remain with them,” Albus told her. “There are blood wards in place around their residence. So long as he calls Privet Drive home, he will be protected from those in our world who would do him harm.”

Andromeda had a myriad of choices before her. She could play along with his little game, letting him try and garner sympathy for his actions. She didn't doubt that he genuinely thought he was doing the right thing, but she wouldn't stand there and allow him to speak up in defense of those horrid muggles.

“Harry will not be returning to that place and especially not by your hand.”

“My dear-”

“No,” she interrupted firmly. “You have no right to determine where he lives. You had no right to send him to those people; the only people who Lily herself specified he was never to go to. We have heard their Will, Albus. The boy will stay with his Magical Guardian and there is nothing that you nor anyone else can do to change that.”

Andromeda stepped back, never once taking her eyes off of Dumbledore. “Bastion!”

With a pop, a house-elf appeared. He was clad in the same gray and blue as the others, but he bore the Black Family shield across the back of his shirt and carried a tiny dagger on the belt around his waist. He bowed to Andromeda.

“How may Bastion help?”

“Please escort the Headmaster from the property and place a ban on the wards to prevent him from returning without permission,” Andromeda instructed.

Albus looked pained by her words, but politely inclined his head and went without a fuss, leaving Andromeda to stand in the foyer by herself. A few minutes later she felt a slight shift in the wards. Only then did she feel comfortable returning to the table.

“Everything alright?” Ted quietly asked as she sat down.

Andromeda nodded. “Nothing to worry about, dear. Just an issue that needed to be handled sooner rather than later.”

She would tell him and Remy more about their guest later. For the moment, she wanted to sit and enjoy dessert with her family.

[jennie-writes]

green is definitely not the warmest colour

pairing: jennie kim x park chaeyoung/rosé word count: 2.9k words genre: fluff & jealous chaeng  warnings: sexual tension author’s note: happy new year, everyone! hope everyone had a great New Years. this is for @hannasapphira, my biggest fan since forever

Part I | Part II | Part III

Damn Jennie and her stupid good looks and her stupid ability to make people fall in love with her. 

or

chaeyoung gets jealous and it's kinda chaotic

 Red.

That’s what Chaeyoung sees when her eyes catch BTS’s V gently laying his hand on Jennie’s shoulder as they shared a hearty laugh over something.

Chaeyoung rolls her eyes subtly. At least she thought it was subtle. But the woman standing in front of her raises her eyebrow as she catches Chaeyoung’s odd reaction. The woman’s eyes follow Chaeyoung’s line of sight, curious as to what prompted Chaeyoung to react so aggressively. Her gaze finally settles on Jennie & V talking amicably in the corner, away from the hustling & bustling of the backstage crew of the award show. 

Realisation dawns on her. Ah, jealousy.

“Rosé?” The woman gently nudges Chaeyoung out of her green haze.

“Huh?” Chaeyoung abruptly snaps out of her daze. She suddenly remembers where she was. Chaeyoung ducks her head shyly as she quickly stammers out an apology, her blush already creeping up her neck. “Irene-unnie, I wasn’t-“

Irene only chuckles. 

“It’s okay, Rosé.” Irene assures a panicked Chaeyoung. “I wasn’t aware that you were attracted to Taehyung.”  Chaeyoung thinks that Irene sounds almost disappointed. Maybe Chaeyoung’s ears were playing tricks on her.

Chaeyoung tilts her head in confusion. 

Taehyung? Who in the world- ahhhhhh. 

Chaeyoung only giggles in response as her brain finally made sense of what Irene said. She grudgingly admits that Taehyung was a handsome man, she has functioning eyes. But her heart always belonged to a special woman in her life. Said woman who was currently giggling at whatever the fuck Taehyung was saying to her. Chaeyoung’s eyes narrowed as she observes their interaction.

Park Chaeyoung has never been an aggressive person, per se. Chaeyoung would never even hurt a goddamn fly. But right now, at this moment, there was nothing Chaeyoung wouldn’t give just to wrap her hands around Taehyung’s pretty little neck and-

Chaeyoung shakes her head and returns her attention back to Irene. She attempts to smile but it probably looks more like a grimace than anything.

“V sunbaenim is….attractive. Sure.” Chaeyoung mentally cringes at her admission. She can feel her blush slowly creeping up her face again. “But it’s not what you think, unnie.”

Irene only smiles softly at Chaeyoung.  She steers the conversation to another subject to spare the younger girl from further embarrassment. “As I was saying, we should get lunch together one day.”

It seems like today is the day Chaeyoung’s face will remain flushed red because she can’t help but furiously blush as she stares incredulously at Irene.  Is the universe fucking with her or did her very attractive sunbae essentially just asked her out? 

 Irene must’ve seen the utter confusion on Chaeyoung’s face and taken it as a rejection because she quickly tries to fix the situation. “I mean, only if-“

“Oh, well. I’d have to check with my-“ Chaeyoung interjects.

Before she could finish her sentence, Chaeyoung was cut off by her manager tapping her on her shoulders. 

“The show is almost starting. We have to get you to your seat with the other girls.”

Chaeyoung nods at her manager and turns to shoot Irene an apologetic smile. 

“I’m really sorry, unnie, but I have to go” Chaeyoung bows respectfully as she turns to make her way to her assigned seat, leaving behind a disappointed Irene.

Before she could leave the backstage area, Chaeyoung feels warm fingertips brush against her hand. Chaeyoung knows exactly who it was without having to look. She just silently unfurls her fingers and lets the stranger slip their hand into hers.

Without thinking, Chaeyoung brings the stranger’s hand up to her lips and presses a soft kiss on the back of the stranger’s hand, her thumb slowly rubbing small circles on the smooth skin as she lowers their clasped hands.

Jennie gasps lightly and turns to look at Chaeyoung. She was surprised at Chaeyoung’s boldness, especially in a public setting like this, with all their peers surrounding them. In all their years or friendship and even in the last few months of officially dating, Chaeyoung has never been the one to initiate public displays of affection. Sure, Chaeyoung engages in the typical “love fest” on stage, occasionally blowing Jennie, Lisa and Jisoo kisses and shooting “hearts” at them. But Jennie knows that those were simply meant as “fan service”. Chaeyoung much rather preferred to show Jennie just how much she loved her in a much more private setting, where she was free to shower Jennie with as much physical affection as she wants to.

Jennie tilts her head curiously as she stares up at the younger girl. Chaeyoung only looks forward, a small smile playing at her lips as she carefully guides the two of them back to their seats.

What they didn’t notice was Irene staring at them, an understanding look on her face. 

[a-simple-imagine]

Queen Material - Chapter 4

Synopsis: You end up spending the day with Valkyrie but things get a little deeper than you anticipated. And just when you think the king can’t surprise you anymore she throws a spanner into the works. 

Pairing: Valkyrie x fem!reader

Words: 1.7k+

Warnings - Swearing and alcohol

You didn't know Valkyrie very well and so you weren't quite sure what she had planned for you. You dreaded some of the places you could possibly end up but it was too late to back out now. You decided to dress casually putting on jeans and a tee and now you were waiting outside your bar. She was running late but you hadn't expected her to be this late. She was the one who wanted to do this and she can't even be bothered to show up. You were just about to give up and head home when someone calls out to you. You turn to see the king strolling towards you, hands buried in her pockets.

"If it isn't my favourite barkeep. You ready to go?"

You consider making some comment about how late she is but you keep it to yourself. Instead, you plaster on a smile that hopefully hides how annoyed you are. "I am. Where are we going?"

She hesitates for a moment and a part of you wonders if she's been drinking. Mainly because you're used to seeing her drunk but she also had a reputation. You wouldn't mind either way as long as she can function. A smile spread over her lips as she turns on her heel and begins walking. "I think I know where we could go,"

If you weren't convinced she had put zero thought into today before, you definitely were now. You begin to question your decision to spend the day with her as you walk along behind her although she didn't give you much of a choice. A silence comes between the two of you as you try to think of something to say but nothing, in particular, comes to mind. "So... how are you today, my king?"

Valkyrie glances briefly towards you, raising her brow in the process. "I am fine. How are you?"

"Pretty good." You hike your backpack further up your shoulders. "Uh... Since I was not informed beforehand of our activities I packed a little lunch for us."

"More sandwiches?" The king calls back to you. You shake your head slowly unsure if she meant her words in a good way or bad. "Just a salad, some homemade biscuits, grapes, strawberries and a couple of beers."

"Beer sounds brilliant," She comments. "Thanks"

Using a slightly quicker pace, you catch up to the woman and walk alongside her. She doesn't say anything to you so you fall back into silence. It's was only a little awkward. The further you go the less idea you have of the destination. You're lead to a grassy field which houses a spacecraft. "Is that yours?" You wonder, pointing towards it. You hadn't seen one since you left Asgard. Valkyrie turns to you and shrugs.

"Thought we could take a little trip." Sure, why not get on a spaceship you weren't sure she actually even owned and go on a trip to Valkyrie only knows where. What was the worst that could happen? You head for the craft, the king trailing behind you. As you head inside, you're surprised by how spacious it is. You secure your backpack down before getting into the passenger's seat and buckling up. The king joins you, taking the driver seat.

You end up just lingering above the Earth. Turns out she didn't want to take you anywhere in particular just... space. You didn't exactly hate the idea though. Being trapped on Midgard was almost suffocating in nature. It was such a self-involved planet despite there being so much more out there. You kind of missed the beauty of space. The calmness. How the stars twinkled. But being up here also pulled at that part of you that missed Asgard; the original Asgard. You're sat on the floor of the ship with the king beside you, tubs of food placed between you as you stare out into the void. Someone would probably find the darkness intimidating but it was a sight you enjoyed. "Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"Asgard?" You continue, glancing towards her. "The old one?"

It takes her a few minutes before she sighs. "Not really," Her head shakes as she speaks. "Asgard hadn't been my home in a long time."

"Oh," You hadn't known that. It proved just how little you knew about her besides the elite warrior thing. And also the king thing. And that she liked to drink; a lot.

"Do you miss it?" She asks, turning to face you.

"Of course," You nod. "It was my home. Very different than Midgard but in a good way."

"So you don't like Midgard then?"

Your shoulders rise in a little shrug. Your feelings regarding the entire situation were complicated. If you had the decision to turn back time then you would. You'd do just about anything to return to you're once beautiful land but that wasn't an option. Midgard wasn't a horrible place to be but it just wasn't what you pictured. "It's not that I don't like it, it's just not what I expected. I never imagined living in some village running a stupid bar. Having to deal with rapscallions and Midgardians. It's hard to harbour respect as an insignificant barkeep."

"Did you not say you enjoyed your job?" Valkyrie asks looking a little uncomfortable as she looks back to the stars. You reach for the tub of grapes, pulling off the lid. The last time you had these was the first time Valkyrie had engaged in a conversation with you. You roll the grape between your fingers before dropping it into your mouth. Your love for your job was almost equal to your detest. That bar was your baby but it was a baby you had never expected so never prepared for. For every pleasant individual you came across there were at least five waiting around the corner to insult or grope you. There were late nights and early morning. The responsibility of doing most things yourself; sure you could hire more people but that required more assets.

"I do enjoy it... sometimes. Other days, I wish for something more."

"Something more?" The king must have taken you removing the lid to the grapes as Initiative to dig in. She eyes your food slowly, hands hovering over both salads.

"One is Chinese chicken, the other is BBQ. You can have either." She picks up the Chinese chicken salad, yanking off the top. Taking a fork to stab into the leafy greens.

"So... something more?"

"Right," you sigh softly, reaching for another grape. "I don't know what I want. Maybe a purpose? Something that makes me feel like I'm doing something more with my life."

"Not everyone is destined for greatness, barkeep." She shovelled a fork full of salad into her mouth. You focus on the stars feeling a ton of regret settling on your shoulders. Was your entire life a waste of time? Was owning a bar on some subpar planet written in the stars? Was this all you'd ever be?

"Right," you nod. "Not everyone can be king, I suppose- how's that going by the way?"

Valkyrie ignored your question, or she just didn't hear it as she continued to devour the salad you prepared. Pulling out the beers, you pop off your cap wanting to drown yourself in the liquid that was now slipping down your throat. "Is my salad at least good?"

Her eyes fall to yours, mouth full and a piece of lettuce sticking out from between her lips. You offer her a smile. "Being King is everything and... nothing."

"I do not know what that means," you decide to pick up the bbq salad and tuck in.

"I just never expected it to be this hard." Even you could have guessed being the king of new Asgard would be hard so you're not entirely sure where she's going with this. You offer her the other beer which she gladly accepts, immediately pulling off the cap and taking a huge swig. "It's a fucking nightmare."

"I can only imagine," You reply, taking a bite of bbq chicken. It was a level of responsibility you could hardly comprehend but Thor clearly trusted her.

"I wanted to help people: make a difference. I thought I could be a leader but now... now I feel like I've taken on too much to handle. There are Asgardians counting on me and I'm not sure I have anything to offer," she takes a sip of her beer. "Other than my good looks and sparkling personality."

You wanted to reassure her that she had so much to offer new Asgard but you weren't sure that she actually did. You hadn't seen much change since she took over from Thor. You didn't want to lie to her, you weren't close enough to want to spare her feelings. "And a high alcohol tolerance."

Valkyrie chuckles. "That too. But what good is that for Asgard."

You remain silent and continue to eat your salad. You had never seen such a vulnerable version of Brunnhilde, it was almost strange to experience. "You've still got time to prove yourself as a king. Nobody expected anything to happen overnight."

"I guess you're right," Valkyrie offers you a small almost sad smile. "It's just a lot to carry on my own."

"Are you seeing someone, maybe?" You ask rather abruptly, hoping she wouldn't take it the wrong way. You were just thinking that if she was dating then maybe they can help out. Become the queen of Asgard.

"Not really. I prefer to go with the flow and no one has caught my eye yet." Not uncommon for Asgardians. With such a long life span many found that it easier to just keep things open and free. Even if relationships became 'official' you've found that there is a lot less pressure compared to Midgardian ideology.

"So we shouldn't expect a Queen any time soon," you give her a lighthearted chuckle.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Valkyrie shrugs and your curiosity peaked. "I think I may have a person in mind."

"Oh! I thought nobody had caught your eye yet?" You question, a bottle of beer lingering at your lips. Taking a hearty sip.

"They haven't. But I was thinking you could be the queen,"

You beer ends up spit out everywhere and you cough to clear your throat. You laugh a little awkwardly as you glance towards the king but she wasn't laughing. Nothing suggested she was joking. "You've got to be fucking kidding me,"

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Tagging per request: @iconicwlw @sarcasticmami