#excuse my wild cropping but i hate credits

[andy-clutterbuck]

requested by Anons

[1kook]

espn & bdsm

this is part 6 of my netflix & chill collection !

summary; You would like to personally thank every loud-mouthed, ESPN commentator out there for saving you from Jungkook’s dangerous seduction skills.  warnings; smut (18+) in the forms of brief femdom, handcuffs, nipple clamps, blindfolding, flogging/use of a riding crop, soft dom kook, cunnilingus, spitting, unprotected but passionate, degradation, as always it starts horny n then turns into I love u kink miscellaneous; kook has a swollen ankle so idk how he did all this, jk abuses the fuck outta pet names part 7, revenge gone wrong tbh, this was honestly a beginner’s intro to vanilla bdsm word count; 12.7k

notes; this is like… a healing fic… for the part before lol. also i did not know what was going to happen next as I was writing. anyway entire smut scene was based off THIS bad boy ur welcome fellas and the Jungkook described here is from in the soop episode 2... cutie... yes every single 1 of those words is a link

lmk what you think! a simple ask goes a long way <3

You're at the nail salon with Doyeon when she first mentions it.

“Have you ever, like,” she pauses, making a vague, swivel gesture with her head. You furrow your brows and she sighs. “Topped him. Have you ever been the one to take control?”

Your nail artist blushes, furiously filing away at your nails until the most perfect stiletto shape stares you back in the face. “Oh. Not really,” you admit, wiggling your wet toe nails around in the styrofoam flip flops issued by the salon. “I mean, sometimes I talk him through it.”

Doyeon snorts. “Babe, talking him through it and being the boss are two completely different things,” she says rather dryly, seemingly unbothered by the fact your two nail techs are being subjected to this more than intimate conversation. But you’ve had weirder talks with Doyeon in public; this doesn’t phase you. “Listen,” she says suddenly, dropping her voice down to a whisper that has you leaning closer to hear her. “You know how I’m a member of that site, right?”

You nod. “Oh yeah— Sexuality Unleashed: The Best Toys Worldwide!, right?” She kicks your shin, but the jab is muted by the bottom of her own styrofoam flip flop.

“Yeah, just tell everyone here my credit card number while you’re at it,” she hisses. Her anger fades soon enough. “Well, they’re always sending me all sorts of freebies for my devoted patronage,” she explains. She quirks her lips to the side, throwing one brief glance at the blushing nail artists in front of you. Eventually she seems to come to a conclusion. “Long story short they sent me some cuffs and I’m gonna give you them.”

Your jaw drops. “Woah, really? I don’t know… Don’t those usually run kinda pricey?” you ask tentatively. You’re trying to play it off, act like this isn’t something you want, but the reality is so much worse.

The minute the word cuffs had slipped through her lips it’s like a door opened before your eyes. A big, wooden door with chains strapped across it and a padlock you swore you’d never open.

Somewhere in your mind, you had always convinced yourself handcuffs in bed was something you’d like to have done to you. But, because she was your best friend and by extension a personified version of all your freakiest, often filtered, thoughts, it was like Doyeon had reached straight into your cranium and extracted your most secret fantasy— and that was Jungkook in handcuffs.

Your nail artist pats your hand, motioning you to head over to the drying station. Before you can be separated from Doyeon, you whip around to throw her one desperate look. “I have never wanted anything so bad in my life.”

She cackles loudly, easily garnering the attention of every employee and nail enthusiast in the salon with the evil witch vibes she exudes.

Truth be told, your argument with Jungkook had brought upon a newfound appreciation for him. Weird to say, considering you had wanted to kill the dude when it had originally happened. But the great thing about you and Jungkook was that you were flexible people— both in bed and out. A few long conversations later and you had reached the root of the problem.

And that root was your apparent lack of communicating when something was wrong. It was weird to think that anything could ever be wrong when Jungkook was involved. He was your honeybun, sugar plum, pumpy-umpy-umpkin. Your sweetie pie, for lack of better wording, and he could do no wrong—

—is what you’d like to say. But if there’s anything you’ve learned in the past year of dating Jungkook, it’s that perfection was a made up belief that revolved around the idea that someone’s flaws couldn’t possibly be a good thing. And as you’ve come to realize, Jungkook wasn’t the perfect gentleman you’d initially chalked him up to be. He was human, just like you, with his own list of worries and thoughts, and sometimes those thoughts manifested into flaws. They could be ugly or they could be beautiful, but at the end of the day, they all made Jungkook into the person he was— and you loved that person. Disgustingly so.

You had your moments, and he had his. Everything would not always be sunshine and rainbows for the two of you, but it was fine so long as you learned to play in the rain and stomp in the puddles.

Still.

You were you.

A slightly mean, slightly conniving, petty ass human who had been plotting his revenge since the day the two of you made up. I mean, you weren’t actually just going to let him get off the hook like that, were you? He had saved himself last time with a gooey, heartfelt apology and confession, followed by some extraordinary dicking down that had left you Naked and Afraid for three days after.

But you weren’t that easy! No, ma’am. You had to let him know that some gorgeous demon dick was not enough to satisfy you after a fight like that.

Jungkook was in for a desperately needed reality check, one that jingles in your purse when you step out of the Uber that drops you off at his place. You know he’s home because his front light is on, and also because he’d texted you that he was watching some soccer match on tv tonight. He’s a pretty big fan, especially of the club playing tonight, so you decide it’s a perfect night to strike.

Your copy of his key slips right into the keyhole. Your slippers are in the same place they always are, neatly set off to the side right by the stairs. He’s not in his living room, undoubtedly the most perfect place to watch any type of sporting event with that huge Jumbotron of his. The damn thing made it feel like you were in the stadium itself.

There’s a quiet hum coming from upstairs. You creep up the steps, carefully rounding the corner at the landing until you’re staring right into his dimly lit bedroom.

The way Jungkook’s got his bedroom set up is so that you can look directly at his door from the bed, terribly inconvenient for when that sleep paralysis demon hits in the middle of the night and you’re left staring into the dark hallway. He’s snuggled comfortably over his sheets, about three pillows supporting his back. The light of the tinier, more acceptable television he keeps in his room is dancing across his features in bright shades of green. You almost throw yourself onto his mattress like a starfish until you spot the carefully placed foot on the bed.

“What the hell did you do?” you blurt. A wrong move, considering he hadn’t seen you yet and your sudden appearance makes him jump nearly ten feet into the air, almost knocking down the bag of ice that sits on his ankle. “Oh my god, it was that damned Pilates class, wasn’t it?” you fret, rounding the bed until you’re on his side.

“Oh hey,” he says as if you’re not currently pulling the first eight seasons of Grey’s Anatomy to the forefront of your head to treat him. “When’d you get here?”

“Cut the crap, who did this to you?” you ask, sitting beside him with the utmost care. You drop your bag off to the side, the loud clatter of the inside contents vaguely registering in your head. The ice pack comes off easily, revealing a relatively okay looking ankle save for the slight swell towards the more medial aspect of it.

Jungkook takes the moment to sit up, joining you in your inspection of his injury. “No one,” he answers, using his new position to drop a kiss against the side of your head. “I fell off the ladder helping Mrs. Jung across the street.”

You choke. “You fell off a ladder?” you squawk, eyes wide as your gaze shifts from his ankle to his entire body.

He places a hand on your shoulder, “babe, I was on like the third step. It was one of those old wooden ones,” he explains with a nonchalant shrug. “The step just happened to snap on my way down.”

You scoff. “That old lady is out to get you,” you warn him. “Remember the time she almost had you plug in those burnt out Christmas lights for her? The ones that would have electrocuted you to death.”

Jungkook laughs, settling back into his stack of pillows. “In her defense, she’s old,” he offers. He’s wrapped up in a black hoodie, fluffy bangs parted down the middle. He’s got on some blue shorts, a huge difference from his usual dark-toned clothing. He looks so good and warm, and you’re suddenly hit with the fact you can’t possibly handcuff this poor, injured angel to his bedpost and ride his cock into the sunset. “You didn’t tell me you were coming over.”

You deflate, wild fantasies thrown out the window. “Yeah, well,” you sigh, ditching your pants and climbing over him until you’re snuggled into his side. “Wanted to show you my nails.”

It’s a lame excuse. But he buys it, so.

“They’re cute,” he says, taking your hand in his. He turns your hand over, inspects your pretty new acrylics like he actually has any idea how much they cost or how sexy they look. He raises your hand to his face, pressing a smooch against your knuckles that has you heart thumping embarrassingly loud in your chest. God, you hated this fool.

You turn your nose up at him, like you’re some snooty rich girl who couldn’t give him the time of day. Except it’s not like that, and Jungkook knows.

“What’re you watching?” you ask instead.

He’s got that stupid dopey smile on you, the one that takes one nudge against his side to snap him out of. “Ah, just the game.”

You squint at the screen. “Is this Fox Sports?” you ask in disgust.

He pinches your side. “This is ESPN,” he corrects. “And you don’t know shit about sports channels,” he points out. “So sit this one out.” You give in with a huff, cuddling closer into his side while trying to jostle him as little as possible. Jungkook seems to have no deeply rooted concerns about his injured ankle if the way he hauls you into his arms is any indicator. “How did nails with Doyeon go?”

“You know, the usual,” you respond, idly toying with one of the strings on his hoodie as your eyes focus on the little figures running across the screen. He hums, gesturing for you to elaborate. “Talked about sex, how much better than you at life she is, some more sex.”

He scoffs at that. “Doyeon is not better than me, and I have a whole trophy case to prove it.”

“Okay, but have you singlehandedly Twitter beefed with an entire sorority in your freshman year of university and won?”

He frowns. “No.”

You give him a look, one that says stand down now unless you want to lose to my best friend and get your feelings hurt. Jungkook understands. “Anyway,” he announces, turning his attention back to the screen with you. You think his team might be winning—you vaguely remember seeing him wear a similar jersey once—so he’s pretty relaxed for now. “They’re doing pretty good considering they just lost their main striker.”

You have no idea what that means. “Who? Messi?”

Jungkook knows you don’t know. “He doesn’t even play in this league,” he explains anyway.

“Oh, I saw him trending on Twitter last week. Thought he died or something. Whole time it was just a bunch of soccer nerds crying about him leaving his team.”

He laughs. “You should be a sportscaster,” Jungkook decides after your ever-so-eloquent recap, tucking his head cutely against your shoulder. There was a study once that claimed the incessant need to squeeze a baby’s cheeks or hug puppies tightly was actually the innate human response to kill something they felt threatened by. Oddly enough, you find yourself thinking of that as Jungkook’s citrusy shampoo floods your nostrils.

“Oh, speaking of Doyeon,” he says suddenly. “Did you give her my address? I got a weird package from that store she likes that I genuinely don’t remember ever ordering.” You frown, sitting up slightly until you can look at the side of his face, the cute mole on his cheek calling your name.

“What?” you ask. “Was it in her name?” Jungkook nods. You’re about to tear the roof off his house and go hunt that evil wench down when realization dawns on you. “Oh, no, yeah I gave her your address. My mom stayed over last weekend and Doyeon needed to order something nasty. Guess it got delayed until now.”

Jungkook nods and then doesn’t say much else, which is weird considering the circumstances. You expected him to gently scold you for carelessly giving the psycho that was Kim Doyeon his address, but she’s been here a few times to pick you up, even came over for beer night once. She probably knew it anyway, but you still expected some type of reaction of disapproval from him.

Something’s off, and you know better than to leave it at that. You poke his cheek, right where that mole you’d been eyeing was. “Did you open her package?” you ask, grin slowly consuming your features at the fact Jungkook was apparently a mail snooper.

He looks away. You laugh. “Oh my god, you did,” you cackle, sitting up beside him to get a good look at the blush growing on his cheeks. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” he huffs, pretending to be overly invested in his soccer match again, but that ship died the moment you stepped into his room. “Babe, I can't see the match.”

You roll your eyes, purposefully shifting in front of him so he’s forced to look at the maniac look in your eyes. “What did you see, Jeon Jungkook, and are we going to steal it from her again?”

His cheeks bloom impossibly darker at that. “No!” he coughs, pointedly avoiding your gaze.

But your curiosity is at its peak now, his reactions only exacerbating it. You grab him by the shoulders, hands balling the material of his hoodie as you give him one firm shake. “What did you see,” you demand.

“Oh my god,” he gives in. You release him and he flops back onto his pillow mountain. “They were things,” he explains slowly, cheeks rosy. “For your, y’know,” a vague gesture over his chest.

You frown. “A bra?” you guess. “I’m not gonna lie, Kook, think I just lost a little respect for you.”

“No!” he huffs. “They were… little clamps. For your nipples.”

If this was a cartoon, you’re almost certain you’d be that character with the object in question in their eyes, heart fluttering in your chest at the words that leave his mouth.

Immediately, two things become obvious to you.

One, Kim Doyeon was a bigger freak than you’d expected who obviously dabbled in an assortment of trades. Clamps, your brain screams, overwhelmed with the image that appears in your head, the one that has a shiver running straight to your core. You would have to thank her for this gracious, unintentional gift she’s bestowed upon you.

Two, you’re gonna have to write her the best, most plausible apology letter tomorrow when you inform her those clamps have been lost in the mail, never to be seen again. Or you could just straight up tell her you snatched them up the moment you found out what they were, but you doubt that’ll go over well.

Jungkook groans. “You have that look in your eye,” he points out. You snap your attention back to him. “And I just wanna say in advance that I don’t think i can give you the fun night you deserve, baby,” he apologizes, motioning towards his still swollen ankle.

Something distinctly mean switches on inside of you.

You flash him a sweet smile that has him letting down his guard. You lean forward, pressing a soft peck to his cheek as you climb down the bed towards your forgotten purse that’d been resting on the floor until that point. “Who said I needed you to have fun?” you throw over your shoulder, carefully slipping Doyeon’s first gift close to your body so he won’t see.

Jungkook levels you with an unimpressed look. “Really,” he says dryly, “you think you can have fun without me?” He almost sounds cocky, as if the idea of you even enjoying yourself the teensiest bit without his help seems unfathomable.

You grin, padding over to his bedside, where you carefully pick up his hand. You mirror his actions from before, pressing a sweet kiss against his knuckles that makes that conceited look slip off his features for a second, eyes soft.

Click.

Jungkook frowns. “What the—“ before the sentence can leave his mouth you’re lunging forward, wrestling his hands above his head, until they’re both secured at his headboard by the soft cuffs Doyeon had given you that afternoon at the salon. Jungkook’s wide eyes stare back at you, briefly leaving to glance up at the silver chain that wraps behind one of the rungs of his headboard. “Babe,” he says slowly. “What the fuck.”

You beam at him, leaning down to snatch a pillow from beneath him so he’s better positioned, leaning back more. “So cute,” you gush, taking in the way his raised arms have the hem of his hoodie lifting at the waist. There’s a faint trail of hairs around his belly button that disappear beneath the elastic of his shorts. “Do you like them?”

Jungkook blinks. “Baby,” he says a second time, much slower and a little too calm for your liking. It almost gets swallowed by the roar of the fans on TV. “What is this?”

You ignore him, scampering around his room until you find the hot pink Sexuality Unleashed packaging peeking out from beneath his bed. Sure enough, it’s in Doyeon’s name but his address. A whole complicated mess just for some nipple clamps she’ll never see again. It’s what’s inside anyway, not that you thought Jungkook was lying, but there’s something about the actual, carefully wrapped packaging that makes your heart and pussy flutter.

“Oh! Aren’t these the prettiest things?” you exclaim, whirling around to where Jungkook is shaking up a storm with his cuffs, pout growing on his features the longer you leave him there. The ice pack slips off his ankle, falling onto the comforter beside him from all his movement.

Jungkook doesn’t seem the least bit interested in the silver nipple clamps in your hands, too busy trying to free himself from the sudden trap you sprung on him. “Sweetheart, we can play with those tomorrow, alright?” he tries, relaxing his arms and finally looking your way. There’s a frustrated furrow to his brows, one you rarely see but adore very much. “Just undo these cuffs for me, yeah?”

You tilt your head to the side, placing a hand on the inside of his calf that you trail all the way up as you move to stand beside his hip. His thighs flinch at your touch, tensing when you stop just before the crotch of his pants. “Mmm, don’t think so,” you smile, dropping the thin chain beside him.

Your shirt goes first, peeled over your body until you’re left standing in your bra. It’s nothing too special this time, just your average run of the mill comfort bra hugging your chest. But that doesn’t really matter, especially not with the way you’re hoping things play out tonight. You’d discarded your jeans a few moments prior, so the shirt joins them on a pile on his floor.

As much as he tries to act irritated by your refusal to release him, there’s a slow stirring beneath his shorts. It’s emphasized by that bright blue material, cock swelling as he watches you take off your clothes. “Baby,” he warns, possibly for the last time. But you won’t know unless you push some more, you tell yourself, placing one knee on the edge of the bed, the other thrown across his lap.

“Wow,” you marvel, picking the chain up once more. Jungkook shifts beneath you, half hard cock brushing against the cleft of your cheeks. “Don’t you wanna see what it’s like, Jungkookie?”

He says nothing, watching you with solemn eyes that leave no room for reading him. Behind you, the game commentator is chattering up a storm.

Doesn’t matter, especially not when this flimsy metal had you so completely hypnotized. You reach behind yourself, unsnapping your bra with one fluid motion that has the cups falling onto your lap, soft chest on display for the man before you. Your breasts spill out slowly from their cage, pretty hardened buds slowly coming into his view. They make him pause his fussing, half-lidded gaze falling to the swell of your chest hungrily. His hands jerk, the cuffs doing their job of keeping them there.

You grin, placing a hand on his chest, over his hammering heart. “Do you wanna see me wear them?” you croon, tugging the material of his hoodie up his stomach, until your thighs are sitting directly on his tiny waist, thin thong just over his belly button. You trail your hand up, letting it brush up the side of his neck and bury into his scalp. You give an experimental tug that has his eyes squeezing shut. “Yes or no, Jungkookie?”

He’s being a huge brat for you, eyes scrunched up together like the sight of you enjoying yourself sans his touch is unimaginable. Another tug of his hair and he’s exhaling shakily, a quiet, “yes,” slipping past his lips.

The chain drops onto his chest with a quiet thud, shocking him enough to blink his eyes back open. Releasing your hold on his hair, you sit back on his lap, towering over his fidgety body like a goddess at a temple, him the lowly worshipper beneath you.

Your hands crawl over your body, starting somewhere around your waist. The glide up over your tummy, caress the underside of your breasts teasingly. Sure Jungkook knew your body well, but you knew your body best. One hand rubs teasingly over your breast, palm pressing down slightly against where your nipple lies, while the other drops down between your thighs, slowly grinding against your mound.

“Look, Jungkookie,” you gasp, body twitching at your own hands. You take a hardened nub between your fingers, rolling it back and forth until it’s standing at its peak. “I can do it without you,” you tease, rolling your hips against him slowly. The thin material of your thong does nothing to save you from the delicious swell of his cock against you. “F-Fuck,” you whimper, circling a finger over your clit. “It’s, it’s even better.”

His restraints jiggle against the bed frame, an obvious look of distress crossing his features. “No,” he huffs out a whine, tugging at the cuffs as you slowly unravel on his lap. They don’t give, no matter how much he pulls. You know he’s holding back, afraid of damaging his headboard, and you take advantage of the fact as you move to roll both nipples between your fingers. He groans harshly, jaw tight. “Hate you,” he hisses, hips wiggling beneath you. “Hate you, hate you.”

You breathe out an airy chuckle. “R-Really?” you ask, trembling hands finally reaching back for that second gift of the day. Your breath is shallow, so thoroughly wound up from your own playful hands, and you tremble at the mere brush of the cool metal. “Oh fuck,” you whimper, bringing them up to your chest, “I’ve never done this before,” you confess.

There’s a sense of amazement that consumes you at the thin chain you hold in your hands, the pretty gold painted clamps on each end. It makes you shiver, body unconsciously grinding down against Jungkook’s lap where his engorged cock was fighting against the material of his shorts.

“Then let me help you,” he tries, the childish tone from before melting into his usual silky smooth baritone. Jungkook even softens his gaze at you, let’s his tongue peek out to wet his lips as you almost seriously consider his request.

Had it not been for the sudden loud shout from the sports commentator behind you, a long obnoxious gooooooaaal, you probably would have fallen victim to that honey-eyed gaze. You would like to personally thank every loud-mouthed, ESPN commentator out there for saving you from Jungkook’s dangerous seduction skills.

Without a second thought, you bring one of the little camps close to your chest, giving it a few experimental squeezes until the nerves are replaced with an overwhelming wave of horniness that even Jungkook can sense. “Fuck,” he groans, shaking his restraints back and forth like a wild animal as you slowly get to clamping your left nipple.

You’re not sure what you expected; part of you had thought it was going to be an excruciating pain, one that would make you want to scream and shout in sheer agony. The other part had reduced it to a barely there pinch that would never live up to your fantasies. As it stands, the sensation of the clamp around your swollen nipple sits right in between, drawing in a choked gasp that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head.

“Baby, sweetheart,” Jungkook gasps alongside you, eyes zeroed in on the pinched off bundle of nerves. There’s a sudden grinding sound that fills the air, like the sawing off of wood that definitely doesn’t sound good, and it’s a direct result of the fight he puts up against his headboard. “Please, please,” he begs, muscled arms tugging back and forth. “I have to touch—“

The second clamp goes on, making your entire back arch as if you were possessed. You're not, just extremely overwhelmed by the prickle of pain on your tits that makes you grind down against his cock, hands fisting the front of his hoodie like it’s the only thing grounding you right now. “Oh,” you shudder, thighs quivering at the heightened stimulation you receive from the clamps sitting on your nipples. “Kook, I-I can’t.”

He growls, hips bucking beneath you in a crazed effort to better situate you on his lap. “You gotta take these off me,” he rasps out. The next buck of his hips makes the chain dangling between your breast brush dangerously close to his face. He’s unintentionally goaded on by the TV in the room, the annoying drone of the commentator shouting something about never giving up. “Can make you feel so much better, sweet girl,” he cooes, jutting his head out like he needs a kiss.

Your head feels woozy, pussy throbbing at the sensations being channeled down into your core. Your eyes flutter shut, and before you can think it through, you're blindly reaching for the chain, giving it one light tug that has you mewling like a kitten. “O-oh, fuck,” you sob, looping your finger around the thin chain carefully. Another tug that pulls against your nipples sends a gush of wetness down between your thighs. “Cock,” you slur dazedly, “need your cock.”

Jungkook shudders out a long breath. “Le-Let me go then, sweetheart,” he chokes out, “let me fuck that pretty little pussy for you.”

“Uh uh,” you disagree, bringing another angry buck out of him, metal cuffs rattling loudly. “Want you to watch,” you pant, reaching behind you for his shorts. “Watch me, Jungkookie.” It takes three tries for you to get a grip, the elastic material slipping from your fingers before you finally gain some semblance of control and paw them down . The shorts and the boxers came off together, his engorged cock springing up to tap against your ass. “W-Watch,” you repeat dazedly, leaning forward with one hand on his shoulder to line him up with your dripping hole. Behind you, the commentator is droning on about core balance or something of the sort. It takes two tries as you blindly have to tug your panties to the side as well, and just as you have his fiery red tip against your entrance, something else happens.

He catches you, pearly teeth biting down on the chain that connects your clamps in a motion you can only liken to a bloodthirsty shark jumping out of the water, jaws snapping to catch its prey. It dangles in his face, the same way his own necklaces have done to you so many times before. But the difference between you and Jungkook was that while you let his assortment of necklaces hypnotize you, drag across your face painfully, he doesn’t. He snaps forward, catches it between his teeth.

You mewl loudly, foggy vision turning onto him. Jungkook’s got this unreadable look on his face, likes he’s pissed off and turned on all at once. “You’re not in charge,” he murmurs around the chain, the s and c sounds all slurred together. “You will never be in charge, silly girl, you got that?” he spits, yanking his head back like an animal, pulling your upper body with him by the two golden clamps on your nipples.

There’s tears in your eyes, lining your waterline and threatening to fall with each tug his mouth gives against the chain of your nipple clamps. He’s got his neck craned back as far as he possibly can with a pillow beneath him, chain links digging into his bottom lip. “Y-Yes,” you sob, your entire body quivering at the way he so easily manages to overthrow you, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, solemn eyes flickering across your twisted features once more. He gives another purposeful tug, head snapping back just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough to tug you forward again, a loud whimper torn from your throat. “Undo these cuffs for me, sweet girl,” he commands softly, jiggling the same restraints he’d spent the better part of fifteen minutes fighting against.

“Y-Yes,” you whimper, hands wildly slapping down on his bedside table. You had had half the mind to leave the key there when you had retrieved the cuffs, telling yourself it would be easy access afterwards. It’s not, apparently, the silver pick falling just out of reach. For some reason— it’s probably the sensitivity and horninesss, the pinpricks of pain that originate from your nipples —this fact frustrates you to the point of tears.

“Easy, doll,” Jungkook talks you through, voice low and soft beneath you, “relax and grab it for me, okay?” You nod, angrily blinking away a tear that drips down your face. It splatters on Jungkook’s cheek, bringing a soft huff of amusement from him.

Finally the key brushes your hand, and you sigh in relief, shakily leaning forward to undo the lock above his head. He releases his killer chomp/grip on your chain just as you release his cuffs. “I-I’m sorry,” you sniffle, a sudden need to apologize as you watch him rub at the raw skin around his wrists. “I didn’t—“

“Shhh,” he says, cuddling you into his chest. “It’s alright,” he says simply and you believe him.

Which ends up being a terrible mistake exactly ten seconds later when he’s shoving your face into the sheets, your cries and whimpers muffled by the sounds of the game on TV as he winds your arms behind your back. You struggle for all of five seconds before a soft click resounds from behind you.

“Did you think I’d just let that slide, sweet girl?” he growls against your ear, hot breath fanning across your skin. “I'm not your dog, __,” he spits, suddenly yanking you up by your cuffed wrists. Your chest is heaving, arms aching from the way he’s got you on your knees, blind to whatever he’s doing behind you. “Don’t lock me up, because I’ll always come back to bite.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you stammer, flinching when a hand snakes around your waist, an experimental tug to the chain of your clamps. It sends a shudder down your spine, amplified by the hot press of his body behind you. “I won’t do it again!”

“I know you fucking won’t,” he laughs meanly, trailing his hand down over your mound. One finger circles your clit through your underwear, a shaky sigh exiting your lips at the jarringly light touch. “Because I’m gonna fuck you until you’ve learned your lesson, silly girl.”

“I said sorry,” you whimper, thighs quivering. His cock brushes up against you, the same cock you were about to ride until the sunset. Oh how the tables have turned.

A hand slips beneath your underwear, pad of a finger rubbing against your swollen clit. “Oh,” you exhale, surprised with the suddenly gentle touch following his words. “Th-That’s nice,” you murmur, head lolling forward at the slow rhythm he sets, playing with you like you were a toy that needed warming up.

“Yeah?” he husks out. There’s a yank to your clamps that makes you gasp, chest following the motion as if it’ll reduce the shock. “You think this is about making you feel nice?” he murmurs. Another tug, followed by another, until he’s raining down a series of rhythmic shocks onto your tits that make you shiver and twitch, tongue heavy in your mouth to the point you feel like you’re drooling.

“Wait,” you whimper, arms twisting behind you. “Hurts, hurts” you cry, arching your back like it’ll save you from the steady stimulation against your rock-hard nipples.

“Does it?” Jungkook hums, one hand working away at your clit. He swirls it around his finger, pressing down on the nub in an attempt to distract you. But it only heightens the sting coming from your breasts, the blossom of pain that grows over each mound the longer he plays with you. “Good. Want your pretty little body to hurt for me, baby.”

Right after saying that he releases the grip on your chain, letting it swing back and forth until it eventually rests on your stomach, throbbing nipples spared for now. A breath of relief washes over you now that you only have to worry about the hand playing along your folds. The TV is still flickering to your right, but the commentator's voice sounds fuzzy and so far away, like he’s in a whole different dimension while you and Jungkook are here.

Your reprieve lasts shorter than you expected, as his free hand slowly begins creeping up your waist, fluttering over the little gold clamps pinching your nipples. “Pretty girl,” he compliments, nudging one tender nub with a playful finger. “Pretty, pretty baby,” Jungkook murmurs as he begins massaging the scorching hot skin around your nipples gently. There’s a warm kiss pressed to your shoulder, followed by a trail up the side of your neck. You shudder, trying to focus on the hand that creeps down your folds, teases itself against your entrance.

“Jungkook,” you whine softly, rolling your head to the side so he can suck bruise after bruise onto your skin. You’re definitely drooling, the saliva thick and heavy in your mouth. “T-Too much.”

“Thought you wanted that,” he mumbles, kissing up and up until he’s at your jaw and then he’s at your mouth, languidly kissing you. He’s doing that thing again where he’s hellbent on drowning you in his spit, and if you didn’t know better you’d think he was preparing you for something. “Wanted me to watch you bounce that tight little cunt on me while your tits were like this,” he says, punctuating his statement with a light slap against the side of one breast. It makes you jump, a moan catching in your throat.

The finger that had been playing meanly along your wet folds eases itself past your lips, plunges head first into the aching heat inside of you. He works it against your walls, thumb over your clit as he curls his finger inside of you. You moan loudly, shaking in your restraints. The hand over your chest squeezes, pushes the clamp deeper against your breast until your entire body is short-circuiting.

Your first orgasm comes over you with all the grace of a lightning bolt; it’s sudden and jerky, has every nerve ending wildly spasming as you whimper his name. “No more, no more,” you beg, head lolling back against his shoulder. He shows you no mercy, simply rubs furiously over your clit, until you’re jerking into his maniac hand.

When it’s over, he places a kiss against your jaw, curling his finger inside once more “Play with yourself,” he whispers.

“H-Huh?” you stutter, the rattle of your cuffs loud in both your ears, but not as loud as the breath you were trying to catch post-orgasm. You wonder if maybe he got ahead of himself again—he occasionally did that, thinking ahead to a point you hadn’t reached in your normal progression of sex —but suddenly he’s shoving you back down again, the finger that was slowly driving you insane rudely exiting your cunt.

You flop down against the mattress with a squeal, wiggling around like you actually had a chance of doing anything with him watching you like he is. You struggle for a few beats, every shift against the mattress rubbing harshly against your breasts until you nearly want to cry.

Just as you reach that point, he’s rolling you into your back, hands uncomfortably bent beneath you. It leaves you unwillingly arching to accommodate them, tits practically presented for him to see. “Pretty girl,” Jungkook groans, reaching down for the first time that day to touch himself.

His self restraint was truly unmatched, you realize, watching him squeeze the base of his cock. He runs a palm over his abdomen, up his chest. He drags the material of his hoodie along with it, eventually shucking it off somewhere to the side. His hair, so fluffy and soft, flops over his forehead, a few defined strands tickling his eyebrow.

The mere sight of him alone made you shiver, pussy clenching at the wet dream before you. He’s not an idiot either, obviously aware of what the sight of his body does to you, the tattoos littering his entire right arm that hypnotize you. The faint glow of the TV screen against his side makes him look like the cover star of every middle-aged wife’s erotic romance novel. He reaches said arm down, runs a hand along your thigh until you’re spreading them wide for him.

He doesn’t touch you like you want, only slides over your body until he’s toying with the chain of the nipple clamps that were slowly becoming the bane of your existence. “Open,” he says suddenly, and you do. Your mouth drops open, tongue stuck out slightly even if you don’t know why. He’s ingrained the response into you by now, made you into a desperate slut always ready for anything in your mouth.

This time it’s the stupid, stupid chain connecting your nipple clamps. He tugs it until it’s pulled up, the pull against your nipples making you whimper and writhe. The metal is cool when it touches your lips, but his fingertips are warm. “Good girl,” he praises once you bite down; even this sends a shock of nerves down your spine and to your pussy. “Just like that.”  

A muffled whimper escapes your lips, tears clouding your vision at the stimulation that was quickly overwhelming you again. Part of you thinks no more, please, I can’t. But the other has you spreading your legs for him, quivering pussy desperate to be filled.

The distress must be obvious in your face if the way Jungkook kisses your neck is any indication. He’s got one hand massaging against the underside of one breast, like he’s soothing the striking pain of your pinched nipples for you. If anything, it only strings you along more. “Stupid baby,” he chuckles meanly, a soft puff of laughter against your jaw, “thinking she could push me down.”

He leans back onto his knees, that same careful brush against the inside of your thigh bringing about an embarrassing whimper as he peels your thong away. “But you didn’t really want that, did you?” he eggs on, slowly shifting down against the bed, until his mouth is hovering over your exposed lower lips. His breath is warm, makes you yearn for him to be closer. “You like when I shove my cock into your little pussy, right? Like how it feels when I turn you into my little slut like this,” he sighs, pressing one chaste kiss against your thigh that makes you pull at the cuffs behind your back.

Soon, his mouth is on your clit, the same clit he had previously pampered with his hands but chooses to play with again. He licks an obscenely wet stripe from your throbbing hole to your clit, tongue curling devilishly towards the end. You whimper, though the sound is distorted around the chain in your mouth. Jungkook groans, dives mouth first into your cunt until he’s suffocating himself. His cute nose is pressed against your clit, and he takes advantage of the fact by taking one, dramatic sniff with his eyes rolled back. A soft moan escapes him.

“Fuck,” he shudders, “smell like heaven for me.” You moan at his sweet words, eyes squeezed shut as if that’ll stop the buckets of overwhelmed tears that you’ve been fighting off since the moment the clamps came on. “Wanna give you the world, angel,” he breathes, licking languidly against your folds, tongue occasionally peeking inside.

You mewl and writhe, every movement sending a tug of pain over your nipples. You want that gorgeous cock deep in your cunt, want to feel him in your womb, but you can’t voice any of this with the chain of the clamps between your lips.

Jungkook sits up suddenly, and you’re thinking yes, finally, before the look on his face has you screeching to a halt. There’s something distinctly different about him, a look you don’t think you’ve ever seen in bed before. Your thoughts are only confirmed when his foot slides onto the floor, as if he’s about to leave.

The panic must be evident on your face, because Jungkook is quick to swoop in and reassure you he’s not done with you yet. “Wanna fuck your little pussy,” he admits, carding a hand through your hair. “But the truth is I don’t think you deserve that just yet.”

With that he slinks off the bed, leaving you writhing in confusion as he heads off for the closet behind you. You can’t see what he’s doing, can only hear the shuffling of something back and forth. The TV is still on, the loud cheering of the fans muffling his clattering. You’re suddenly reminded of his swollen ankle, craning your neck to tell him to not overdo it, when something dark covers your eyes.

He’s standing just beside the edge of the bed, his signature teddy bear heat emanating off in waves so thick you could touch them. “Do you trust me?” he murmurs, voice close but not close to your ear.

Something swells in your chest, an emotion so intense your entire pelvis tightens up at the realization that Jungkook was asking for permission to blindfold you. You’re almost certain it’s one of his ties, a silky black thing that covers your vision for the most part, save for a little crack by where your nose juts out. A shuffle to your side, and then he’s gently prying the chain he had pushed past your lips earlier out. “Need an answer, ___,” he says quietly, almost nervously.

“Yes,” you gasp, your entire body set aflame at the sudden turn of events.

If you were being honest you would have never predicted your night would end like this. Maybe you came in a little too cocky, a little too optimistic for the night. It was supposed to be Jungkook handcuffed and powerless, you remind yourself— how on earth did you get here?

“Good girl,” he praises, giving you a little encouraging nudge to raise your head for him to actually tie the knot behind your head. It’s definitely one of his suit ties, you realize, because there’s a distinct cross-stitch pattern that you can feel only when it’s tightened against your skin, pressing against your fluttering eyelids. When he releases you, you’re suddenly all too aware of the sense he’s deprived you of.

“K-Kook?” you call out with a tremble in your voice. The rhythmic pattern of his footsteps rounds the bed again, and then there’s a soft touch against your leg.

“Right here, sweet girl,” he reassures you. The bed dips by your legs as he closes in on you, still tied up and on the verge of a second orgasm that he snatched away before your very eyes; not that you can see it anymore. His hand slides over your stomach, tugs playfully at the clamps. You moan, the sensation magnified tenfold by the fact you can’t see nor anticipate his actions now.

His hands glide like two sailing boats over the broad expanse of sea that is your body, molding against your curves like waves as they go. He hums appreciatively, and you find yourself glad you can’t see him. You can’t possibly imagine with what eyes he’s looking at you now.

You bask in the glory of his attention for another beat before he retracts his touch.

And then, suddenly, something distinctly not hand-like, and weirdly soft traces over the inside of your thighs. “Kook?” you ask tentatively.

No response.

It runs over your skin in the same way his hands just did, a unique shape your brain scrambles to put a name too. It’s soft, so soft. But cold to the touch. Inanimate for sure. It’s a toy, your brain supplies belatedly, but that much you already know.

It’s heart-shaped, you realize, just as it thwacks down against your pussy.

You shriek at the suddenness of it all, thighs clamping shut. Your heart is thundering at a pace of a rabbit’s, chest rising and falling as you blindly piece together what just happened.  “Kook?” you whimper a second time, head craning back and forth in a desperate attempt to track his next move.

He’s not touching you anymore, but the bed is still dipping by your feet, so you deduce he must be there. You test your theory by sliding your foot against the sheets, lower lip trembling at the idea of him not being there.

Jungkook catches your ankle with one warm palm, slightly calloused from years of weightlifting. He raises it up, the cold air of his room hitting your exposed pussy. “You liked it,” he says, not a question but an observation. Your pussy throbs, the phantom strike against it lingering. A kiss to your ankle.

“Wh-What is it?” you cry, unconsciously pressing your leg closer to him now that you have his location. (You don’t see the soft smile on his face at your action.) Ever so slowly you let your thighs open again, now anticipating the next touch of that thing— that riding crop, you realize.

Jungkook confirms. “It’s a riding crop,” he explains, excitement curling around his words. Suddenly, it returns, this time against your stomach. He doesn’t strike you like he did before, simply lets it run across your tummy. “Heart-shaped. It’s so pretty,” he sighs dreamily. “Reminds me of you.”

You nod anxiously, stomach muscles tensed the longer it stays there. Jungkook obviously sees this, lifting it to give you the lightest of taps that still manages to make you gasp. “Cute,” he laughs, trailing it back to where it first touched down.

“Oh,” you tremble, thighs twitching as it pats tenderly over your clit. “Wai-Wait,” you warn, body arching as he runs it down, down your swollen folds. “No,” you weep, going to close your legs. But Jungkook predicts your moves, pressing your thigh down harshly against the bed.

“Shh,” he soothes, tracing the heart down your folds, pressing it flat against you. There’s a distinct lining over it that makes your hips jump, a faux-velvet covering the tip that tickles your skin. “Sit still for me.”

“No!” you gasp. Your back arches, body betraying you as it pushes your pussy against the toy. “I can’t, I can’t, Kook,” you sob, lips contracting around the gaping nothingness in your hole.

He condemns your attitude with a harsh swat of the riding crop against your cunt, tearing another high-pitched squeal from your lips. It’s followed by another against your clit that makes your body spasm. “Bad,” he chides. “Supposed to be my perfect girl.”

“I c-can’t,” you whine, the darkness over your eyes making the sensations ten times more intense. You don’t know where he or the riding crop are if they’re not directly touching you. Even then, the image is fuzzy in your head. “Need you,” you pant.

You try to reach for him, try to pull him into your arms. But you’re reminded of the cuffs holding you back, the metal digging into your skin behind you. You sob at the realization, angrily shaking your hands back and forth like maybe acting like a tantrum-throwing child will save you. It doesn’t.

Instead there’s a tug at the chain resting on your stomach, one that makes you cry out in pain when it pulls at your terribly sensitive nipples again. Jungkook uses it to pull you close, just a small inch off the bed that has you gasping for breath nonetheless.

“N-No,” you wail, nipples throbbing from all the sensations you’ve put them through tonight.

A chaste peck against your trembling lips. “Tell me how it feels,” he purrs, nose brushing against yours. Even with the tie obstructing your vision, the latest version of your boyfriend burns itself into your eyelids, force feeding you his sweaty skin and damp hair until even his breath against your face is enough to bring you to the edge.

“I-It’s scary, Kook,” you sniffle, listening for any signs of a reaction. But even if he did show one, your breathing is too loud and the ESPN channel is still blaring on screen. “Scary,” you whimper, lunging forward in a desperate move to feel the familiar brush of his tongue against yours. You miss.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks carefully, like he’s afraid he’s pushed too far.

He has. But fuck, do you love it.

“No,” you wail, lips smushed somewhere along his cheek, near his jaw and not his mouth like you wanted to. “Feels good, feels so fucking amazing,” you babble, cut off halfway through by a hiccup from your sad cries. “Wanna cum, wanna cum for you like this.”

Jungkook chuckles in relief, tilting his head until you can catch his lips with yours. It’s probably an awkward angle you assume, him adjusting for your vision-less whims, but it feels so good. It sends a shock to your pussy, his plush lips against yours. Without him telling you, you’re opening your mouth for him. “Spit on me,” you beg pitifully.

Jungkook groans, and you can almost visualize the look on his face perfectly— the tensing of his jaw, the push of his Adam’s apple, the pucker of his lips. “God, you’re disgusting,” he sighs, a fat glob of spit hitting the back of your tongue. Without your vision, you don’t see it coming, recoiling with a whiny mewl. The thin trail of saliva that follows trails across your chin when he finally reels back. You swallow greedily, wondering how soon is too soon to ask him to do it again.

With your full permission to move forward, Jungkook wastes no time trailing the riding crop over your wet folds, collecting your oozing pre-cum on the tiny heart as he roves it over your cunt. “Fuck, you can probably cum like this too, can’t you?”

You can’t answer, too caught up in the featherlight brushes. Even if you wanted to say something, one sudden strike against your pussy renders you speechless. “Mmh!” you hiss, biting down on your lip.

“Come on,” Jungkook encourages, resting a hand on your thigh. He presses the crop against you again, pushes down until the flat apex of the heart where it meets the flexible stem of the toy is pressing against your cunt hotly. He grinds it down against you, takes a sick pleasure in the pathetic way you arch up into it, rut against the little heart like it can provide even half the pleasure his hands usually would. “Talk to me, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your body is on fire, every nerve, every sensation shooting straight to your most erogenous areas— your cunt and your nipples. Talking seems like the farthest thing from your mind right now, too caught up in the way he roughly pushes the crop against your clit. A whimper rips itself from your throat, shuddering at the sensation. Unconsciously you jerk away from him, only to be scolded with another thwack against your quivering pussy lips. “A-Ahh,” you wail, squirming beneath him like a worm that can’t sit still. “Good— it feels good, Jungkookie,” you weep.

The soft mushy pet name has him raining down two snacks against you in quick succession. “No baby names,” he warns, frown evident in his voice.

Even with you completely under him like this, shackled and blinded with your love, something unmistakably childish and obnoxious curls around your throat, has you biting down on a grin as the coil in your stomach tightens. “D-Don’t like that, Jungkookie,” you choke out hoarsely, wildly bold for someone in your position. “D-Don't like being m-my baby?”

The crop loses its position over your folds, and for a minute you’re left anxiously anticipating its next touch. 

It’s on the side of your breast, harder than the rest, combining with the already powerful pinch of the clamps. It makes you cry out painfully, stomach tightening at what is probably the most unexpected orgasm you’ve ever had. It isn’t like your usual ones that overpower you and make cum trickle out between your folds.

No, it comes in waves— literally. Your pussy spasms, pushes one splurt of cum out between your thighs, almost likes your lower lips are spitting it out. And then again, more the second time, against his mattress. He pushes your legs up to your chest to marvel at the cum coating your lips and thighs. “You’re my baby, stupid,” he hisses. He grabs at your clamps then, twisting the little chain in his hand harshly. You sob at the yank, at the way your nipples feel two seconds away from being ripped off. But you can’t even complain, because the sudden touch has your pussy clenching, before a final trickle of cum oozes out of you.

Even still, your mind babbles on. “N-No,” you choke, shaking back and forth. Despite the tie covering your eyes, they flicker like a mad man beneath it, like you’ll somehow get lucky and develop Seeing Through Fabric Ability if you try hard enough. “My, my baby,” you fight weakly, pelvis trembling from aftershocks of that orgasm. “My idiot b-boy,” you smile dazedly, eyes rolling into the back of your head at the sting you’ve become familiar with by now. “T-Tell me, Jungkookie,” you croon, biting down on your lip to keep a moan from spilling out mid-syllable. “Still the same, r-right?” you stutter, “still think you’re better than me, don’t you?”

He scoffs. “No,” he vehemently denies, brashly landing an unexpected smack against your hip, no warning in sight. “That’s not true,” he defends. You can hear his pout, the little push of his lips when he grows defensive. 

You laugh, every bit the insane lunatic, fueled by your two orgasms and slipping sense of reality. “Ffffuck,” you whimper, rolling your hips up into nothing. “S-Say it again, baby,” you plead, tongue licking across your lips. “Tell me, tell me you don’t care about my problems, Kook-ah,” you whimper.

There’s a hesitant pause on his end, an unexpected lull in your play as he’s torn apart between doing what you want or playing it safe.

You know you’re confusing him, because you’re certainly confusing yourself. You don’t even bother trying to dissect your emotions— you’ve long since accepted your mind was a dangerous place when horny and presented with Jungkook’s sole attention. Well, you knew you were into the whole degradation bit, but this whole having-your-boyfriend-throw-the-words-that-made-you-question-your-entire-worth bit was certainly new and unexpected.

But there’s something in your heart (and in your libido) that needs this, needs him to fix this memory for you that maybe, kinda sorta, has haunted you for days, weeks now, as much as you hate to admit it. Needed him to fix the booboo he gave you with a bandaid, only leave a scar you could look back at and laugh off, not a gaping wound that opened at the slightest mention of it. Because while you forgave, you certainly never forgot*.

(*Unless forgetting meant having your boyfriend overwrite said memory that couldn’t be forgotten with the sheer power of his monster demon cock and wicked tongue. Only then could you forget.)

“Don’t be a fucking pussy, Jungkook,” you spit, feeling the hesitancy in the riding crop that brushes against your skin. It fades away quickly. “S-Say I’ve a dead-end office job; just holding you back,” you beg, trying to pretend the entirety of his little outburst hasn’t been ingrained into your mind for the last couple of weeks. Something flashes in your chest, throat closing off when the toy finally leaves your skin. “Tell me, tell me—“

He looms over you, teddy bear warmth covering the entirety of your body. “Is this what you want?” he asks seriously, lowly, breath fanning across your lips. Your makeshift blindfold feels distinctly damp over your eyes, chest heaving with an exertion that can only be emotional when he speaks so softly to you after routinely raining down brutal thwacks on you for the past half hour. “__,” he says sternly, “is this what you want?”

You gasp on a sob, unsure when these emotions had time to manifest outside your heart like this. You nod your head like a bobble head doll sitting on someone’s dashboard, lower lip trembling on a shameful cry that is not sex-induced like all the other ones until now. “I-I need this, Jungkook,” you admit, voice so tiny and soft, it almost gets drowned out by your shaky exhales and the crowd roaring on screen. “Need to overwrite it.”

He presses a soft kiss to your quivering lips, slow and so devastatingly loving. It’s nothing like the one from before where he’d spit down your throat per your request, and the unbridled adoration he packs into one simple kiss makes you crumble in his arms, sniffles piling on by the dozens.

He leans back after a moment, pulls your thigh over his forearm and finally lets you feel the hard ridges of his cock against your folds. “Stupid girl,” he huffs, trying to sound angry and annoyed, but there’s a lilting tone to his words, a love and trust you wouldn’t have been able to see with or without your blindfold, but can feel nonetheless. He pulls it off you anyway, the warm glow of the TV illuminating his face for you for the first time in about half an hour. Eyes soft, sweat trailing down his body. His body lines up against yours, but so does his heart. You feel it in the way he holds you in his arms, the way he’s careful about sinking into your folds. He slips an arm beneath your waist, uses it to hold you up so you’re not uncomfortably squishing your arms anymore. But if you ask, he’ll pretend he’s doing this for convenience sake only.

“T-Terrible fucking job,” he starts out, the stammer eluding the obvious discomfort he has saying those words, but he does it for you anyway. “Big fucking baby,” he tries again, slowly pushing past your tight walls with a shudder. “C-Can’t look away from you for two seconds because you’re such a fucking kid.”

“Worse,” you choke out. “Meaner. Please, Kook.”

He nods, holds your waist carefully when he finally bottoms out inside of you. “Dead-end office job,” he says, repeating the words that had made you want to crawl into a whole and never come out from. “Got some stupid fucking problems,” he tacks on, slowly withdrawing his hips from your heat. “Always complaining about the stupidest shit,” he hisses, fingers digging into your waist when it’s only the tip of his cock inside of you. “I don’t fucking care about it,” he seethes, forcefully snapping his hips into you.

They’re scrambled fragments of what he’d really said to you that night. Line after line that don’t carry a quarter of hurt or even make coherent sense for that matter. And still. 

You whimper, mind fuzzy from the thrusting pace he picks up, body fluttering at the glide of his cock against your walls. But your heart is thundering in your throat, his willingness to help fix this memory for you tightening around your every being until you can’t breathe. “I-I love you,” you cry, clenching down around him.

Jungkook groans, pulls you flush against his cock until the thin hairs around the base of his cock are tickling your skin. “Stupid, fucking child,” he groans, “immature ass nobody,” he grunts, bucking into you like your words don’t mean a thing.

“I am, I am,” you wail, suddenly hit with the cold hard truth that your body was desperately on edge. From the stimulation your nipples had gotten all night, to the ghost of the riding crop that lingered across your skin; your body was tired, so ready for a final orgasm that you’re certain Jungkook will provide. “T-Tell me y-you—“

“Shut up,” he barks, sweaty skin gliding against yours. “D-Don't tell me what to do,” he huffs, nailing you into the bed. He’s pushing you hard into the mattress, like he wants to brand you into it. “Need to fix this— alone.”

You nod numbly, the crowd behind him cheering loudly. It’s like they’re rooting for him— for the two of you —as silly as it sounds, and as bothersome as it would be any other day, today the obnoxious sounds of the ESPN soccer match only serve to fix a bad memory from before. It’s loud and cringey as all hell, but you’ll look back to this moment and laugh.

And that’s what you want most of all. You want that memory from before, that nasty fight, to go away, to disappear forever and be replaced with this one. Of him, pounding you into the sheets as his TV blares beside you, just another day, another round of sex filled with your usual kinks. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Ffffuck,” you whine when the tip of his hard cock prods against your cervix. He’s going deep, he’s going all out, because he wants to fix this too. Wants to do anything to make it right, and he’ll never know how much you appreciate him for it. “S-So deep,” you whimper, hips jumping when he rams back inside.

“Stupid slut,” Jungkook snarls, tucking his head against your neck the same way he always does. “Making me do stupid shit like this,” he bites, but you know he doesn’t mean it, know he never will again. He rocks his hips into you, no longer concerned with holding you up from uncomfortably laying on your cuffed arms anymore as he pistons into your squelching heat. He’s pressed so close over you, lips brushing against your collarbone with each snap of his hips.

All the pushing and jostling about has the chain of your clamps wildly jumping about, sprawling across the planes of your chest, above your breasts, where he snatches it up between his lips again. “Stupid, fucking—“ he slurs, jutting his head to the side like a wild stallion. You sob at the tenderness of your nipples, at the way he pays them no mercy as he continues rutting into you like a mad dog in heat. “Slut,” he spits. “S-So fuckin’ pretty.”

Your mind is in another universe, and when that last word, that devastatingly familiar term, slips from his lips mindlessly, something inside you snaps. “N-No,” you sob, legs fidgeting around his waist at the orgasm that wracks through your body against your will. “No,” you cry in frustration, “didn’t, didn’t want—“

“Stupid, stupid angel,” he babbles, seemingly unaware of your orgasm as he continues fucking into your leaking cunt, ignorant of the cum that dribbles out, creams his cock as he carries on. “Fuck,” he pants, gnaws against the chain of the stupid clamps like he can’t bare this any longer. “Love you,” he says, though he’s still stuck in that mindset from before and his sweet confession sounds more like a threat. “L-Love that childish side of you,” he confesses, finally dropping the chain— much to your relief —and surging forward to kiss you on the mouth. He tastes weirdly metallic, a thought you can’t ponder too long as he continues ramming himself past your clenched lips and into your pussy. “Your fffucking dr-drive to succeed,” he grunts, mouth smushed uncomfortably against your cheek.

“Kook, sweetheart,” you shudder, sensitive pussy spent as he drills on. His cock is still so achingly hard, and he doesn’t seem anywhere near completion. “Take it easy,” you gently remind him, can’t brush your fingers through his hair like you usually would, so you settle for pressing your lips to his cheek.

“Fuck, fuck,” he heaves, pushing so deep you practically feel him in your womb, swollen mushroom head begging for entry. “Give me it all,” he stammers, “want you—want this forever.”

“I know you do, baby,” you coo, nuzzling your nose against his when he sloppily surges forward, panting and gasping over you like a crazed caveman. “I’m yours,” you gently remind him.

“No,” he chokes out hoarsely, eyes screwed shut. “Need more, all of it,” he mumbles. “Give me yourself, ___, need you for the rest of my life—“ he cuts himself off with a shuddered whine, so airy and wispy it makes you shiver. “Ffffuck, shit,” he howls, each thrust into your walls only unraveling him more and more. “Give me, give me—“

“Anything,” you whimper, body trembling from his excessivity. “What do you want, Kook-ah?”

He says nothing, losing himself in the warmth of your pussy as his orgasm rounds the corner. He’s in the final stretch, the final straight until achieving nirvana alongside you at the finish line. And, as you’ve long since come to understand, a true Jungkook Danger Zone. He loses all sense of self, random syllables and phrases slipping through his lips.

“Fuck, fuck, marry me— marry me,” he moans, snapping his hips into you with a ferocious speed that has you bouncing against the sheets, and that’s despite the tight grip his has on you. “Let me— fuck— let me fuck a baby into you, sweetheart,” he purrs, eyes shining like an absolute psycho, but you’re apparently into that because the idea squeezes around your chest and burrows it’s way in. “A baby,” he marvels like an idiot, eyes big and sparkly, “f-fuck.”

“Wh-What?” you choke, flinching when he bites down against your lower lip. He’s got you trapped beneath him, stuffing your brain with these ideas that make your heart enter cardiac arrest, body tingling like in Mario Kart when you’ve got the star power up. “Kook—“

“Sh,” he groans, digging his fingers into your sides as he rolls his hips against you. “Almost,” he informs you, but the blood rushes to your ears. “Oh, fuck,” he pants, jaw clenching, “oh, baby.”

Jungkook cums with a shivered cry, body hunching over you like some entity has just exited out of his spine. Maybe something did, because afterwards he manages to hold himself above you for exactly three seconds before dropping the entirety of his hefty muscles onto you. “Ouch,” you whine, wrists twisted uncomfortably beneath you.

“Sorry,” he huffs, completely out of breath and dazed as he rolls away from you. He ends up spread out like a starfish beside you, completely fucked out and definitely zooming through the fifth, sixth, and seventh dimensions.

He doesn’t say anything for a hot minute, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon, until you butt in. “Kook. Undo me,” you remind him.

He looks over at you, dark hair falling over his eyes and sprawling around his head like a halo. Oh, he was going to be the death of you. “Oh,” he says, like his brain has just processed the information. “Right.” He sits up, tucking himself back into the shorts he never fully took off. That was his character flaw; never bothers to get completely naked during sex. Anyway, his straight male-equivalent of booty shorts come up around his thighs again, stretching sinfully across the thick muscles.

The five sonnet poem that was gearing up in your head comes to a halt when he touches your breast. “No, no more,” you cry, instinctively withering away.

Jungkook snorts. “I’m just taking them off, baby,” he says, reaching forward again with the same practiced ease you’d use on an animal. The clamps come off, all the nerves suddenly coming back to life. It’s a weird sensation, not having your tits subject to that prickling pain anymore, and it makes you moan softly. Jungkook soothes you with his wannabe masseuse hands, but you think it’s just an excuse for him to fondle your breasts.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks gently, hovering over you like a damned surgeon or something. His voice is so silky and smooth, hands soft against your chest. He’s so careful in the way he turns you over, somehow magically producing the tiny key pick you swore was lost between the sheets after its first use.

Being on your chest makes you tremble like a leaf, the faintest brush of the cotton against your tits enough to make your pussy clench weakly. “ I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, carefully detailing his actions like you’re not watching him with your very own eyes. But it’s oddly comforting, having him walk you through the process of rolling your sore wrists. The inside of the cuffs had a plush lining, but it was a pretty cheap thing. After he’s done massaging the skin, he pads over to his dresser and returns with a shirt and undies for you. “Shirt,” he says, helping you into the clothing.

When you’re all snuggled under the sheets again, the television still loud as hell, he mumbles, “wanna talk about it?”

You exhale against his chest, feeling so light and fluttery from your orgasms and the way he runs his fingers through your scalp and the way his heart thunders by your ear. “Hm,” you hum pensively. “Nah. Think I’m fine now,” you admit.

Jungkook chuckles. “A full miracle recovery?” he teases. You nod, taking in the comforting scent of his fabric softener and just him in his entirety.

“Yep.” A beat of silence, the commentator is back to filling the space between you two. He talks about a mile minute, spewing stats and plays you could never understand in a thousand years. But you know Jungkook will get sucked in soon enough, so you strike while the pot is hot. “Do you wanna talk?”

He cranes his neck a little to look at you. “What do you mean?”

You roll your eyes, pushing yourself up to look at him straight on. “Oh, my mistake,” you drawl. “I seem to have missed the part where we were going to act like you didn’t just ask for my hand in marriage and then offered to get me pregnant—,” you pause, the realization suddenly hitting you like a trash can whipping down a hill on a rainy day at a thousand miles per hour. “Pregnant!” you exclaim, cheeks warm at the fact he really just said that to you.

Jungkook’s cheeks fare no better, a Flaming Hot Cheeto shade dusting his skin. “I, it was just…” he tries, poor tiny monkey brain working overtime to offer an excuse. “It-it doesn’t have to be a thing,” he blushes, big Bambi eyes flickering from you to the television to the heart-tipped riding crop by the foot of the bed. “I was just…”

You raise your brows. “Consumed by the spirit of King Henry IV to have fourteen kids?”

He blinks. “Wait, you actually paid attention to that film?”

“That’s not the point!” you exclaim, shifting onto your knees in front of him. “What,” you inhale sharply, heart beating wildly in your chest, “what was that?”

Jungkook can only play the shocked angel card for so long before he’s sinking back into his pillow stack with the sigh of a man who’s worked in construction for the last sixty-four years. “I just,” he mumbles, “I think about it sometimes.” His admission makes your heart lodge itself into your throat, wide eyes watching him spill out his heart to you.

He misreads the expression on your face. “I-Not now!” he hurries to explain. “Like,” he stammers, rosy hue slowly crawling down his neck, over his ears. “Maybe, y’know? In the future…”

You blink, brain reduced to a series of beeps and clicks like that of an old computer trying to compute information that is simply not processing. “Yeah…” you murmur, unsure of what to do with the film reel that suddenly flashes before your eyes, a look into a doorway you had never considered before. “I— me too.”

Jungkook chokes on his own saliva. “Really?” he yelps, has those sparkly anime girl eyes you always tease him about.

The gulp you do sounds loud in your ears. “Yeah,” you breathe, throat drier than the desert, but more confident than the first peabrain response. “I-I’d like that.”

There’s a bright beam of light that shines right in your face, so vibrant and dazzling it makes you flinch and by the time you’ve recovered you realize it’s his smile. “Yeah?” Jungkook mumbles back, pearly teeth framed by his pretty smile, brows raised at your stuttery confirmation. You nod. His lips twist into a smaller grin, a condensed version of the superstar one he gave you just moments before. Before you can brush it off with a joke, he’s snatching your hand up in his, a soft smooch pressed to your knuckles. “Okay,” he says quietly, dark eyes meeting yours. “One day?”

Your heart constricts in your chest, and all you can do is nod. “One da—“

“Goooooaaaaallllll!” the announcer on screen shrieks, the loud sounds of the TV killing your mood instantly.

Any dumbstruck, love struck, idiotic, ditzy expression on your face is wiped clean, replaced with an unimpressed glare you narrow on him. His nose is scrunched up like he wants to laugh, lips pressed into a thin line at your annoyance. He swipes the TV remote off the side table, arms spread open for you to crawl back into. You do so with a huff, pout smushed against the front of his hoodie.

“That’s enough ESPN for today,” he chuckles, switching the channel about a thousand times until Rick and Morty is playing on screen. “I’ll just watch the highlights later.”

“ESPN,” you scoff like an evil villain in a movie who’s just been presented with their mortal enemy, fisting the front of his hoodie.

Jungkook nods. “ESPN,” he repeats. A beat passes. “Kinda like BDS—“

“Go get your ice pack.”

epilogue

Because Jungkook couldn’t sit still for that one eventful night following his ladder injury, he ends up in a medical boot for one week, loudly clunking around the place like a reverse pirate. You snap a picture of him that you post on Twitter for your twelve followers to see, just him pouting at the doctor’s office with his new boot and club jersey on to celebrate last night’s victory.

It’s just a cute pic for you and your friends to laugh at.

Until it’s not, and his handsome face is circulating around the entire internet.

He’s being called the Face of FC Seoul, with desperate women messaging you left and right for his information. Other fans are bragging about the beauty that is an FC Seoul fanboy. It gets to the point where his face appears on the next night’s ESPN Nightly Recap, a special on social media stars posting about the game. Except Jungkook is neither a social media star nor did he even post about the game— you did.

But there he is, all five feet and ten inches of him smiling brightly at you from the ESPN Sports channel, wearing the boot he got from hand cuffing and whipping you to completion. 

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[atinyjarofstrawberries]

Tag yourself as women who could easily kill me and I'd say thank you (because women aimiright?!)

(pt 1/?) because let's face it. there are so many amazing, strong, stunning women out there.

(The pictures are not mine, credits to their respective owners❤)

Fatin Jadmani from The Wilds

jean jackets w wool collars, wine glass in hand on a rooftop, has trust issues, straight hair, probably writes poetry, calloused fingers, the feeling of slowly growing fond of someone you once hated outright, is secretly super soft at heart, beaches, party hard work harder, probably speaks french, piercings, the brightest of smiles

Waverly Earp from Wynonna Earp

a literal baby but don't make her angry, sharp jawlines, oranges and peaches, crop tops and trying so hard, speaks multiple languages, rainbows, forehead kisses, 'being smart isn't an excuse to be an asshole', colourful water bottles, so smol but so brave, 'the stars look so pretty tonight. you know what else is pretty? my wife'

Fran from I Care A Lot

expensive cars, matt black helmets, messy hair, eye contact, tender touches, immaculate sense of style, iced coffee, unspoken understanding, rolling your eyes, black watches, really good at driving, loyalty, being clear about what you want and what you need to do to get it, knowing the thin line between being brave and being stupid

Jamie Taylor from The haunting of Bly Manor

pick up trucks and overalls, driving w no destination in mind, early morning breakfasts w your favourite person at a local diner, dark green is an underrated colour, origami, probably has very bad handwriting, working odd jobs because you like it, cozy carpets, red sneakers, ciggies and cracked glasses, living in a van

[singtotheskiies]

Flustered

pairing: james madison x reader 

words: 3300 (wtf this one felt so short)

warnings: none, it's legitimately all fluff (that's the only thing I write anyway cri and it suCKS like honestly this isn't even my writing style idek what happened 

summary: james has the biggest crush on the reader and she never fails to leave him fumbling for words and blushing like there's no tomorrow. with a little help from his best friend Thomas, he finds that maybe his crush isn't so hopeless after all.

James Madison was shy. It was a fact everyone knew, and he personally hated it. It didn't help that his best friend, Thomas Jefferson, was undisputedly the most charismatic man to ever walk the floors of George Washington's law firm, where both of them worked. He never really knew where it originated, but he had always been fascinated with books and was inside reading while most kids his age were out playing in the streets, which eventually led to him having somewhat frail health. People weren't all that great anyway, he had thought. At least, that's why he thought until he met (Y/N) (L/N), also known as the girl of his dreams. It had all started as another day at work. He and Thomas had walked the few blocks from their apartment to Washington's law firm. The building was huge, and there were approximately five hundred employees working for Mr. Washington, who was arguably the most successful lawyer in all of New York City. The two of them shed their coats as they stepped inside, but James kept a tight hold on his scarf. "Aw, c'mon, James! Don't tell me you still have a sore throat!" Thomas teased. "No, actually. I have a head cold now," he responded, as the two made their way to the bulletin board. Washington genuinely thought that it was the best way to keep in touch with his employees, and so made it mandatory to check the board every day when an worker arrived. Some people grumbled about it, but none dared tell Washington that he was a bit outdated. Thomas's eyebrows raised as he scanned the large corkboard. "New employee," he said. "Probably replaced Esther." Esther was Washington's old secretary, who had been caught as the object of one of Washington's fits of fury. The poor woman hadn't done anything wrong, but was fired nonetheless. Another rather outdated thing that Washington always had was a staff meeting whenever a new employee came along. They consisted mostly of the newbie standing by him awkwardly while everyone watched them squirm in embarrassment. No one except James even listened to Washington's welcome speech. He mostly had it memorized by now (it was always the same, the only change being the person's name), but he wanted to make a good impression. Besides, he admired his boss's commanding presence and found it fascinating to observe. "I guess we'd better go to the meeting room, then," James said. "It starts in a few minutes." "I hope she's young," Thomas said. "And hot." "Oh my god, Thomas, is that all you can think about?" James asked wearily. "It's what matters! It wouldn't hurt you to take an interest in the opposite sex from time to time," Thomas shot back. "Well, if the opposite sex showed any interest in me, maybe I would." "You're too bookish. That's the problem," Thomas told him. "Well, I'm certainly not changing that," James said, his tone making it clear that the conversation was over. "Whatever. Let's go." ------ When they entered, most of the staff was there and Washington was deep in conversation with a young woman who looked unfamiliar, although James could only see her back. Washington looked up as they arrived. "Ah, Mr. Madison! Mr. Jefferson! So glad you could join us. Let's begin. Ladies and gentlemen, this is my new secretary, Miss (Y/N) (L/N)!" "Miss," Thomas whispered. "Shut up." But James promptly forgot everything as she turned around. She was absolutely stunning. Her beautiful features were perfectly framed by her (H/C) hair, and she was in a pretty dress that accentuated her curves in all the right places while still being modest. Somehow, she didn't seem nervous and instead looked around at everyone and smiled brightly. As her eyes neared him and Thomas, he grew increasingly more nervous, and he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Her gaze alighted upon him, and he knew he was a goner. Any thoughts flew away from him as she lingered on him for just a moment longer than anyone else. Her eyes widened slightly, but she gave him a sweet smile that set his cheeks burning as if touched by a million hot coals. Then she looked at Thomas next to him, and, as if freed of some invisible chain, his mind began racing. Was I looking at her weirdly? That's probably why her eyes got wider. She probably thinks I'm a creep now. Can she see me blushing? Wait. James Madison, you should be ashamed of yourself. Why do you care? You don't even know her. Ugh. I think too much. Thankfully, the meeting ended soon, and workers began filing out of the room to begin their day's work. He and Thomas headed for their adjoining offices. "Well, Jamesy, she certainly is a looker. What do you thi—why, good lord, man, you're actually sweating!" James opened his mouth defensively as he touched his forehead. Sure enough, beads of perspiration had formed on his brow. He grabbed a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and mopped it off, scowling as he went. "Someone's been blown away by the new secretary, eh!" Thomas said, elbowing his side playfully. "What!? N-no! I just, um, my scarf is probably making me overheat!" James laughed nervously as he refolded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. "I saw you when she looked at you, James! Your face was practically glowing! But don't worry, I won't tell a soul!" And with a wink, he disappeared into his office, leaving James standing alone outside the door to his own. He was just about to enter it when he heard a voice calling to him. "Excuse me! Are you Mr. Jefferson or Mr. Madison?" He turned. (Y/N). His face was immediately warm again, just as his face had begun to cool down. "Oh, um, I'm Madison. James Madison. But you can call me James! That's what my friends call me, but then I really only have one friend. That's Thomas," he said as he motioned to Jefferson's office. "He's my best friend." He suddenly stopped short as he realized he'd been rambling. A smile had crept into (Y/N)'s face, and her eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter. "Well, it's truly a pleasure to meet you. I'm (Y/N) (L/N), but then I guess you already knew that. Mr Washington likes big meetings, doesn't he?" she asked, giggling. Her laugh was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. "Yeah, he really does. There's some type of meeting almost every day. He just likes to keep us informed, I guess," he said, chuckling along with her, though his own laugh sounded awkward in his ears. "That's better than not knowing anything at all," she said, her voice still tinged with a laugh. "Well, I should get to work. I hope we can talk more!" She reached out a hand and Madison took it. It was if something possessed him, something that controlled his actions, because he never would have done what he did under any circumstances whatsoever. He brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. "The pleasure is all mine," he said, releasing her hand suddenly. "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" he cried, as she was standing, frozen. "I wasn't too forward, was I?" She still seemed stunned. "No, it's just that—that's such a gentlemanly thing to do! I thought chivalry was a lost ideal these days. I'm glad it's not, though. Thank you." "Oh, well, I just try my best," he responded, kicking himself inwardly at the stupid answer. She smiled at him and walked down the hallway. He watched her as she turned the corner, and was only snapped out of his daze by Thomas's voice. "You've got it bad, Jamesy," he said. He'd heard the whole exchange. Madison whirled around. "I don't know w-what you're talking about!" he said. Oh no. The stuttering again. He whisked himself into the office and sat at his desk, head in his hands. What a day. And he hadn't even been here for two hours. ------ Needless to say, you were nervous about your first day at your new job. However, Mr. Washington had been kind enough to show you around the place and you knew your credits were undeniable. Still, you wanted to do well. The entire staff coming to see you was, in light terms, terrifying. However, you plastered a cheery grin on your face and waved brightly to your fellow employees. As you scanned the crowd, two men stood out above the rest—Mr. Madison and Mr. Jefferson, although you weren't sure which was which. They were taller than nearly everyone else and had an air of importance that couldn't be ignored. (Plus, they had come late. That made them stand out as well.) Your eyes lighted upon the slightly shorter one first. He was dressed in more plain attire than his friend, who sported a bright magenta suit. His short hair was cropped close and a handkerchief emerged from his breast pocket. If his clothes were somewhat unremarkable, his looks certainly weren't. He had smooth skin the color of dark chocolate and wide, handsome features. His dark eyes were already fixated upon you, and your eyes widened at the fact that he seemed to be mesmerized by you. You gave him a smile and his face practically glowed. He looked down shyly at his feet. Although you didn't want to, you tore your eyes away from him and observed his friend, who was chuckling silently at his friend's embarrassment. He was wearing, as previously noted, a magenta velvet suit. His chiseled face was framed by a wild halo of curls. He was handsome, but not as much so as his friend. Giving you a wink, he looked at his friend and back at you with a quick lift of his eyebrows. Now it was your turn to blush and look away. After the meeting was adjourned, Mr. Washington talked to you a little more about expectations and rules. "Thank you, sir," you said when he had finished. "My pleasure. Good luck, Miss (Y/N), although I hardly doubt you'll need it." "Thank you, sir." ------ You were walking back to your office when you saw the handsome man standing outside a room you assumed was his workspace. If you want to meet him, it's now or never, you thought to yourself. Walking quickly, you called, "Excuse me?" He whirled around, as if surprised to be addressed. "Are you Mr. Jefferson or Mr. Madison?" You asked him. "Oh, um, I'm Madison. James Madison." he said, and proceeded to say that you could call him James (that's what his friends called him). He then began to ramble about his friend Thomas, before stopping abruptly as he realized what he was saying. A blush spread across his cheeks and you couldn't help but give a small smile at his adorable shyness. After a few minutes of small talk, he took your hand and kissed it. You were stunned. You had always been a sucker for chivalry, and your heart melted as you watched him stammer out an apology. Although you wanted to stay and talk to him for hours, you excused yourself. You really did have a lot to do. "Talk to you later?" you asked hopefully. "Of course," he answered, and you smiled and walked away. What a day. What a guy. ------ "Jamesy, you've gotta stop mooning over her from a distance. If you wanna talk to her, you've gotta, well, go up and talk to her." Madison snapped out of his reverie. "I'm not mooning," was his eloquent reply. "You've been staring at her for the entire lunch hour," Jefferson told him, rolling his eyes. "If that's not mooning, I don't know what is." "Should I really talk to her?" James asked nervously. "I always stutter and manage to effectively kill whatever conversation we had going." "James, if you want to get to know someone, you have to physically speak to them. Now go," Thomas told him, giving him a friendly shove to the back. "Go get her." With a final (and somewhat despairing) look, Madison walked over to where (Y/N) was sitting by herself, poring over a book. Calm, James, calm, he thought to himself. Clearing his throat, he spoke a greeting. "(Y/N)!" She looked up from her book and immediately closed it with a bright smile that almost seemed to turn his world upside down. "Come and sit! I was just reading!" "What are y-you reading?" Good Lord, would his tongue never obey him? "Just a series of essays—the Federalist Papers. No one quite knows who they're by, but I think they're absolutely brilliant. Take a look at this part," she said, pointing to a passage. Madison took it. "Can I let you in on a little secret?" he said, sounding to himself like a young schoolboy. "I love secrets!" "I wrote some of these essays. I-I actually wrote that part you're looking at," he confessed, blushing furiously. She looked up at him in admiration and her eyes were so beautiful that he had to look away. When he did so, she placed a hand on his arm, forcing him to look at her. "James, you never told me you could write this well or think this deeply. I mean, I had my suspicions, but you should have told me!" He couldn't stop the stupid grin breaking over his face. "Oh, it's nothing, just a few scribblings, is all." "James Madison! These are works of genius! I mean, look at this! You should be so insanely proud of what you've done!" Her praise was creating such a giddy feeling inside him that he barely trusted himself to speak. "Hamilton wrote more than I did," he managed. "Well, I don't care. He's not you," she said. "He's not the man I work with and see every day, who's so amazing but can't see it. James, really, you've done an amazing job on these essays. You should be proud." She beamed at him and they held eye contact for what seemed like forever. His blush was so heated that he could feel himself beginning to sweat. "Th-thanks, (Y/N)," he said. "I have to get back to work now, but I enjoyed talking to you." "The same to you," she said, smiling as she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "See you later?" He nodded. If she only knew how much she meant to him... ------ "Have a nice chat?" Thomas asked him as they walked back to their offices from lunch. James opened his mouth to answer, but instead began to cough, which led to him sneezing three times in a row (something that had been happening a lot lately). He whipped out his handkerchief with all the skill of an experienced professional and blew into it. "Sorry. And yes, I did. She was reading the Federalist, Thomas! I told her that I had written some of the essays and she said I was brilliant! And amazing! Although she's the one that's all those things, not me. I mean, she's so smart and talented and her eyes are just—wow. I suppose that's cliché, but she's the most amazing woman I've ever met." "Well, I should think so. I could feel the sexual tension from all the way across the room," Thomas said, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, just ask her out already. She clearly feels the same way." "Shh, keep it down!" James exclaimed. "Someone could hear. And I would ask her out if I had the courage to. Or if I think she would actually say yes." *Well, then grow a pair and—" As Thomas began to speak, a small crash came from the break room across the hall. He looked at Thomas with alarm in his eyes and the two of them raced for the door. And (Y/N) was standing there, surrounded by paper cups. The dispenser had fallen down; most likely the crash they had heard. But the thing that hit Madison and sent him reeling back a step was that she could hear every word they had been saying. His mind began racing in horror. Thomas was already helping her pick up the cups, so he swallowed hard and tried (and failed miserably) to act like nothing had gone wrong. When she thanked them and apologized for accidentally knocking the dispenser over, James couldn't meet her eyes. He'd ruined everything. ------ James managed to avoid her for a whole week. His cheeks burned whenever he saw her, and he responded to her attempts at conversation with a weak excuse of needing to finish a project for Washington. He barely left his office during the day. Thomas thought he was being needlessly stupid, but he was "going to support his best friend whether he was being a foolish coward or not." He even brought James lunch when he was feeling especially down. James appreciated his help, he really did, but nothing could make him feel better until the day everything changed. There had been a knock on his door. "Come in," he said, expecting Thomas. The door had opened to none other than (Y/N). "Can I—I want to talk to you," she said. "You've been avoiding me for the past week. I miss you." "Uh, um, sure, I guess you c-can," James said, his heart beating faster. "What's going on, James?" "Um, nothing, why would anything be wrong?" he asked, laughing nervously. She only crossed her arms and waited. "Uh, well, it's about last week..." She turned red, suddenly, and looked at the ground. "Oh, that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You heard, didn't you?" "Yeah." "(Y/N), I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—" She looked up at him now, her eyes pooling with tears. "You didn't mean what you said. I get it. It was just another thing to joke about with a friend. I know I'm not good enough." His eyes widened. "No, no, no... I didn't mean to hurt you, or—or, y'know, make you uncomfortable. I—I meant everything I said," he responded, the last words coming out in a rush. Her eyes were still on his face, and he could sense an edge to them, something hopeful. "You really mean it?" She was a step closer. Two now. "Yes. I could—I just could never tell you." "Why not?" "I was afraid of rejection, I guess. I still am." "What if I said I felt the same way?" "I wouldn't believe you." "You should." He could smell her perfume now and she was clutching the side of his desk, only inches away. So close. "(Y/N), may I—may I kiss you?" "You don't even have to ask," she said, and her lips were finally his. They covered his softly, perfectly, and he was blown away. His eyes closed as the kiss went on, unbroken. He held her closer as she pulled away, just a fraction, for air. Then they were back at it and he never wanted it to stop. He had read of something somewhere, recalled that women liked it. He softly touched her lower lip with his tongue and she let out a sigh of pleasure and returned the gesture. He was a dying man and her lips were fresh air. ------ They pulled apart, too soon, breathing hard, her hair slightly mussed and his lips swollen slightly. "James?" "Hmm?" Everywhere was so soft, and he couldn't help but feel all of her with his lips. "Do you believe me now?" He chuckled. "I'd be in trouble if I didn't." She laughed. "You know," he said. "There's a spot on your throat, right where your voice is, that makes me want to keep promises." The mentioned spot was kissed, and he could feel her humming with delight. "I think you're mine now," he said, all shyness gone. "Well, Mr. Madison, I would have to agree." His office was occupied for quite a while. 

[lupienne]

#169 Ramblings

As usual, these ramblings might be all over the place and stupid as hell! I’ll put any speculations/what ifs/and shit in italics.

This was one of those 'seeding the crops' issues we often get at the start of a new volume. Not a lot really happens, but a shit-ton of seeds are planted in a very unruly garden and who knows what's gonna pop out of the ground in the coming months.

Ok, the cover is Dwight holding a gun to Rick's head, which ties in to issue at least word-wise.

Carl kneels at Andrea's grave. Lydia comes up, and Carl confesses how he killed Ben because no one else would, and he obviously still feels guilty about it because he cries. Although, the story ties in to Andrea; turns out Carl did confess to her after all, and when she still loved and accepted him... as a parent would... he started to call her mom. I can't remember if he called her mom before AOW, so maybe he fessed up after? Lydia says nothing, just lets him get his feelings out.

I still adore Lydia, there's something sweet and pure about her even though fucking assholes in her life traumatized and defiled her.

I do think this scene could have been condensed just a tad, because honestly, I'm kind of annoyed we still haven't seen Carl talk to Negan!! Not even a fucking glance or acknowledgment! Shit, he didn't even say anything to Rick about it! I mean, for three years, Carl snuck down on some kind of semi-regular basis to chat with Negan, so this totally blowing off of his thoughts on Negan's freedom/part in the war/etc... it's aggravating!

Ok, Rick struts his shit around Alexandria. Not really. I noticed he hasn't gotten a new cane yet. I thought he needed that thing to walk but maybe he's just doing some limpy-shuffle thing. Anyhoo, Maggie approaches him and she just can't stay quiet about that big leather-clad lug that's wandering the streets. Keeping her up at night! Thinking about how fine he is – er... or not.

Blah, blah, Maggie demands to know why Negan is free. Rick is like... I killed husbands and wives too... Maggie gets pissed.

Now this kind of makes me mad. Unless this is just a condensed version of the conversation, Rick doesn't mention Negan saved him. Doesn't mention how Negan fought on the front lines, or worked with him to thin the herd... I don't even think Maggie knows Negan killed Alpha. Like, so does Maggie just think Rick let out Negan and was like 'sic' em!' and pointed towards the walkers? Or let him out when the Saviors were at the door?

Look, I'm very over-protective of my Negan. But I know this situation is so sticky. Maggie can't just get over watching her husband get murdered or hate the one who did it. I get it. But at the same time, TWD is like some wild West world where you gotta sometimes kill, gotta be brutal, where nobody really is 'innocent' or can show bloodless hands. Even fucking Carl killed a kid, when he was only like nine years old. Rick and his group carved up and tortured the cannibals. They killed the Saviors on the road when they didn't have to. Just like Rick said 'I'm not excusing what he (Negan) did.) 'But I don't really see what makes me so different.'

I know anti-Negan people won't agree, but Negan didn't kill Glenn just for some sick thrill (the TV version...well don't get me started on that POS. LOL!) He was in charge of two major communities who helped supply and keep his people alive, and if those groups lost respect (aka fear) of him and saw he was letting some other group kill his men and steamroll over him... well... Negan's group might suffer then. Maybe the other groups would roll in and slaughter his people, fight back viciously or refuse to supply. To him maintaining a presence and status quo (aka killing Glenn (or anyone)) from the uppity new group was a MUST. It HAD to happen in his mind... for the survival of HIS people.

I don't think for a second Rick wouldn't take out some enemy and maybe even in a very brutal fashion, if he thought doing that kept his group from starving/being overrun/etc.

Anyhoo, of course, none of that matters to Maggie. XD She just wants to bathe herself in some sweet Savior blood. Or should I say ex-Savior. (Does that make him an antichrist? LOL!)

Rick says he can't kill Negan and locking him up seems unfair. Like once again, does Maggie know all the stuff Negan did to help the community? Rick says he has a deal and Negan will be leaving soon.

'That's really... kind... of you.' Maggie says with a pissy frown. And I know what's she thinking: you can't kill him... but I can.

Ok, the Euge and his secret phone sex line. Stephanie who didn't turn out to be Sherry like I thought. Hahahha. Just as Euge is about to blow his load to Steph's sultry moans, there is a knock on the door. Rick and Siddiq have come to cock-block.

Or rather, Rick claims the phone sex line as his own as he grabs the mic (?) and talks to Steph. They arrange to meet somewhere close to Steph's place. Eugene insists on going. The poor guy probably wants to get away after Andrea and Rosita's deaths :(

Rick does his limp-shuffle around looking for some scouts, specifically Jesus. He sees Dwight (aka little bitchy mcbitch) toiling away. “You just keep buzzing, busy bee. Make everyone think you're holding the place together..when really you're just making sure you get credit.' Like really, Dwight? Like you held the Saviors together, you fucking little runaway crybaby?

Rick: Bitch, I'll see you later, make sure you bring your fucking binkie.

Ok, a scene where Carl says he wants to go with Maggie. This is another scene that could have been cut... because Carl later tells Rick he wants to leave. I would've preferred this scene get cut and add one in of Carl talking to/mentioning... anything... about Negan!

Rick tries to recruit Jesus. Jesus doesn't want to leave, because he's got someone special worth staying for. Awwwww Aaron and Jesus have finally gone a step further than shy little smiles hahaha. :D Damn, I hope Kirkman doesn't break these two up (ie: kill one) because Jesus sure could use someone to relate to other than Maggie, and poor Aaron needs someone too.

Heh, Jesus's bashful little rub to the back of his neck was adorable.

BAM suddenly it’s the dark of night. Dwight is waiting on a porch for his Ricky-poo.

Rick is like 'dude, go on a mission for me.'

Dwight's like' Fuck no, motherfucker, I'm the Queen Bee around here.'

Dwight pulls some serious shit. 'Your time is DONE, Rick.'

Rick: 'ummm dude, you didn't even want to lead the Saviors but you want to take over here? Why, because my town is prettier than yours?' Lol

Dwight (in what is probably a whiny tone): Well the Saviors were a boiling pot of RAGE and I didn't want to be around that! WAH!' Guess what, Dwight, as their leader maybe you should have done something to diffuse that fucking rage! Not just walked away! Honestly, as this point I think Dwight is an insecure twat who likes to play victim. Time after time he makes up fucking woe-is-me bullshit.(I might have to write a detailed article on this... LOL)

I'll give him this – he does have some right to be angry over Sherry. I mean, he did love her, she was alone with Rick, then she died. LOL (She sure didn't' seem to return his love when she had John beating his ass. Hahaha. )

So Dwight says Rick does stuff impulsive and thinks everything he does is right because well... he's Rick. And of course if Rick does something, then it MUST be the right thing to do. He accuses Rick of escalating the situation with the Saviors (which Rick didn't do. I mean, yeah, killing Sherry wasn't exactly planned. But what was he gonna do about it? Lie and say she stepped out of town for a few decades?)

He whines about how Rick let Negan talk the Saviors down when Negan is sooo untrustworthy. Bitch, Negan is more trustworthy than your punk ass. Rick takes offense to Dwight talking trash about his Neegsy-poo. As Dwight (in a Negan-esque manner) talks about how 'reasonable' he is to talk in private instead of with his militia and their guns, Rick basically says 'stuff it up your hole' and turns to leave.

Dwight can't believe it! Rick has a lot on his place and doesn't have time to change Dwight's dirty diapers. He leaves but not without delivering some epic shit:

FUCK YESSSSS

Dwight is left sitting on the chair with his fists clenched like an angry toddler.

I had a thought that maybe Dwight lied about the Iron. Like, maybe he didn't get it just because he 'cheated' with Sherry on Negan. Maybe back then, Negan wasn't so egomanical and Dwight did something shitty, like threatening or beating Sherry, or trying to lead a mutiny, or stealing... or anything. Like, by the time Negan Ironed Mark, he was clearly on top of the world's tallest horse.

A little Michonne and Rick scene. She's going on the mission along with Yumiko, Magna, Siddiq and Eugene. (I wonder if Negan will join them on the road. LOL I bet Michonne would just LOVE his humor. Hahaha.) Magna could def use some more development, hell, I guess all of them can.

Michonne goes, Carl comes and reiterates what he told Maggie about moving to the Hilltop, but this scene is much better. :) I wonder if this will be the last time they see each other. :( It seemed like there was a lot of Rick death foreshadowing! Maybe a little too heavy handed. After all, Michonne is out on the road now... and she mentioned William is leading the Kingdom. So she’s just a rogue character floating around out there...

YAY finally some Negan. WOOOHOO.

The first time in the issue I laughed. Negan goes on about how much he loves pork and beans. Loves them so much he wants to die in puddles of his own pork-and-bean vomit and shit apparently, with beans oozing out of his ears and stuff. What a strange person.

I like this pic of Negan but upon second glance I noticed his eyes are kind of wonky hahaha. Must be sloppy inking. Or maybe Negan is just going fucking cross-eyed from all the canned meat goodness. Like he can't even see straight anymore, his dick is so fucking hard.

I honestly think Negan is trying to get a laugh, a smile, any kind of positive reaction out of Dwight. SourPuss ain't having any of this. Even when Negan thanks him, there's no reaction other than GTFO.

Negan says he might head towards the neighborhood he buried Lucille (my girl). 'Want to be close to her.' Awwwww.

Dwight just shuts that sentimental shit down and tells Negan to leave.

I think it would be cool if Negan went to the hospital where he left the real Lucille and gave her a real burial. He could find her bones, bring her to some place they really liked (like the park where she fed the pigeons) and bury her.

So, Neegs, armed with a rifle and a knife, and with a backpack of food and his trusty coat, leaves the gates of Alexandria. The ungrateful fucks of the town give no notice. Like I can see why Negan is sour. This fucker risked his life multiple times and gets no credit, and now he's exiled. I guess he got what he fought for – his own freedom.

Maggie's caravan comes through next. 'Take care of Rick for me,' she tells Dwight. Dwight has this weird look on his face. Like a guilty look.

I'm wondering if Maggie's 'take care of him' has like a double meaning. Like... 'take care of my cheating husband with some arsenic in his coffee' kind of double meaning)

Something that grinds my gears is this: Maggie talking so friendly to Dwight. Dwight KILLED Abraham. I don't remember how close Maggie was to him but he was a member of her group, and now she's smiling and talking friendly to the dude who fucking shot a bolt through his face? This just irritates me, because if Rosita and Holly were still alive, they wouldn't be so cool with Dwight. They would hate him, hate him the same way Maggie hates Negan – because he took away their loved one.

Why does Dwight get a free pass? I don't buy this BS that Negan told him to kill Abe. Negan wasn't there. Negan sent Dwight out as a team leader. Which means Dwight made the decisions, and he CHOSE to kill Abe. He could have just captured Abe and Eugene and held them hostage. Instead of killing one. Even just injuring Abe.

‘THEY’RE CALLED BOLTS...’

Michonne tempts fate by saying the radio group can't be any worse than other shit they faced. Maggie is aghast at that. Heh. From the looks of that crazy 'Princess' chick they’re gonna meet... who knows...

The radio group gallops off. Last two panels. Maggie looks over at Dante.

'If you hurry, you can catch up to Negan. I want you to follow him,  see where he settles down. I won't lose track of that monster.'

DUN DUN DUNnnnnn.

(I can see lots of stuff:

Maggie captures Negan, puts him somewhere private, and tortures him. Nobody knows....(NOOO)

Maggie has him captured and executes him. Probably Gregory style. (NOOOO)

Negan charms Dante and they become best buddies. (YES)

Maggie goes out to confront Negan and it turns into angry hate sex. (AHHAAAAA)

Dante must have to report back to her. They dont' have cell phones. LOL So when he does, maybe Carl will overhear. Or Carl will see them bringing Negan in (if that happens) I can't believe there isn't going to be ANY Carl/Negan interaction. Like, why even show they had a 'friendship' if it doesn't account for anything? Or perhaps Lydia will hear and tell Carl... like maybe he mentioned Negan once, or she just tells him in general: 'I heard Maggie talking about how she was going to kill some guy named Negan? Do you know who that is?”

Honestly, Dante should just be like 'No.' Like... 'you never put out, Maggie. Why should I risk my life tracking down some fucking con who was in prison for killing people?' LOL

Anyway, I'll skip Letter Hacks except for a little worrisome tidbit where Kirkman said 'I'm quite fond of Negan myself....'

Like shiiit. He was also 'fond' of Andrea....

Ok, that's it... I feel like I'm missing something but whatever. SHUT THE FUCK UP LUP

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Sunday, june 28 of 2020 with Proverbs 28 and Psalm 28 accompanied by Psalm 9 for the 9th day of Summer and Psalm 30 for day 180 of the year

[Proverbs 28]

The wicked run away even when no one is chasing them;

the right-living, however, stand their ground as boldly as lions.

Where there is rebellion in a land,

there are many petty and contending rulers;

But where there is a wise and intelligent leader,

peace and order endure.

A poor person who oppresses others who are poor

is like a driving rain that destroys the crops and leaves no food.

Those who turn their backs on God’s teaching applaud the wicked,

while those who observe His instruction oppose them at every turn.

Evil people are not able to understand justice,

but those who pursue the Eternal understand it completely.

It is better to be a pauper walking in integrity

than a dishonest man, even if he is rich.

Whoever follows God’s teaching is a wise child,

but the one who spends time with gluttons and drunks disgraces his parents.

Anyone who increases his wealth by charging a high rate of interest

is only collecting it for another who will deal more liberally with the poor.

The one who turns his ear from hearing God’s instruction

will find that even his prayers are detestable to God.

Whoever tries to deceive a good person into taking the path of evil

will fall into the pit he himself made,

but the truly honest shall be the heirs of all that is good.

A rich man may be wise in his own sight,

but a perceptive pauper will see right through him.

There is much glory when just men celebrate;

but when the wicked gain power, people take cover.

Whoever tries to hide his sins will not succeed,

but the one who confesses his sins and leaves them behind will find mercy.

Happy is the one who always fears the Lord,

but the person who hardens his heart to God falls into misfortune.

Like a roaring lion or a charging bear,

so is a wicked man ruling over an impoverished people.

A leader who lacks intelligence cruelly oppresses the people,

but one who hates corruption will prosper and live a long life.

A man guilty of murder is a fugitive,

fleeing to the nearest hole in the ground but not escaping death’s cold pit.

Don’t do anything to save him.

Whoever walks in honesty will be safe,

but whoever travels the crooked path will suddenly fall.

Whoever cultivates his land will have plenty of food in the harvest,

but whoever cultivates worthless ventures will have poverty in abundance.

A reliable person will not escape blessings,

but one who wants to get rich quick will not escape trouble.

Showing favoritism is not good;

some will desert the truth for a measly crust of bread.

A greedy person is in a hurry to get rich,

but he is ignorant of the loss that is about to overtake him.

A person who offers constructive criticism will, in the end, be appreciated more

than a person who engages in empty flattery.

One who robs his father or his mother

and says, “There’s nothing wrong with that! I had it coming!”

walks in the company of murderers.

When the greedy want more, they stir up trouble;

but when a person trusts in the Eternal, he’s sure to prosper.

Anyone who puts confidence only in himself is a fool,

but the person who follows wisdom will be kept safe.

Whoever gives to the poor will have what he needs,

but the one who shuts his eyes to their plight will face curse after curse.

When the wicked have the upper hand, people go into hiding;

but when they perish, the good folk will begin to increase.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 28 (The Voice)

[Psalm 28]

A David Psalm

Don’t turn a deaf ear

when I call you, God.

If all I get from you is

deafening silence,

I’d be better off

in the Black Hole.

I’m letting you know what I need,

calling out for help

And lifting my arms

toward your inner sanctum.

Don’t shove me into

the same jail cell with those crooks,

With those who are

full-time employees of evil.

They talk a good line of “peace,”

then moonlight for the Devil.

Pay them back for what they’ve done,

for how bad they’ve been.

Pay them back for their long hours

in the Devil’s workshop;

Then cap it with a huge bonus.

Because they have no idea how God works

or what he is up to,

God will smash them to smithereens

and walk away from the ruins.

Blessed be God—

he heard me praying.

He proved he’s on my side;

I’ve thrown my lot in with him.

Now I’m jumping for joy,

and shouting and singing my thanks to him.

God is all strength for his people,

ample refuge for his chosen leader;

Save your people

and bless your heritage.

Care for them;

carry them like a good shepherd.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 28 (The Message)

[Psalm 9]

A David Psalm

I’m thanking you, God, from a full heart,

I’m writing the book on your wonders.

I’m whistling, laughing, and jumping for joy;

I’m singing your song, High God.

The day my enemies turned tail and ran,

they stumbled on you and fell on their faces.

You took over and set everything right;

when I needed you, you were there, taking charge.

You blow the whistle on godless nations;

you throw dirty players out of the game,

wipe their names right off the roster.

Enemies disappear from the sidelines,

their reputation trashed,

their names erased from the halls of fame.

God holds the high center,

he sees and sets the world’s mess right.

He decides what is right for us earthlings,

gives people their just deserts.

God’s a safe-house for the battered,

a sanctuary during bad times.

The moment you arrive, you relax;

you’re never sorry you knocked.

Sing your songs to Zion-dwelling God,

tell his stories to everyone you meet:

How he tracks down killers

yet keeps his eye on us,

registers every whimper and moan.

Be kind to me, God;

I’ve been kicked around long enough.

Once you’ve pulled me back

from the gates of death,

I’ll write the book on Hallelujahs;

on the corner of Main and First

I’ll hold a street meeting;

I’ll be the song leader; we’ll fill the air

with salvation songs.

They’re trapped, those godless countries,

in the very snares they set,

Their feet all tangled

in the net they spread.

They have no excuse;

the way God works is well-known.

The cunning machinery made by the wicked

has maimed their own hands.

The wicked bought a one-way

ticket to hell.

No longer will the poor be nameless—

no more humiliation for the humble.

Up, God! Aren’t you fed up with their empty strutting?

Expose these grand pretensions!

Shake them up, God!

Show them how silly they look.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 9 (The Message)

[Psalm 30]

A David Psalm

I give you all the credit, God—

you got me out of that mess,

you didn’t let my foes gloat.

God, my God, I yelled for help

and you put me together.

God, you pulled me out of the grave,

gave me another chance at life

when I was down-and-out.

All you saints! Sing your hearts out to God!

Thank him to his face!

He gets angry once in a while, but across

a lifetime there is only love.

The nights of crying your eyes out

give way to days of laughter.

When things were going great

I crowed, “I’ve got it made.

I’m God’s favorite.

He made me king of the mountain.”

Then you looked the other way

and I fell to pieces.

I called out to you, God;

I laid my case before you:

“Can you sell me for a profit when I’m dead?

auction me off at a cemetery yard sale?

When I’m ‘dust to dust’ my songs

and stories of you won’t sell.

So listen! and be kind!

Help me out of this!”

You did it: you changed wild lament

into whirling dance;

You ripped off my black mourning band

and decked me with wildflowers.

I’m about to burst with song;

I can’t keep quiet about you.

God, my God,

I can’t thank you enough.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 30 (The Message)

[cynthiajayusa]

The Tasty Star of Netflix’s ‘Queer Eye’ Talks Fluid Sexuality

Antoni Porowski is known for his avocados. But on a recent afternoon he was contemplating the coconut, mapping every sultry detail of the tropical fruit as if it were the body of a new lover: the fleshy inside, the milky nectar.

It’s the first day of June when the Polish-Canadian wine-and-dine expert on Netflix’s Queer Eye reboot rings and, oh right, we’re talking about food. But gay America isn’t hungry: It’s thirsty AF.

And because real lives are being changed thanks to Porowski, designer Bobby Berk, culture advisor Karamo Brown, stylist Tan France, and groomer Jonathan Van Ness, it is also joyfully crying.

Season 2 of Queer Eye — note the dropped qualifier, a nod to the show’s new inclusivity — doesn’t skimp on opportunities for you to feel good about this otherwise not-good world, as the Fab Five imparts their best-life insight and general gay wisdom to a diverse group of clients, including the franchise’s first woman and transgender man.

As Porowski continues to process the experience, and the attendant upswing in gay male thirst and avocado sex puns, the 34-year-old subject of culinary controversy talked critics and why variety truly is the spice of life.

In the new promo video for the show, with Betty Who singing the theme, you’re cradling avocados and wearing a crop top. The avocado dick puns have been out in full force.

I guess I asked for it, right? I’m literally wearing a crop top and unsuccessfully trying to juggle avocados, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

WATCH:

I must say, I do hope the crop top becomes your signature look in the third season.

[Laughs.] Thanks! I do have to give credit where it’s due, and that was 100 percent Tan France.

When it comes to you, the thirst is real. What is that kind of attention like from the gay community?

I do maintain a certain amount of ignorance to it — and a kind of detachment. There’s been a lot of really amazing and positive attention from the show. But with that, there’s also gonna be haters. If I’m gonna take the good, I have to take the bad, so I’ve decided to take neither.

I just try to focus on what my next move is with this show, with press that we’re working on, living out of hotels for the past couple of months, and hoping that people really enjoy [this season] as much as they did the first.

When you’re living out of hotels, how do you maintain a healthy diet?

I don’t! That’s the honest truth. I’m not one to deny myself the pleasures of, like, a good ripe stinky cheese on a crusty slice of fresh-baked bread in Paris.

Oh, I’ve seen you indulge on the show.

It happens.

You’re not afraid of some macaroni salad.

There ya go! Well, but that wasn’t my recipe.

It wasn’t, but you still ate it.

Oh, I ate it. I’ll try anything twice.

Are you still trying to wrap your head around your overnight fame?

Yeah. I mean, it certainly hits in waves. We were just in London, and when you experience people who’ve been waiting outside of your hotel with magazines to sign, it’s kind of like, “Wow, you’re a human with a life and a job, presumably, who wanted to wait to have a moment.” I’m grateful for it, but it’s not something I want to be too comfortable with. It’s very bizarre and very overwhelming.

What my therapist tells me is, “Don’t trust your feelings right now because you’re constantly basically running on adrenaline — your life right now is pure adrenaline.” It’s been like overdrive, so it’s just, take everything very lightly.

What are your gay fan interactions outside of hotels like?

I feel like I’m pretty good at reading people, but with fans, the energy and the direction of it is very different. So my thing is: Ask them a question about themselves, try to make this a human interaction, and try to normalize it, just to make sure that the person has a nice, meaningful experience and they can leave happy.

[But] sometimes I’m left, like, taking care of people. They’ll come up, and their mouths open and they don’t say anything. I have to kind of take care of them and be like, “Are you OK? It’s fine. Here, do you want a hug? Do you want a photo?”

You don’t just go right in for the hug?

No, I’m a little — yeah, I have more of a European sensibility. We like to kiss twice. Or, I don’t know, healthy boundaries?

Kiss twice, though? Everyone must just enjoy meeting you.

[Laughs.]

How has helping other people on this show changed your approach to your own life?

I’ve had many passions: I studied psychology; I worked as a gallery director; I photographed vintage furniture. And on the acting side of things, that was something that was always very ego[-driven]. I wanted people to look and see and feel my presence, whereas with the show, it actually isn’t that at all. The energy is directed in the other direction, so it’s really us being of service to this person that we’re helping.

We see that happen in the first episode of Season 2, with Mama Tammye

Mama Tammye is an example who spun it on us, and doesn’t even take care of herself and shows up as a teacher and as a member of her church, and for the five of us.

You cried at the end of that episode. Of the Fab Five, who cries the most?

You’re talking to him! When you hear somebody’s struggle, or especially when they’ve overcome something or made a choice like Tammye — there was a lot of pain and a lot of fear and borderline hateful feelings toward gays, and she realized that it was her perspective that was wrong, and she’s a beacon of hope for people.

It’s possible at any age. If you have people like Tammye who were able to figure it out, there’s no excuse for the rest of us.

Even though you’ve been with men and women, you’ve said that you don’t like to call yourself bisexual. Have you found the best way to explain your sexual orientation to people yet?

Not really. And it’s not something I feel too pressured to figure out.

I have very strong opinions about how to cook a filet of salmon so the skin remains crispy and doesn’t stick to the pan, but with a lot of things, I don’t like being the expert. I’d rather go in and be like, “I don’t know.” There’s a power in that for me. It’s sort of like going in with humility and saying, “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

While I don’t think I’m trying to figure out my sexuality, I’m just not as concerned with it anymore. It’s this dynamic process. I’d just rather keep it open and fluid, because that’s how I am with the books that I read, the music that I listen to. All of my interests are always changing, and it’s a constant dynamic process, and so is my sexuality.

Is today June 1?

Today is June 1.

It has me thinking about Pride and what Pride means: the ability to be the truest version of yourself without any negative consequence or fear of being persecuted or judged or criticized or hurt for it. And whatever that is for a person, however you define yourself or don’t define yourself, you should be able to do that with total freedom.

I read that you were a private chef for some high-profile clients.

It was something that kind of happened accidentally, cooking for people. I’m not a classically trained chef, where I’m in a kitchen and I’m doing my own thing; I’m an entertainer, that’s who I am. And I love food, and I love playing with it, and I love preparing it for people. It’s how I show my love.

It wasn’t an everyday thing, where I showed up and made breakfast, lunch, and dinner for someone. I’ve always had, like, 10 different things going on at the same time.

If you could cook for any celebrity, who would it be and what would you cook?

Dead or alive?

They can be dead.

I would take something off of the menu at Voltaire in Paris, and I would prepare it for Oscar Wilde. I would slap my copy of De Profundis in front of him and be like, “We’re gonna talk about this for five hours, and I’m gonna feed your belly, and I’m gonna get you drunk, and you’re just gonna tell me everything and answer all of my questions.”

You’re on a desert island and you have to survive on just one food: What is it?

I love a fresh coconut. You crack it and you have the milk, which is so delicious, but the flesh too. There’s that creamy part on the inside that you can scoop with a spoon, and then there’s the really hard shell part that, if you roast it with sugar, it gets caramelized and really nice and crunchy.

So, I think coconuts. I’d get fed up with them after a week, but I don’t know what food I wouldn’t get fed up about, truly. Ask me again tomorrow.

I’ve never thought about the flesh of a coconut until now, and it sounds weirdly sexy.

[Laughs.] Oh, think about it. Go buy a fresh coconut and think of me.

WATCH:

source https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/06/28/the-tasty-star-of-netflixs-queer-eye-talks-fluid-sexuality/ from Hot Spots Magazine https://hotspotsmagazin.blogspot.com/2018/06/the-tasty-star-of-netflixs-queer-eye.html

[demitgibbs]

The Tasty Star of Netflix’s ‘Queer Eye’ Talks Fluid Sexuality

Antoni Porowski is known for his avocados. But on a recent afternoon he was contemplating the coconut, mapping every sultry detail of the tropical fruit as if it were the body of a new lover: the fleshy inside, the milky nectar.

It’s the first day of June when the Polish-Canadian wine-and-dine expert on Netflix’s Queer Eye reboot rings and, oh right, we’re talking about food. But gay America isn’t hungry: It’s thirsty AF.

And because real lives are being changed thanks to Porowski, designer Bobby Berk, culture advisor Karamo Brown, stylist Tan France, and groomer Jonathan Van Ness, it is also joyfully crying.

Season 2 of Queer Eye — note the dropped qualifier, a nod to the show’s new inclusivity — doesn’t skimp on opportunities for you to feel good about this otherwise not-good world, as the Fab Five imparts their best-life insight and general gay wisdom to a diverse group of clients, including the franchise’s first woman and transgender man.

As Porowski continues to process the experience, and the attendant upswing in gay male thirst and avocado sex puns, the 34-year-old subject of culinary controversy talked critics and why variety truly is the spice of life.

In the new promo video for the show, with Betty Who singing the theme, you’re cradling avocados and wearing a crop top. The avocado dick puns have been out in full force.

I guess I asked for it, right? I’m literally wearing a crop top and unsuccessfully trying to juggle avocados, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

WATCH:

I must say, I do hope the crop top becomes your signature look in the third season.

[Laughs.] Thanks! I do have to give credit where it’s due, and that was 100 percent Tan France.

When it comes to you, the thirst is real. What is that kind of attention like from the gay community?

I do maintain a certain amount of ignorance to it — and a kind of detachment. There’s been a lot of really amazing and positive attention from the show. But with that, there’s also gonna be haters. If I’m gonna take the good, I have to take the bad, so I’ve decided to take neither.

I just try to focus on what my next move is with this show, with press that we’re working on, living out of hotels for the past couple of months, and hoping that people really enjoy [this season] as much as they did the first.

When you’re living out of hotels, how do you maintain a healthy diet?

I don’t! That’s the honest truth. I’m not one to deny myself the pleasures of, like, a good ripe stinky cheese on a crusty slice of fresh-baked bread in Paris.

Oh, I’ve seen you indulge on the show.

It happens.

You’re not afraid of some macaroni salad.

There ya go! Well, but that wasn’t my recipe.

It wasn’t, but you still ate it.

Oh, I ate it. I’ll try anything twice.

Are you still trying to wrap your head around your overnight fame?

Yeah. I mean, it certainly hits in waves. We were just in London, and when you experience people who’ve been waiting outside of your hotel with magazines to sign, it’s kind of like, “Wow, you’re a human with a life and a job, presumably, who wanted to wait to have a moment.” I’m grateful for it, but it’s not something I want to be too comfortable with. It’s very bizarre and very overwhelming.

What my therapist tells me is, “Don’t trust your feelings right now because you’re constantly basically running on adrenaline — your life right now is pure adrenaline.” It’s been like overdrive, so it’s just, take everything very lightly.

What are your gay fan interactions outside of hotels like?

I feel like I’m pretty good at reading people, but with fans, the energy and the direction of it is very different. So my thing is: Ask them a question about themselves, try to make this a human interaction, and try to normalize it, just to make sure that the person has a nice, meaningful experience and they can leave happy.

[But] sometimes I’m left, like, taking care of people. They’ll come up, and their mouths open and they don’t say anything. I have to kind of take care of them and be like, “Are you OK? It’s fine. Here, do you want a hug? Do you want a photo?”

You don’t just go right in for the hug?

No, I’m a little — yeah, I have more of a European sensibility. We like to kiss twice. Or, I don’t know, healthy boundaries?

Kiss twice, though? Everyone must just enjoy meeting you.

[Laughs.]

How has helping other people on this show changed your approach to your own life?

I’ve had many passions: I studied psychology; I worked as a gallery director; I photographed vintage furniture. And on the acting side of things, that was something that was always very ego[-driven]. I wanted people to look and see and feel my presence, whereas with the show, it actually isn’t that at all. The energy is directed in the other direction, so it’s really us being of service to this person that we’re helping.

We see that happen in the first episode of Season 2, with Mama Tammye

Mama Tammye is an example who spun it on us, and doesn’t even take care of herself and shows up as a teacher and as a member of her church, and for the five of us.

You cried at the end of that episode. Of the Fab Five, who cries the most?

You’re talking to him! When you hear somebody’s struggle, or especially when they’ve overcome something or made a choice like Tammye — there was a lot of pain and a lot of fear and borderline hateful feelings toward gays, and she realized that it was her perspective that was wrong, and she’s a beacon of hope for people.

It’s possible at any age. If you have people like Tammye who were able to figure it out, there’s no excuse for the rest of us.

Even though you’ve been with men and women, you’ve said that you don’t like to call yourself bisexual. Have you found the best way to explain your sexual orientation to people yet?

Not really. And it’s not something I feel too pressured to figure out.

I have very strong opinions about how to cook a filet of salmon so the skin remains crispy and doesn’t stick to the pan, but with a lot of things, I don’t like being the expert. I’d rather go in and be like, “I don’t know.” There’s a power in that for me. It’s sort of like going in with humility and saying, “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

While I don’t think I’m trying to figure out my sexuality, I’m just not as concerned with it anymore. It’s this dynamic process. I’d just rather keep it open and fluid, because that’s how I am with the books that I read, the music that I listen to. All of my interests are always changing, and it’s a constant dynamic process, and so is my sexuality.

Is today June 1?

Today is June 1.

It has me thinking about Pride and what Pride means: the ability to be the truest version of yourself without any negative consequence or fear of being persecuted or judged or criticized or hurt for it. And whatever that is for a person, however you define yourself or don’t define yourself, you should be able to do that with total freedom.

I read that you were a private chef for some high-profile clients.

It was something that kind of happened accidentally, cooking for people. I’m not a classically trained chef, where I’m in a kitchen and I’m doing my own thing; I’m an entertainer, that’s who I am. And I love food, and I love playing with it, and I love preparing it for people. It’s how I show my love.

It wasn’t an everyday thing, where I showed up and made breakfast, lunch, and dinner for someone. I’ve always had, like, 10 different things going on at the same time.

If you could cook for any celebrity, who would it be and what would you cook?

Dead or alive?

They can be dead.

I would take something off of the menu at Voltaire in Paris, and I would prepare it for Oscar Wilde. I would slap my copy of De Profundis in front of him and be like, “We’re gonna talk about this for five hours, and I’m gonna feed your belly, and I’m gonna get you drunk, and you’re just gonna tell me everything and answer all of my questions.”

You’re on a desert island and you have to survive on just one food: What is it?

I love a fresh coconut. You crack it and you have the milk, which is so delicious, but the flesh too. There’s that creamy part on the inside that you can scoop with a spoon, and then there’s the really hard shell part that, if you roast it with sugar, it gets caramelized and really nice and crunchy.

So, I think coconuts. I’d get fed up with them after a week, but I don’t know what food I wouldn’t get fed up about, truly. Ask me again tomorrow.

I’ve never thought about the flesh of a coconut until now, and it sounds weirdly sexy.

[Laughs.] Oh, think about it. Go buy a fresh coconut and think of me.

WATCH:

from Hotspots! Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/06/28/the-tasty-star-of-netflixs-queer-eye-talks-fluid-sexuality/ from Hot Spots Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.tumblr.com/post/175340031015

[hotspotsmagazine]

The Tasty Star of Netflix’s ‘Queer Eye’ Talks Fluid Sexuality

Antoni Porowski is known for his avocados. But on a recent afternoon he was contemplating the coconut, mapping every sultry detail of the tropical fruit as if it were the body of a new lover: the fleshy inside, the milky nectar.

It’s the first day of June when the Polish-Canadian wine-and-dine expert on Netflix’s Queer Eye reboot rings and, oh right, we’re talking about food. But gay America isn’t hungry: It’s thirsty AF.

And because real lives are being changed thanks to Porowski, designer Bobby Berk, culture advisor Karamo Brown, stylist Tan France, and groomer Jonathan Van Ness, it is also joyfully crying.

Season 2 of Queer Eye — note the dropped qualifier, a nod to the show’s new inclusivity — doesn’t skimp on opportunities for you to feel good about this otherwise not-good world, as the Fab Five imparts their best-life insight and general gay wisdom to a diverse group of clients, including the franchise’s first woman and transgender man.

As Porowski continues to process the experience, and the attendant upswing in gay male thirst and avocado sex puns, the 34-year-old subject of culinary controversy talked critics and why variety truly is the spice of life.

In the new promo video for the show, with Betty Who singing the theme, you’re cradling avocados and wearing a crop top. The avocado dick puns have been out in full force.

I guess I asked for it, right? I’m literally wearing a crop top and unsuccessfully trying to juggle avocados, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

WATCH:

I must say, I do hope the crop top becomes your signature look in the third season.

[Laughs.] Thanks! I do have to give credit where it’s due, and that was 100 percent Tan France.

When it comes to you, the thirst is real. What is that kind of attention like from the gay community?

I do maintain a certain amount of ignorance to it — and a kind of detachment. There’s been a lot of really amazing and positive attention from the show. But with that, there’s also gonna be haters. If I’m gonna take the good, I have to take the bad, so I’ve decided to take neither.

I just try to focus on what my next move is with this show, with press that we’re working on, living out of hotels for the past couple of months, and hoping that people really enjoy [this season] as much as they did the first.

When you’re living out of hotels, how do you maintain a healthy diet?

I don’t! That’s the honest truth. I’m not one to deny myself the pleasures of, like, a good ripe stinky cheese on a crusty slice of fresh-baked bread in Paris.

Oh, I’ve seen you indulge on the show.

It happens.

You’re not afraid of some macaroni salad.

There ya go! Well, but that wasn’t my recipe.

It wasn’t, but you still ate it.

Oh, I ate it. I’ll try anything twice.

Are you still trying to wrap your head around your overnight fame?

Yeah. I mean, it certainly hits in waves. We were just in London, and when you experience people who’ve been waiting outside of your hotel with magazines to sign, it’s kind of like, “Wow, you’re a human with a life and a job, presumably, who wanted to wait to have a moment.” I’m grateful for it, but it’s not something I want to be too comfortable with. It’s very bizarre and very overwhelming.

What my therapist tells me is, “Don’t trust your feelings right now because you’re constantly basically running on adrenaline — your life right now is pure adrenaline.” It’s been like overdrive, so it’s just, take everything very lightly.

What are your gay fan interactions outside of hotels like?

I feel like I’m pretty good at reading people, but with fans, the energy and the direction of it is very different. So my thing is: Ask them a question about themselves, try to make this a human interaction, and try to normalize it, just to make sure that the person has a nice, meaningful experience and they can leave happy.

[But] sometimes I’m left, like, taking care of people. They’ll come up, and their mouths open and they don’t say anything. I have to kind of take care of them and be like, “Are you OK? It’s fine. Here, do you want a hug? Do you want a photo?”

You don’t just go right in for the hug?

No, I’m a little — yeah, I have more of a European sensibility. We like to kiss twice. Or, I don’t know, healthy boundaries?

Kiss twice, though? Everyone must just enjoy meeting you.

[Laughs.]

How has helping other people on this show changed your approach to your own life?

I’ve had many passions: I studied psychology; I worked as a gallery director; I photographed vintage furniture. And on the acting side of things, that was something that was always very ego[-driven]. I wanted people to look and see and feel my presence, whereas with the show, it actually isn’t that at all. The energy is directed in the other direction, so it’s really us being of service to this person that we’re helping.

We see that happen in the first episode of Season 2, with Mama Tammye

Mama Tammye is an example who spun it on us, and doesn’t even take care of herself and shows up as a teacher and as a member of her church, and for the five of us.

You cried at the end of that episode. Of the Fab Five, who cries the most?

You’re talking to him! When you hear somebody’s struggle, or especially when they’ve overcome something or made a choice like Tammye — there was a lot of pain and a lot of fear and borderline hateful feelings toward gays, and she realized that it was her perspective that was wrong, and she’s a beacon of hope for people.

It’s possible at any age. If you have people like Tammye who were able to figure it out, there’s no excuse for the rest of us.

Even though you’ve been with men and women, you’ve said that you don’t like to call yourself bisexual. Have you found the best way to explain your sexual orientation to people yet?

Not really. And it’s not something I feel too pressured to figure out.

I have very strong opinions about how to cook a filet of salmon so the skin remains crispy and doesn’t stick to the pan, but with a lot of things, I don’t like being the expert. I’d rather go in and be like, “I don’t know.” There’s a power in that for me. It’s sort of like going in with humility and saying, “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

While I don’t think I’m trying to figure out my sexuality, I’m just not as concerned with it anymore. It’s this dynamic process. I’d just rather keep it open and fluid, because that’s how I am with the books that I read, the music that I listen to. All of my interests are always changing, and it’s a constant dynamic process, and so is my sexuality.

Is today June 1?

Today is June 1.

It has me thinking about Pride and what Pride means: the ability to be the truest version of yourself without any negative consequence or fear of being persecuted or judged or criticized or hurt for it. And whatever that is for a person, however you define yourself or don’t define yourself, you should be able to do that with total freedom.

I read that you were a private chef for some high-profile clients.

It was something that kind of happened accidentally, cooking for people. I’m not a classically trained chef, where I’m in a kitchen and I’m doing my own thing; I’m an entertainer, that’s who I am. And I love food, and I love playing with it, and I love preparing it for people. It’s how I show my love.

It wasn’t an everyday thing, where I showed up and made breakfast, lunch, and dinner for someone. I’ve always had, like, 10 different things going on at the same time.

If you could cook for any celebrity, who would it be and what would you cook?

Dead or alive?

They can be dead.

I would take something off of the menu at Voltaire in Paris, and I would prepare it for Oscar Wilde. I would slap my copy of De Profundis in front of him and be like, “We’re gonna talk about this for five hours, and I’m gonna feed your belly, and I’m gonna get you drunk, and you’re just gonna tell me everything and answer all of my questions.”

You’re on a desert island and you have to survive on just one food: What is it?

I love a fresh coconut. You crack it and you have the milk, which is so delicious, but the flesh too. There’s that creamy part on the inside that you can scoop with a spoon, and then there’s the really hard shell part that, if you roast it with sugar, it gets caramelized and really nice and crunchy.

So, I think coconuts. I’d get fed up with them after a week, but I don’t know what food I wouldn’t get fed up about, truly. Ask me again tomorrow.

I’ve never thought about the flesh of a coconut until now, and it sounds weirdly sexy.

[Laughs.] Oh, think about it. Go buy a fresh coconut and think of me.

WATCH:

from Hotspots! Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/06/28/the-tasty-star-of-netflixs-queer-eye-talks-fluid-sexuality/