#AND THR WAY SOME OF IT IS ONLY DYED AT THE ROOT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aerltarg · 3 years

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I've been talking with one of my friends about mental health, media that single out this type of issue, and characters who probably struggle with it, and we came to the conclusion that a lot of characters of ASOIAF probably fight their own battles in this type of matter. Robert, for one, as much as I dislike him (maybe a bit too much, cause I'm biased with thr targs), seems to suffer from PTSD, as a consequence, depression. Cersei, as a victim of abuse, seems to blow off this negative emotions and experiences to others, as a form of 'giving back to the world all the horrible things that she had to endure' (add a little prophecy paranoia to the mix, and you have a train wreck called book! Cersei emotions); and, finally, Rhaegar: anytime that he's mentioned, aside from his looks, his somber, melancholic, personality is always a big thing. I came to the (maybe shallow, idk) conclusion that Rhaegar melancholy came from this overwhelming guilt that he felt of Summerhall, that maybe this phantom that he carried could be explained as depression (again, as shallow as a conclusion can be). What's your thoughts about it?

oh, that's a very interesting concept and i rlly like it's present in the books!

i'm not that sure about robert but imo it's undeniable that self-destruction is a big point about his character and it's indeed possible his attitudes could have smth to do w his past (negative) experience.

cersei is a far more clear example of grrm exploring this theme and i just love her as well as other pov characters who are shown to bear logical and well-written consequences of their past that affect their character and character arc permanently. it makes them very real yk. speaking of cersei, i especially appreciate her anti-parallel w dany where they both suffered abuse, but while cersei makes other suffer in turn dany helps other who go through this too. all ppl are different individuals and deal w this stuff in their own unique way, and you can see this in all grrm's characters.

rhaegar's exact emotions and thoughts are unknown (probably forever) to us, but one big YES, there is an implied depression that has very much to do w summerhall. details can be different: was he feeling guilty for very young age when aerys only started mistreating rhaella (and such things do affect any children in the family) and his siblings kept dying? smth along the lines "it wouldn't have happened if others didnt die at summerhall" and imo you rlly can expect from kids to jump to the conclusion like "if i wasn't born, summerhall wouldn't burn"/"it would be better if i died and they lived".

(keep in mind that the ones who died were mostly seniors of aerys who probably could influence him in some way and intervene in the situation w rhaella; that's also the reason why i think shaera died before (like jaehaerys ii) or very shortly after aerys becoming king since i dont believe that she, who married for love, had parents marry for love and siblings following their hearts, would close her eyes at her own children's marriage turning into an abusive one)

though i'm more inclined to think rhaegar grew so burdened when he found out about the prophecy and probably the fact that his parents were married in the first place bc of it. he was an only child for 17 years while other babes kept dying so there's no wonder why he could think tptwp could be him + w maester aemon's approving of this theory.

(i also love to think exchanging letters w his great-granduncle was somehow dear to rhaegar too. it could feel rlly good to have another male relative who was so different from aerys. not to mention that maester aemon had very much in common w rhaegar himself and was a brother of aegon v and knew everyone who died at summerhall as well as he knew rhaegar's grandparents who died a few years later. it could make rhaegar feel closer to the ones who perished before he could the chance to know them since i believe his affection for summerhall is rooted not in the grief for ppl he never met (though he could be very much affected by the grief of his parents who very likely mourned their relatives) but in the longing for what could have been kind of melancholic wondering. aerys blaming rhaella for deaths of babes? what if grandmother shaera was there? babes dying one after another? what if his aunts and uncles were still alive? would aerys still keep insisting on having more heirs then? aerys having a bunch of mistresses? what if great-grandfather aegon v was still alive? aerys lusting after rhaella's handmaids and rhaella confronting him about this? aerys confining rhaella to the maegor's holdfast and making two septas guarding her "fidelity" days and nights? what if great-grandmother betha was still there? aerys fucking off to westerlands and taking rhaegar w himself while rhaella struggled w stillbirth? aerys leaving rhaella behind in kl and fucking off to tourneys at other places? what if whay if what if)

and we know rhaegar was very dutiful about this but never happy.

tldr; we don't know details about rhaegar's clear perspective there but we do know summerhall affected him greatly and depression was heavily implied. i appreciate very much that grrm makes most main, minor and pre-series characters so real by exploring this very rich field of mental health and the consequences of some aspects of their lives and stories. the fact that past experience affects them non-stop, without author forgetting about it for some reason, makes the good writing. main povs, imo, are among the best examples of it and i especially love that character arcs of dany, arya, jon, bran and tyrion contribute to this narrative greatly. big separate thanks for grrm to dig the grave for a "perfect victim" trope by giving us a great amount of characters who deal w their issues in different ways and don't play saint martyrs suffering in highly spiritual silence. they can be angry, destructive, constructive, running away from it and embracing it. and none are heavily portrayed as "less a victim" for this.

#omg im so sorry for keep you waiting!!!#and thanks you for the ask! bc oh boi i got carried away a lil bit 😭#.txt #rhaegar targaryen #mypost #asks #*answered #majorton #abuse tw

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jksangelic · 5 years

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more than friends | two (m)

↳ rating: M

↳ genre: smut, dramatic baby angst, lots-o-fluff, roommate!jungkook,

↳ pairing: reader x jungkook

↳ warnings: very light sexual harassment from tae, a pinch of violence (chill out, jungkook), fingering, unprotected sex, stretch kink (is that the correct term lol), honestly it’s really romantic sexy times but… jungkook is still a cocky bastard. i probably threw a daddy kink back in there at some point.

↳ summary: a couple weeks since “the incident”, you and jungkook attend hoseok’s opening night to his new club, a very infamous face appearing amongst the crowd and causing some issues along the way.

↳ note: i still cannot believe how much love “more than friends” received, and per several requests (that are so greatly appreciated), i decided to add a second part. a celebration for 4k notes on part one, if you will! thank you so much for your support and i’m so incredibly excited to write more for you all!

(yes, this is the second time i’ve posted this because my tumblr was being wack. sorry if you’ve already seen this.)

↳ words: 4,954

↳ series: one | two | ?

if you prefer to read this on ao3, click here.

The rough of Jungkook’s hand against your tapping leg was always comforting, he thinks. Mapping out every curve of muscle and fat was a transfixing action for him; therapeutic, if he must say. He knew that the situation called for his care, your leg insisting to bob at an incredible pace and hands running through your hair so often that despite your necessity to wash it every damn day, he was positive your roots suffered from greasiness. For once, his touch didn’t simmer your running thoughts. Not tonight, it wouldn’t.

“Hey, baby, why don’t we just tell Hobi that we’ll come some other night? I just… I don’t know if I feel like dealing with all of that yet,” you try, holding his prying hand with both of your own.

Jungkook shakes his head, either that or the vehement shaking of his Jeep throttles it from side-to-side and hell you dreamed of the day he would trade it in. “Not a chance, you’ve been dying to go to this since Hoseok-hyung mentioned it over two weeks ago. Don’t let that bastard stop you from doing something you want to do,” his face sneers once again at the thought of Taehyung, “I’ll be there, anyway. He won’t get near you. Not if I can help it.”

You try to allow his words to settle in while your stomach does anything but, resorting to picking at the fake tattoos trailing up your right arm, one arrow-stricken heart with the thick lettering of “mom” in the middle looking more like a mangled scab. “Don’t pick at those,” Kook scolds, “I spent a whole dollar at the Dollar Store for them.”

When you arrive at the long awaited Soul, the parking lot is filled with Hoseok’s many guests. It was a very big night for him, opening his own nightclub in the heart of downtown as he always dreamed. You wouldn’t miss his special day for the world, yet, the prospect of seeing Taehyung (damn Hoseok and his socially-adept personality) made you reconsider such a feeling.

After a few minutes of circling the crowded lot, Jungkook comes around to open your door for you, pink crop top making you giggle for the first time in hours. He cocks his head in annoyance, “Is my suffering funny? How do you wear these? I feel so exposed.”

You pick at your nails, purring a, “It’s how I attract all my lovers.” He rolls his eyes in response, only willing to deal with your overflowing conviction when you’re a feast to the eyes.

“Alright, alright. Let’s go in, yeah? You look too hot to not stop by just for a bit. If you feel too shitty, then I’ll take you back home. Deal?” He kisses you tenderly, receiving your yes in muffled lipstick stains to his mouth and hiking your leg to stretch around his waist playfully.

Fake retching sounds in the distance, Jimin popping into your peripheral with a celebratory bottle and a face of utter displeasure, “Are you guys going to come into Hobi’s new place or are you just going to ditch to fuck in his parking lot?” Jungkook growls into your hair, releasing your leg from its warm spot on his hip and moving enough for you to hop out.

“Probably the latter if you weren’t such a cockblocker,” your hostile boyfriend answers beneath his breath.

They continue to bicker even upon entry to Soul, your ears completely tuning out at what a beauty Hoseok really set up. It was a little more upscale than your average nightclub, traditionally dark but vaguely lit by the surreal amount of neon signs adorning the walls; shapes and sentences combining together to create a uniquely charismatic atmosphere. The furniture was ultimately minimalistic to avoid tackiness, the bar large and mostly similar to the rest. It was predominantly one of the best looking clubs you’ve ever stepped foot in, props to Hobi. It distracted from the crowd that awaits below, sudden anxiety gobbling you back up at the sight of so many bodies and knowing one of them was one you’d like to forego ever seeing again.

“Oh my—I get it! You’re each other, right? That’s fucking fantastic,” a voice blares, breaking your trance yet again.

“Hobi! I’m so glad you understand it,” you say with a smile, throwing fake-tattooed arms around his neck in embrace. He takes another good once-over when you release him, sunny cheeks practically glowing in the dark.

“Heavens, you look better as Jungkook than Jungkook does,” Hobi teases, giving Kook a rundown of his own and chuckling at the sight of him in anything other than the color black. “How many handies did she offer to get you in a crop-top? Are those… Are those mom jeans you’re wearing?”

Jungkook grumpily swats at the older’s cheeky hands when it smooths over his toned and very much exposed stomach, “She didn’t offer me any, goddammit. Fuck, why didn’t I think of that?” You roll your eyes in only the smallest amount of amusement.

“What about you, Jung? Now that you own a club, you dress as a pimp?” Jungkook backfires, grabbing a fistful of his white suit and examining it.

“No, you ass. I’m the Korean Michael Jackson,” he explains, showcasing a few haughty steps to the blaring music. How did you even become friends with… this?

“Okay, well, we’re going to go indulge in your new digs. We’ll catch up with you back in a bit,” you giggle. He waves the both of you off, immediately busying himself with the next group that comes in. Jungkook whines to stop by the bar and pile up, though you don’t reject his request in the slightest. Rather, you drink that shit up.

In the midst of spilling drinks and the haze of foul-smelling smoke do you find yourself in the crowd, sprinkling grins here and loud hello’s there, inevitably shrinking into Jungkook’s figure with the more people you mindfully tally up. He doesn’t mind, albeit tugging on your shirt to finally settle in one place of the floor to thoroughly soak up your presence. “We’ll get the rest later. Just warm up and dance already, brat.” You hum and trail your hands under and up his shirt, relishing in the rare occasion (and soon to be discontinued) of your boyfriend in a crop top. He returns the favor, gripping your ass in it’s pitch black latex skirt.

“You should dress like me more often. I love seeing you in black, it’s sexy.”

“I wish you wore pink more. It suits you.”

“Should we just switch the roles entirely?” he jesters, poking at your tattoos like a marveling child.

You smirk, “Should I buy a strap?”

His face drains of all color in an instant, nostrils flaring, “Ok, I’ve had enough of this joke.” Pfft, such fragile masculinity.

And like that, your worries drain as if they never existed. Jungkook made more of an effort than ever before as your friend to make you happy. Of course, altering the boundaries of your relationship from platonic to romantic was the case, but Jungkook was more fragile, now. More caring. More protective. Taehyung would never want to change for you. That realization would never stray from your mind.

The costumes around you sway vividly, wings of fairies wavering, tails of various animals poking one another, characters of an arrangement of current shows testing your knowledge of pop culture. You’re more than enthralled to be here in the warmth of your friends.

“Having fun, babydoll?” Jungkook husks out from behind, fingers digging into your skirt as you haphazardly grind against him. “You’re giving me… issues back here.” You melt in his hold, twirling about so you can face the man of your dreams and kiss him as such.

“You’re so good to me, daddy. Thanks for taking me out tonight,” you purr. His jaw slacks at his name, raking lust-brimmed eyes over your spilling breasts in their matching midnight teddy, innocently tucked away into your skirt as if he didn’t know what it looked like alone. Spoiler: he’s seen it a countless amount of times.

“I know it’s for the sake of great costume, but shit, Y/N. Wearing lingerie in public? I don’t remember verbally stating that I condone this,” he grunts, biting at your neck shamelessly.

“I’m trying to be sweet and you’re focused on my tits,” you harrumph, pulling away from the horndog waste of your boyfriend before he leaves a giant hickey on your collar. “Go make yourself useful and get me another drink! And tuck your boner!” He rolls his eyes but complies, even squatting awkwardly to shift his growing hard-on in those “mom jeans”. You chuckle as you watch him go, undulating mindlessly and overflowing with adoration.

And possibly piss. Most definitely urine.

You slither your way off the dance floor, scoping out all possible restroom areas and settling on the hallway with the humongous neon light that spelled out “toilet” as would for the entrance to heaven. Thanks, Hoseok.

The music zones out with every step down the hall, drunken tittering echoing when it seems to stretch farther and farther like a scene off The Haunted Mansion. A man stumbles out from the restrooms, desperately strangling his belt into submission but failing quite miserably. Laughs bubble, yet again, out from your throat at the sight.

“Is something funny—Oh,” the man smirks, deep voice dragging ice up your back, “Hey, kitten.”

Your face squishes into repugnance, Taehyung roaring at your reaction and swerving closer to your frozen body, “Didn’t miss me so much, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Tae. Leave me alone.”

“’Tae’? Oh, honey, you can’t avoid me if you tried. Shame, I wish you would’ve at least called me after that whole… ordeal.” Not realizing you cower away from his figure until your shoulders hit the wall, you flinch. In this proximity, you realize Taehyung’s eyes are bloodshot, gorgeously half-lidded and even more entrancing than the last time you saw him. His makeup makes it worse, dark eyeshadow smudged out and fake blood dripping from his full lips; a vampire suited him. Cold, indifferent, ready to suck you up without remorse.

“Taehyung, buzz off. You’re high.”

Trying to attempt your escape, he traps you between his arms, head dipping low to closely probe your own costume and grunting, “You knew I’d be here, huh? You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t want to. So what’s it?” he slurs, “Need some company?”

You push uselessly at his chest, head unfortunately spinning and breathing imitating possibly anything but distress, “Tae, I c-can’t. Let me go, I need to go. I’m sorry,” you pant. His thumb swipes across your cheek, sweet as poison.

“Sorry? Sorry for what, kitten,” his breath sears next to your ear, “Sorry that I caught you fucking your stupid roommate?” His snickers vibrate, guilt resurfacing when it shouldn’t and you should’ve have never come out tonight goddammit.

“J-Jungkook,” you voice, cracking with need and too quiet for even Taehyung to hear. You fist at his shirt, desperately but weakly clawing your way out and wincing away from Kim’s nipping mouth.

All Jungkook sees is Taehyung pressed against you, your whimpers quiet as if it’s trying to keep a secret. All Jungkook hears is that awful, cocky voice growling into your neck with unadulterated lust. All Jungkook feels is red.

Although your eyes blur with frustrated tears, you render that Taehyung must have finally heeded your request when your chest is free of his weight. That is, until you see him on the ground, your enraged boyfriend pelting bloody knuckles into Taehyung’s once-flawless face.

“Jungkook!” you scream, falling onto your knees and tugging on his shirt before he kills him, for all you know. “Jungkook, stop!”

He does, faltering away from your grasps and standing abruptly. Taehyung groans, costume blood indistinguishable from his own, real fluid. Jungkook stares at you with pain etched onto his angular features, rage replacing it soon after.

“You. You weren’t afraid to see him because of what happened. You were afraid to see him because you still love this douchebag, don’t you?” he spits nonsensically. You reach for him, head shaking and stumbling over words of reassurance, but he denies it all.

“What the hell is going on here?” Hoseok yells, rounding the corner and eyes blowing wide at the sight before him. Jungkook scoffs, shoulder-checking his hyung on his way out. Tripping over yourself, you run after him, tears stinging hot down your face and heart racing.

“Jungkook! Jungkook, listen! That’s not what—”

He comes to a complete halt; how you don’t crash right into him, you have no clue. The tired expression he wears when he turns breaks your heart, “I love you, Y/N. I love you. And there’s no room for that shithead over there. I’m the one who cares about you.”

“Jesus, Jungkook! If you would just let me—" you try again, but Jungkook is off once again. Griping at your idiot of a boyfriend’s stubbornness, you watch him leave. You could scream if you weren’t in the middle of public, rage and sorrow and guilt practically flowing out of your pores. Instead, you round yourself back to the hallway to find a wincing Taehyung propped against the wall and a worried Hoseok tending to him.

“Jungkook thought we were canoodling, I guess. So he beat the shit out of him,” you explain, Hoseok jumping at your reappearance. Squatting down next to him, you sigh, “He left.”

“The guy really packs a punch,” Tae admits, wiping for the umpteenth time at his bloody nose, “I think he knocked the high out of me.” You scowl.

“Do you need a ride, Y/N?” Hoseok offers. You felt bad; this was his own event and you ruined it, but you could really use his help so you nod a little reluctantly.

“I’m sorry. Do you mind if you give us a minute?” you ask, nodding to Taehyung. Hobi complies, standing and waiting at the end of the hallway until you need him back.

“Taehyung, I’m sorry things ended the way they did. I should’ve explained myself but I was still kinda confused about… whatever.

“But me and Jungkook are together now. So. If you can kindly fuck off or something.”

“Jesus, Y/N, I know I can be a dick but you could have at least tried to mention that.”

“You make everything difficult, Taehyung. From the day we met,” you accuse, “You were the worst fuck I’ve ever come across.”

He chuckles, looking into your eyes for the first time tonight and looking genuinely apologetic, “You’re not a bad gal, Y/N. I think we could’ve been something good.”

What the hell?

He didn’t get to do this; claim you one second, reject you the next, propose you could’ve been good another. Perhaps you dreamt of this day a long time ago, secretly wishing and hoping and longing for Taehyung to want you the same way that you wanted him.

But all you can think of now is Jungkook. His buck teeth and his horrible omelets and how he recently started sleeping in your bed with you instead of his own. Maybe, for a while, you just accepted the affection Taehyung never thought to give you, as horrible as it sounds. But now, with Taehyung subtly offering, you know for sure it’s just Jungkook.

You love Jungkook.

“Relationships aren’t for you, Tae.”

His smile turns mischievous, “I suppose not.”

Hoseok presses that you aren’t a nuisance all the way home, comfortingly rubbing at your back as you chew on your nails. How unfortunate, coming to his party a wreck and leaving it just the same.

Your goodbyes are short and apologetic; he practically has to nudge you with the hood of his car to enter your apartment complex.

“Hello?” you question softly, shutting the front door with a quiet click and padding through the dim room. For the most part, everything is shut off and you even wonder if Jungkook came home at all. Slinking into the hallway, a quick glimpse to your room reveals he isn’t asleep on your mattress like he normally is, your heart cracking slightly at the revelation. His own door is shut, and you suppose he would sleep in his own room after tonight.

You, on the other hand, don’t even feel a wink of drowsiness.

Jungkook hears the shower shutter through his closed door, using all of the force collected in his body not to step in with you and properly talk about the events that occurred. He doesn’t, because he’s stubborn like that. He doesn’t, because he knows your showers are normally for your personal times of mulling over complications.

And even though he’s furious, his chest warms of admiration.

You wash your tensions down the drain, steam circulating the small bathroom and no doubt fogging the mirror. The valve is verging on the edge of it’s setting, scalding water undoubtedly leaving your skin a punishing red. It’s how you were able to think clearly; your aches and worries literally seared off and paving way for new, clean thoughts.

You knew he would forgive you the minute things are explained, laid out in the open. As quick as a bag of chips can be inhaled, the man would cradle you in his arms again with a lilt of stubborn understanding. But that didn’t calm you as it should. Perhaps, it was yourself that was having a hard time with confrontation. Maybe, at the time, you were still hoping that Taehyung would come for you and never let you go, a longing for a miracle that wasn’t even really that much of a miracle. The lack of, instead, was your epiphany.

And Jungkook was so good. Sure, an asshole, but he was all the things you hoped for in Tae. Even more, he loves you.

Though you realize your feelings for Taehyung have dissipated and rather blossom for Jungkook, the lingering guilt of being able to see Kook, touch him, kiss him, sleep with him is sickening. How could you be so cruel?

You step out of your shower unresolved, and a little queasy. Were you always having existential crisis’ in the bathroom?

Unconsciously, you find yourself in front of Jungkook’s room once again, internally debating what the best course of action would be. Just by turning the knob and inching the door ajar, the scream of it’s hinges makes you want to rip it off completely, already regretting the intrusion. Welp, it’s too late.

Jungkook lays atop his comforter like always, a few joking arguments stemming from the fact that he really doesn’t need blankets when the guy’s a walking heater. “It’s for the aesthetics of a nice room,” he had said, “What kind of mongrel would I be for having a naked bed?”

From your standing, he looks asleep, bare chest rising and falling; up, down, pause, up, down. His thick brows stitched together like he fell asleep angry and you roll your eyes at the thought.

He doesn’t even falter when your weight shifts the bed, sitting on the open spot next to his torso and ghosting your fragile hands over his locks, waiting for him to wake and chew you out. When he continues to purr in his slumber, you pet him gently, hair dark and soft across your fingers.

“I… I’m glad we went tonight,” you whisper, barely even producing enough noise for yourself to catch, “And I’m glad I ran into Taehyung. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have noticed how good you are for me. I’m so thankful to him.”

Breathing.

“And I feel horrible for making you doubt yourself, even if it was unintentional,” your throat heats, pain running down as your voice wobbles, “I wish—I wish I was as good for you as you are for me.

“J-Jungkook,” your tears run freely down your face now, “I love you. I love you, so much. There’s no me without you. I don’t want anyone else—“

You stop there, afraid your pathetic sobs will wake him. Leaning down, you gently bury your face in his hair, kissing him softly and letting the smell of his shampoo tickle your nose. Your love engulfs, fills your bones, makes you so dizzy that it hurts.

A few seconds pass before you remove yourself from him, easing your body off his mattress with precision.

Your world flips, throat so heavy you don’t even try to yelp as you flop onto the other side of his body, his strong arms wrapped around your ribs and holding you tightly against him as your legs drape over his. “Don’t cry, love,” he husks, “God, I’ve been wanting for you to say that for so, so long.”

“Jungkook,” you weep in panic, “Jungkook, nothing happened, I didn’t do anything—”

“I know. I’m sorry, I got a little presumptuous.” He brings his lips to your eyes, kissing the tears away and sprinkling a few more on your cheeks.

Your towel slipped from his attack, breasts peaking under the cloth and inviting Jungkook to travel lower to give them attention as well. His voice is deep enough to rattle you up, cracking slightly when he says, “I just want you to be mine.”

You lace your fingers through his mop once again, massaging his scalp and letting the moment sink in. This is what was needed—a reconciliation of sorts. Through both of your stubborn minds and limbs did neither of you properly close your old path to open a new one for him, did neither of you talk. It was new, exciting, uncharted territory. You had jumped in without really understanding the rules and concepts, but it didn’t matter now. Not when everything now fell into place like a puzzle that was just ignorantly started from the inside out, rather than setting the foundation of each side and corner.

“I am yours. Every little bit of me is yours now. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out. You did well,” you praise, smoothing his bangs up and away from his face. His eyes are glossy, enough moisture to collect in his long eyelashes but not enough to stain his cheeks like yours do.

He looks up, finally, slowly closing the distance to rake over your features before he kisses you oh-so softly. It’s the most fragile he’s ever been with you, the most genuine. His lips mold to your movements, his tongue only follows when yours pokes out, he takes as little as possible.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, “you can.”

“Don’t want to ruin anything.”

“It’s not. This is different.”

He flips you to your side, holding you close and enclosing you in the safety of his body. When he surrenders, he dips his fingers between your legs and uses the shower’s dew to stretch you across two of his digits, moving carefully but diligently. The feeling of your bare back to his large chest, for some reason, is more intimate than you normally find his common proximity and it makes you sigh.

The jabbing of his own problem against your ass prompts you to reach behind and grasp him firmly, warming him up without sneaking into his briefs just yet.

“You always feel so good,” he pants, twitching in your grip and propping himself on his elbow so he can nibble on your ear, “here, too.” The arching of his fingers in your heat makes you cry out.

“Are your hands okay?” you question the same second you remember his injuries. He chuckles.

“My knuckles hurt a bit, but I patched them up for the most part. It’s not going to keep me from fingering you, if that’s what you’re wondering,” his voice soothes, a third finger added for reassurance. The stretch is sublime, foregoing your own job and grinding against him as an incompetent apology. Jungkook doesn’t mind it, moving his hips in little circles to stimulate himself even further; rather, he likes it quite a bit.

“Ready?”

You don’t answer, arching your spine instead so Jungkook’s head can easily find your entrance, pushing his way inside without even removing two fingers that remain buried deep in your cunt. He knows you like a little pain with your pleasure, pain that doesn’t remain when the strain subsides and the languid thrusts send shivers up your skin.

“Oh god, Jungkook, that feels—you feel so amazing,” you groan, feeling the stickiness of your juices every time his hips meet the curve of your ass, deep squelches getting louder the longer he repeats the movement, “s-slow, please, keep it slow, baby.”

He lazily rolls into you, each shove perfectly aiming for the bundle of nerves that makes your eyes heavy; using all the strength in your body not to shut your thighs when Kook’s hand, littered with old and new tattoos, stays in its comfortable spot. His digits curl every so often, as if to remind you they’re still there, making you purr in his embrace even more.

The heat of his body emanates, warming you up despite how cold it is outside and in the apartment. As he protects you from the cold so will he from anything else, and it makes your heart stutter.

“Tell me you love me,” he rasps as lovingly as he can into your ear, nothing but pure desire to hear the three words drip from your lips.

“I love you.” You mean it.

“More,” he begs; he doesn’t care if he sounds pathetic.

“I love you, I love you, I love you. Jungkook, Jeon Jungkook, I love you with every fiber of my being,” you hiccup, pawing at his intrusive hand. He removes it hastily, replacing it’s warmth by sticking his fingers to your tongue to lap up.

“I never want to stop hearing you say that,” he admits, pace quickening so that your breasts bounce with each focused push into your walls. You could cum like this, foggy tears blurring his bedroom with how close your orgasm is. It’s cut short when he takes himself out and sits up, pulling you onto your back and slotting himself between your legs.

His hands find support on his headboard while you wrap weak legs around him, one on his thigh and the other on his back as he rocks into you once more.

The tattoos on his chest move whenever he flexes, a sort of mirage entrancing you as he works your pussy to reach the same amount of ecstasy before. It’s the first time you can really look at his face, as well, all images of loving and soft features a complete and utter miscalculation. Even though he makes love to you like no other, he has a face of control in all of its entirety. One of his brows is quirked, his tongue poking his upper lip in focus, his abs constricting then relaxing. He knows only he can make you feel like this, hips cocky as they slap against your skin in unbridled dominance.

His normally doe-eyes glimmer with devilment, “Who can fuck you as good as I do?”

You sigh, “I thought we were being cute.”

“I’m not fucking cute. I’m fucking you,” he growls, ramming into your poor pussy so firmly that the headboard thumpthumpthumps against the wall, no doubt damaging the paint. “Is there anyone better than me?”

“You know there isn’t,” you retort with a squeak.

“I want to hear you say it.”

You moan flagrantly on a particular jab that makes your insides coil and your entire body shuffle up his sheets, three or four seconds too long he snarls a, “Say it!”

“No one’s better than daddy, I promise,” you choke, lamely reaching up for him as if you weren’t already close enough. He obliges, propping his weight on one elbow and smoothing over tears you didn’t know were shed with a thumb. He quenches his thirst with an open-mouth kiss, moans that starts to resemble mine, mine, mine onto your tongue as his hips falter in both fatigue and the aching need to cum. You coo him through it, nipping at his jaw and whispering words of praise when he whines vulnerably. The bratty, stubborn Jungkook was long gone; the sensitive and adoring love of your life resting, quite heavily, atop your chest as he fills you up silently.

“Not so tough, huh, baby?” He grunts unpleasantly.

His body rolls off, head remaining in the crook of your neck, “You just took a shower,” he says. He can’t even open his eyes if he tried, he feels so goddamn tired.

“Yeah, I’ll just wash up tomorrow.”

“Let me clean you,” he pries, forcing his brain to cooperate for two seconds, please. It doesn’t take much strength to keep him in position.

“Relax, Kookie.”

You trace over the ink on his back softly, outlining the lotuses a few times and kneading out the tension in his shoulder blades. The ticking of his wall clock is all that’s left to hear, the Iron Man behind the glass staring at you in an uncomfortable manner. You’d have to get rid of that if you were going to be together.

“Hey,” you start, a sudden idea exciting you. Peering down, Jungkook’s eyes are sealed shut, lips parted only enough to feel his faint breath as he dozes off into a deep slumber. It isn’t fake this time, you know for sure.

Oh well.

You rest your chin against his head and try your best to sleep as well; you suppose you could tell him in the morning.

A/N: hello sweet angel babies! again, thank you for supporting me thus far and i apologize that this isn’t as filthy as the first one. I really wanted to make Jungkook more genuine in this. However, this will be one of those fics where’ll I’ll casually drop in some non-smutty/smutty drabbles every so often!

With that being said, I don’t mind requests for drabbles as well as character asks! Feel free to drop-in whenever.

with love, poppy.

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onceandalwaysenglishmajor · 6 years

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Hounds

#Naruto #Kakashi #Yamato #Tenzo #kakayama #ninken #ninja hounds #they are good boys

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postitnowke · 6 years

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Fearful for his health obviously, but even greater was the fear for the journey of his soul. Even as a child he'd known he wasn't the best behaved of youths. He had been angry and often offended by the way both his peers and the adults around them treated him. His thirst to prove himself and his easily wounded pride had made him prone to secret acts of vengeance upon those he felt wronged him. He might have been seen as easy prey but his pride had been stomped on far too many times to put up with it from people who were only marginally better off than him.This hadn't meshed well with the religious beliefs he'd followed during this period of time. He'd heard elders comment that his handicap was a result of either sins his mother committed or karmatic injuries from a past life. Long days and nights helping his mother complete menial tasks for their employers and the horror that came later gave him plenty of time for introspection. What was said left him terrified for his own fate after death. He didn't know what crimes he'd committed to earn him the punishment to have been cursed since birth, but these people were from different walks of life. It hadn't mattered which as the different religions had all seen his handicap as somehow being a punishment or 'the order of he had hated the weakness with which he'd been born. If a lesson was meant to have been learned from the weakness in his body he had not found the answer. He'd always been consciously aware of how different he walked compared to others. He'd hated thinking that his infirmity made him more susceptible to weakness, ridicule, and possibly death if someone took it to their minds that the cub known by all as "the lame one" needed to be taught his place, which was to say, that he had none in thid life at all. Foolishly, he'd thought that once he was shed of his wretched coat of mortality, it would erase a thousand unspeakable pains life had given him that was at the root of his fear. He'd been wrong, of course. Even as he lost his theological perspective on life he had not been granted peace of mind. It had only made things worse as he'd been given further opportunities be sickened of the life he lived and disgusted by the people who surrounded him. Once he might have thought this impossible. All things considered his worldview had been damn grim to begin with. Growing up in Bombay(or Mumbai as it was now known), he'd grown accustomed to the knowledge that no one was ever safe. The Bubonic epidemic had started when he was but two years of age, and he would be two and twenty when it had 'ended' in 1914. The horror of disease had been palpable in every walk of life. Thousands were dying in the streets and it had seemed like the act of an angry god visiting their wrath upon the wretched souls that were living in the Kali Yuga, the most terrible of the four cyclical ages. He had been lucky and survived the disease himself. Inspired by Walter Charles Rand's actions in Prune(which had led directly to WCR's assassination), their master, the Sahib, had decided to lock them all in together, effectively putting the servants quarters into quarantine. He and his wife had then sent their children home to be watched by family members in England. His actions were understandable after their eldest daughter had contracted the disease and died shortly afterwards. Regardless of how he treated his servants, it was obvious he loved his children and hadn't wanted to risk their other four pups. The master himself had little choice but to remain. He was stationed at the military contentment and could not leave until he had either resigned his post or his commanding officer was willing to issue an order to allow him to evacuate. His wife had refused to abandon him despite the danger, and so the two had remained. Things had seemed like they would continue almost without interruption, but then the man's wife had fallen ill and he had blamed the servants, noting how they had suffered loss as well. He had given the order to quarantine every servant who showed the slightest hint of illness to prevent further outbreak of the bubonic plague within the household and other English officers had followed suit. It could have been argued that the measure was quite logical despite the emotional core that drove it. However it had been seen as an act of cruelty by the servants. Every day they were expected to be subjected to an examination and often forced to strip before prying eyes. Many of the elders he knew(who were neither Christian, Islamic, nor Jew) didn't mind undressing. The old ways hadn't put as much attention on whether a man or woman was fully clad by English standards(it humored him, for instance, to imagine the reaction foreigners he saw wearing a Sari might have to know that traditionally speaking there had been no shirt beneath it), but the prying fingers had made enemies of all. The act made them feel like thr dirty little heathens the English thought they were and these checks were a frequent complaint among anyone with the words to speak it. As more people became infected the situation became more dire the sahib had begun treating him like a Dalit rather than Shudra. He had tasked him with dragging the bodies of the deceased plague victims from the quarantine housing, onto a cart pulled by a cow, and delivering them to the pyre on the outskirts of the city to be burned. This was an unclean duty unworthy of anyone above his nonexistent caste and though he was not the only servant sent on the grim task, the knowledge brought him no relief. The things he witnessed were too grim to find respite, even in the knowledge that he was not alone. It simply meant there were more dying people experiencing the hell he'd seen than what he witnessed in his own home. The English servants would refer to them as reapers, a reference to a being from their. Own. Mythology. It was a dark name for a dark purpose. They'd harvest bodies like some farmers might harvest their crops. Scared out of their mind that they'd do something to screw everything up and concerned he might catch something from the field he worked. Those he worked with seemed to lessen week by week. It would be a lie to say any of the survivors of his his group left the situation entirely intact. He himself would always associate the smell of fire with the burning bodies, the phantom scent filling his nostrils and chasing away any other thought that might have otherwise his mind. It made him feel weak, those memories it brought to mind, making his palms sweat and his heart race. But it was a weakness he didn't hold against himself. It was horror more impossibly frightening than any slasher film made. He challenged anyone who might view his aversion to flames pathetic to spend months in that place among the remains of the servants unflinching and

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