#i am terribly sorry for being gone for so goddamn long im a busy woman

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

Bucky Barnes | Rebellion Series | Caution

Part one of the Rebellion Series

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: By some miracle, you get saved from the consequences of your own actions. You’re reluctant to join a supposedly good cause. What happens when the good cause is not so legal? And what - or who - is your soft spot?

Warnings: Angst, fluff (?) and mentions of sex.

Words: 34OO

You have started shaking again. With every tremble of your body, the restraints around your legs and arms seem to tighten and you shudder even more at the awful memory of that feeling. It took weeks for the shaking to stop. Weeks of being locked up into this modern dungeon until you were nothing but silence and numbness.

You knew the rebellion could end in death, knew the consequences would be catastrophic, but at least you’d stood for something, fought for something. And you would choose death any day over the endless silence of this prison. You know for a fact that you’re surrounded by an ocean, but no matter how hard you listen, you cannot hear the wild sea crash. Can only hear the low hum of the air being circulated through your metal cell.

And today, approximately three months after the start of your sentence in the most secured prison on the planet, you have started shaking again. It can hardly be because today of all days, your brain has decided to make you go completely insane. That would be too random. Which means–

Your head snaps to the window, spotting the other cells. Empty. This floor is reserved just for you alone. Because apparently you’re too dangerous to interact with anyone. They even got machines bringing you your daily sustenance. An empty floor like every other day, yet something seems different. Something’s off.

A metal door flies through the middle of the circular space connecting all of the cells and you stiffen. You look at the ground again, keeping completely still. Maybe they don’t know that you’re here. Oh God, oh God, oh God. No, they can’t get to you. Not again.

The destruction clangs through your body and you tremble violently, curling up as much as you can and staring hard at the floor. The cold metal ground blurs with images of the rebellion. The things you gave up, the energy your summoned and wasted, the people you lost. The blood, and pain, and screams and– and– and…

“She’s in there. Grab her and then we get out of here.”

“Steve, I–”

“And hurry up, we don’t have much time!”

Two combat boots step into your vision and the stomps echo in your head, booming you back to reality. But not quite. Your eyes vibrate with fear and you swallow the nails in your throat. Then a pair of knees appear in front of you and a black gloved hand reaches forward. It hesitates, then retreats. As if choosing not to touch you. Wise choice.

“Hey.” The voice is low. And smooth as liquor.

But you don’t look up, focusing on trying not to tremble more and taking the firm contraptions wrapped around your shins and forearms as the protection they now are. Maybe this is another nightmare. It’s different from the ones you usually have, but black gloves… They had black gloves, too. And those firm boots. They may have kicked you in the stomach with those boots once. You don’t remember.

“I’m here to get you out,” the voice speaks again and you can only listen to the tone of voice, the way it sends a shockwave through your body and lessens the violent trembles. “Look up for me.”

You ignore him and focus on your breathing.

“Is she coming?” That first voice. Impatient. Panting.

The male before you turns to the centre of the floor and gives a frustrated sigh, “She’s pretty out of it.”

Before waiting for the other man to respond, he turns back to you and studies you. Even though you don’t see him, his stare burns right through the flimsy clothes they put on you. He lets out a soft sigh and flips out a knife from the holster at his waist, still kneeling before you. You stiffen, preparing yourself for the sting at your throat as they finally decide to get rid of you, but he tries his best not to touch any bare skin as he saws through the materials binding you together.

The relief of pressure from your skin make you feel so uneasy, you nearly throw up, but a gentle hand covers your arm and you finally look up. Warm, dark blue eyes connect with yours. Below heavy brows and above the faintest cluster of freckles. His mouth is soft and pillowy and his bone structure is otherworldly symmetrical.

“It’s okay,” he tells you gently and offers you a smile that you can tell doesn’t come to him naturally. “Can you walk?”

He pulls you to a stand with a firm, but comfortable grip and you instantly stumble on your feet at the weight suddenly put on them. One arm flies around your waist and hoists you into his side as he catches your fall.

“Okay, okay,” he grunts with a gentle laugh. “I got you. Let’s get the fuck out of here, alright?”

Your throat feels like sandpaper as you hobble along with the wall of a male dragging you along, “Who are you?”

He spares you a brief glance and smiles once more, following ‘Steve’ out of the building and onto an air craft that is way too loud. “Bucky. We’re here to help you. Or I suppose you’re here to help us, little rebel.”

…

Steve gives Bucky a knowing glare, only breaking it by daring a glance at your bedroom door which you have been effectively hiding behind for weeks now. “You know I can’t go in there, Bucky.”

“You know I won’t let you,” Bucky answers drily with a shrug. As opposed to his best friend, Bucky hasn’t stopped staring at your door.

“You’re not even hiding your possessiveness when it comes to her,” Steve breathes through a laugh. That makes Bucky finally look at his friend.

“I’m not possessive,” he says matter-of-factly. He’s not even offended, just practical. “I’m protective. The last thing she needs is all of the nosy people in this tower swirling around her when she doesn’t trust a single soul.”

“Has she started to trust you?”

Bucky has to keep from wincing at Steve’s question, and he clears his throat. “Sure,” he lies.

If Steve caught the lie, he didn’t let on. It was as much of a dismissal as he was going to get. After watching his best friend walk off to do captain things, Bucky braces himself to step into your room. He has no hope that his interaction with you will be any different than the previous ones.

“Another day of convincing me to be your weapon?” you nearly snarl when he walks into your room.

If Bucky is entirely honest, he thought you would have turned into this damaged girl that would morph into a wild animal as you worked through what had been done to you. He didn’t really expect this perseverance and defiance from the woman he saved from that prison. But he supposes he should have seen that question coming. It wasn’t his best work; starting that day he saved you with all of the things you could be doing for them. Why they had saved you. Simply for their own gain. Or that is how you understood it, at least…

He has never been good with words. That has always been Steve’s thing. Bucky was reliable physically and he paid attention. He never had to use many words to make his point. Yet you keep asking these questions – rhetorical, he thinks – and you keep giving him this penetrating stare until he answers. Which is a sure way to make him fuck up, because how do people do that? Bring sensible thoughts into words and make it make sense?

Especially when the woman asking said questions is so damned… pretty.

“It’s time for you to get out of this room,” he tells you plainly. It seems the tactic of ignoring your questions is effective. It only took him six days to figure that one out.

He strides over to cross the room, not sparing you another glance in your chair in the corner, and rips open the curtains. The cat-like hiss coming from you has Bucky nearly biting back a smile. He turns and watches you stand from your chair, stalking over to him with your chin high and a scowl on your face. He raises an eyebrow with amused intrigue.

“And what, exactly, will I be doing outside of my room?” you ask.

He dips down slightly, but you keep the proximity. “Whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“If you don’t care, why hunt me out of my room?”

He shrugs, “Captain’s orders.” He isn’t entirely lying.

“Why isn’t the captain telling me himself?”

Bucky smirks and leans even closer, making you feel his minty breath fan over your face. “Because I’m the only one who isn’t scared of you.”

You snort at that and roll your eyes before breaking away from him. “I’ll get dressed.”

Bucky tries his hardest not to look too stunned as you retreat into the bathroom. A deep sigh leaves his lips as he paces through your room in wait for you to get ready. It takes a whole lot of effort to muster a smirk when it comes to his interactions with you.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he asks quietly.

Just as quietly, the house responds, “Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Has she asked for anything from you? To contact friends or family, or other information?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Does she have anyone left?” he tries, chewing his lip as he dreads the answer.

“Not that we’re aware. Mr. Stark had me run a background check, but she seems alone. No sign of anyone missing or deceased. No sign of a network at all.”

Bucky doesn’t know why that feels worse in his chest and he swallows. “Alright, thank you.”

A few moments later, you step out of the shower and find Bucky lounging in the chair he found you in, leafing through one of your books. Just as you’re about to check whether he has gotten his hands on one of your smuttier books, your eyes snag on the clothes laid out for you on the bed.

You pause long enough to make Bucky look up from the book. “Did you… Did you seriously pick out this underwear for me?”

Bucky eyes the lace panties dangling from your fingers and shrugs with a smirk. A smirk had never looked so enticing, but you sharpen your stare on him. “Do you prefer the grey, cotton ones in the back of the closet?”

You grit your teeth and scowl at him again, before morphing your mouth into a vindictive smile. “Why? Don’t you?”

His eyes dance at that. “Wouldn’t make a difference to me.”

And it’s the way he said it, with so much casual amusement and… promise. Heat rises to your face and you duck your head down. Snatching the clothes from the bed, you retreat back into the bathroom to get dressed.

…

The rest of your conversations had been purely functional as Bucky lead you down into the building where Steve was waiting. Bucky rolled his eyes at his friend’s horrible attempt at hiding his surprise. Steve hadn’t seen you since the day they came to save you, he must have never expected Bucky to be successful in his retrieval.

Bucky also hadn’t missed the meaningful look Steve then gave him that indicated he tucked away some valuable information. The information being that if they ever needed to get you to do something, Bucky is the way to get you to do it. Why? Steve seemed to have his theories and Bucky didn’t like it one bit.

However, for now he doesn’t care. Instead, he sticks by you after you reluctantly agreed to join Steve on a walk.

Strolling down the path through the surrounding woods, Bucky catches himself bracing for a fight every time Steve gets a little too close to you. He doesn’t like it. The last time he was this sensitive to proximity, he had just ran from Hydra. He’s seen other traumatised people before, but this feels different. And instead of listening to your and Steve’s conversation, he tries to figure out what it is. He supposes it’s because you have no survival instinct. In the few videos he’s seen of your rebellion and the encounters he has had with you the past weeks, you see danger or conflict and run straight toward it. Nothing scared or cautious about you. It sets his nerves on edge.

Bucky is well aware of what Steve is telling you and he has to refrain from rolling his eyes at the careful way Steve tries to coax you into their plan, when earlier that week they had not been nearly as careful as they calculated how to get you involved. But even Bucky had to admit that they needed you – specifically, everyone who would follow you into the grave. When Stark had shown him the videos, he was perplexed as to how you got such a huge following when what you fought for was so terribly dangerous. But one look at those sharp eyes and one deep command from you, and Bucky had seen it. That unwavering will and that brilliant brain that was always calculating. Steve could learn a few tricks from you on being a strong leader. And considering Bucky wildly admires his old friend, that is saying something.

They need you. Bucky knows it, too. They need not just someone with great leadership skills and a loyal following, but someone that does it out of empathy for the people mistreated by the system. Because that is who they’re going to be fighting – the system.

Again.

…

“You haven’t said anything about what Steve told you,” Bucky says on your walk back to your room. The offer to escort you back to your room hadn’t been entirely selfless.

“I need to think about it,” you murmur, deep in thought.

Bucky suppresses his sigh of sympathy. They are asking you to join a cause you were so passionate about, and that after failing so miserably last time. He can barely imagine the things you must have witnessed and endured with your last upraise. How you had gotten so influential that the government decided to treat you like you were a super-human and punished you accordingly. You had been put in the same prison as Wanda. Wanda. That is how powerful you were.

“It can’t be easy to revisit everything after all that’s happened,” he resigns and you blink from your thoughts to raise your eyes to his face. You study him and it takes all of Bucky’s might not to shift under your assessing gaze.

Then you speak up, “I’ve always done the right thing. Steve knows I can’t walk away from it…”

Bucky smiles at that. “Just like him.”

Your eyes narrow at that comment, but Bucky finds no venom in the look. You continue, “Sacrificing my life for the cause was never an issue. But to lead others into that same fate again?” The guilt had eaten you alive. All those people that had gotten arrested, split up from loved ones, hurt– worse…

Bucky interrupts your thoughts before they get a hold on you by clearing his throat. “Tonight, we have dinner with everyone. You’re welcome to join if you’d like.” Your heavy stare on him makes him quickly add, “Don’t give me that look. There will be no talk of overthrowing the government. Just dress fancy.”

The snort of a laugh that comes from you feels lighter to Bucky than he’d like to admit. And to ease the tension, he forces another smirk to his face. You narrow your eyes again warily, “What.”

He shrugs, turning to leave you alone at your door. Then he winks. “Let me know if you need me to pick out some underwear for you.” And then he’s gone.

Bucky hangs onto that cockiness all the way until dinner, where the entire group has showed up. Even Thor said he’d show up for a drink. Barton flew in from his family home to join the group as well. He remembers a time when he’d felt more than uncomfortable around this group of people. But so much has changed. They all saw him as a great asset to the team and even relied on him more and more to supervise the missions. He’s at home with them now. Heart swelling with affection, he listens to his friends – his family – laugh in the kitchen while they pour the drinks.

And then all of their faces turn into one direction, some of them pulling taut, few of them giving warm, comforting smiles. Bucky follows their gaze and it is like someone punched him in the gut, air whooshing out of his body. He doesn’t really know why – other than the obvious fact that you look ravishing of course. But he looks at you and clears his throat to welcome you to the group.

Natasha beats him to it though and it has Bucky’s hackles rising. She shoots him a knowing smile and then he backs off. His pride wounded like a cat booped on the nose. Natasha is good at it, charming people until they feel comfortable. Or take their pants off. But there’s an easy smile on your face – one Bucky knows is at least slightly forced – and you blend in with the crowd easily.

Suddenly, Sam’s at his side. “I know what you’re thinking,” he grumbles with his eyes on you and Natasha, followed by a swig of his beer bottle. “Those two together can only mean trouble.”

Bucky can only grunt in agreement.

…

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Natasha drawls with a guilty smile.

Barton shakes his head. “The poor schmuck didn’t stand a chance. There is no way you could have taken him if you hadn’t slept with him the night before.”

Natasha shrugs. “Look, a girl has her needs. He met them and the next day he met his fate.”

“Really, Nat?” Steve nearly cringes and Bucky reins in his laugh. “The guy’s moral compass was straight from hell and you decided to sleep with him?”

Natasha barely manages to open her mouth before you decide to pitch in, raising a glass to her. “I get it. Terrible morals do add a little spice in the bedroom.”

Nat clinks her glass with yours and mutters a ‘she gets it’, but Bucky’s eyes are searing through your skin. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised at such outrageous claims coming out of your mouth. There is nothing innocent about you. Good, yes. Innocent? No. Yet perhaps it isn’t ‘surprise’ that is warming his body from the inside out.

Conversation flows easily between the Avengers and the food Tony had made easily beats the Brooklyn comfort food Bucky usually seeks out. Cheeks turn rosy from the drinks, voices get louder, lights get dimmer. Bucky has to really look to be sure what he’s seeing. You, relaxed and happy. Such a stark contrast to the woman he found in the prison. No wonder you’re so good with people. People make you good.

He can barely manage his smirk however, when he notices the strain in your body to keep from looking at him. Why you are so adamant to avoid him, he can’t really tell. But this is now your weak spot, so he cannot help but tuck the info away for later.

The night carries on and everyone switches places, catching up on endless memories and adventures and being surprisingly considerate to include you in most conversations. Bucky ends up at the head of the table, you on the seat closest to him, both listening to Sam. You listen closely and Bucky can only assume you have some relief from being actively distracted from him. And being the arrogant bastard he knows he can be, he ‘accidentally’ brushes a knuckle over the back of your hand that’s resting on the table. He watches you stiffen and swallow, but like a true rebel, you show no other sign that it affected you.

A few more stunts like that had Bucky pressing his knee to your thigh under the table and it takes everything not to pull away from it. So you gaslight yourself to let the touch ground you. To absorb his warmth and relax even more into the touch. And if you guess it correctly, the way you respond to Bucky’s touch is not what he expected… So you find yourself having the upper hand again.

And if you’re going to join these people in their cause, what’s a little game with your menace of a saviour?

#oh my fucking god #im doing it #im posting a slow burn #with buckys pov for crying out loud #i am terribly sorry for being gone for so goddamn long im a busy woman #BUT quality over quantity amirite? #enjoy my lovelies and please let me know what you think #feedback does genuinely make me post quicker (i cant help it) #rebellion series #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #writing #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes oneshot #series

[jeonwrit]

Mornings Without Good Coffee

originally based off this (but really i veered off course) jungkook x reader genre: fluff + not-a-morning-person/rich asshole!jeon word count: 2799 warnings: none, but the fluff thoooo, im disgusted by myself

Jungkook knows that when his marimba alarm rings in the AM, he has to get up. He can’t revel in the silk of his bed after a week of late nights that have succeeded in draining his energy to a lowly poor amount, and he most certainly can’t take his goddamn time with getting up. He’s given his personal assistant the week off (something about his father being sick) so no wake up call, no suit ready and waiting on his hangar, no hand-crushed coffee beans in his coffee. This means, not only does he have to make his own fucking coffee, he has to pick out his own goddamn suit, and his own goddamn cufflinks, and this is so goddamn stupid. Though Jungkook can’t quite remember the last time he put his cufflinks on by himself, he’s sure that it can’t be that difficult. He’s wrong. Terribly wrong. At least he managed to pack for himself. At least he knows how to drive to the airport. And if he can’t drive, then he’s sure he can get a helicopter to pick him up from the house.

The coffee tastes horrible, he tried to crush his own coffee beans, but when they fell into a mess all over the floor, some pieces crushed like pecans and others smashed into fine dust that looked like cumin powder, he gave up.

The black BMW he drives waits for him outside, the setting moon before the dawn shining on it’s perfect surface. He looks at the immaculate paint job and smiles. At least something is going right this morning, other than his really fucking impeccable alarm. On the way to Incheon, he picks up a espresso from a fast-food restaurant. It tastes like shit also to his freshly-grounded-coffee beans taste buds.

When Jungkook walks into Incheon Airport on Monday morning (actually it’s not so much morning as it is really fucking late night, at least for Jungkook) at 3:10 AM, he expects it to be empty, at least of all those perky vacationers, who usually leave on Fridays. He expects it to be quiet, only the low hum of the conveyor belt and maybe the occasional rumble of a half-empty airplane taking off overhead. He expects it to be peaceful, only a cup of black coffee, a no sugar, no cream americano to be exact, in his hands and a black Tumi bag that he can store carry-on.

His shoes, freshly polished, scuff against the floor, and he’s missing a cuff link to his new suit. Without an assistant this morning, he’s falling apart, from the seams of his jacket to the tie that doesn’t match or suit the business meeting that he’s supposed to be attending. Jungkook scowls.

He gets in line to get his boarding pass (the electronic machines don’t make much sense, and what’s the use in that when there are people for a reason to help a person) behind a woman. She also carries a black Tumi bag, and in her black pumps and pencil skirt, she looks like she is leaving town for a business meeting.

But then she opens her mouth. “Hi, I’m going to Busan,” she says. And yes, if Jungkook were a romantic he would describe her voice as a fairy’s, not unlike his best friend Jimin’s, all tinkling bells that don’t fail to light up the air around her and lullabies that seem to reflect all the moonlight keeping the world awake at night. But Jungkook’s not a romantic, so he doesn’t think that (yes, he does), and her cheerful voice, just like every other cheerful, perky-ass voice, sets his teeth on edge. It doesn’t help that he’s going to Busan too, and it’s quite likely that he will be on the same flight as her. He mumbles an excuse me, pushing past her to get to the other kiosk, where another official dressed in blue and white airplane color awaits him.

And the girl turns, opens her mouth to say sorry, most likely, but then stops. She probably sees the expression of ultimate distress and distrust and disgust on his face because her mouth arranges itself into a scowl and she frowns. Jungkook wishes she would stop because, unfortunately for his sanity, pretty girls with frowns make up some of the parts of his brain that file away most annoying people in the world.

But instead of the probably insincere, habitual sorry that Jungkook expects, she spits, “Yes, excuse you.” Jungkook has enough to control to prevent his face from turning red, but he knows the tips of ring-clad ears are burning like hell. Her face is pretty, and he wants to reach out to touch the tips of her hair that looks too soft to be real. Her eyelashes are long and they dust across her cheekbones with every blink of eyes that Jungkook is sure belong with stars. He wishes he had enough courage to stay around and talk, but his body betrays him and he spins on his heel to talk to the noticeably male flight attendant.

After attaining his boarding pass, Jungkook walks through the long halls corridors of the airport. The intercom calls for flights 712, 713, and 256, in its staticy female voice, the epitome of computerized feeling.

His gate enters his field of vision, but he stops to get another cup of coffee that will keep away the sleep, like a ward against evil. He almost chokes on the tasteless nastiness of the black bitter coffee. Yes, Jungkook has resigned himself to this type of coffee, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, no matter how many times he tells himself he needs it. But he doesn’t and as a night owl by nature, he’s sure coffee doesn’t help him any. He sips away, already used to the horrid taste, like a first-time smoker gets used to his cigarette.

He gives his boarding pass to the attendee who stands patiently waiting. She’s taken aback by Jungkook’s hostile expression, but Jungkook’s knows this look by now, in fact he’s intimately familiar with it.

“Sir,” she says, pointedly staring at the cup of coffee in his hands. “You’ll have to throw that away.”

“Why?” he asks her, as nice as is possible for him right now, but it still comes off as mean.

“We do not allow food or drink on domestic flights, sir,” she patiently says.

“And when did you change the policies?” Jungkook inquires.

“I do not know, sir, I believe this has always been our policy.”

Jungkook doesn’t look away from the woman as he throws away the cup in the trash that stands next to her.

Jungkook walks into the plane, with his Tumi bag, and his black shoes, and his tailored jacket, in a huff.

His seat is annoying too, the pillow and the blanket that are usually customary in flights this early in the morning are both missing, and Jungkook wants to sleep. He wishes he didn’t get the coffee because he can feel the jitters buzzing through his veins, his brain struggling to find fatigue and finding none. He slumps in his seat, wishing for the business class ticket he usually gets.

He’s finally staring contentedly outside the window, when she walks towards him. She doesn’t carry anything but a small brown leather backpack, and a phone, into which she is speaking rapid-fire Korean. The Tumi bag is gone, obviously checked in. He stares at the graceful curve of her neck (it’s actually a bit like a swan’s, but, you know, without the white feather down) for a few seconds, watching the pulse flutter at the top of her collarbone, and she flushes when she catches his unrelenting staring.

The phone clicks off, and she takes out what is obviously her airplane ticket from the brown leather bag, forehead creasing. Jungkook tries not to think about the fact that she looks incredibly cute, the skin between her eyebrows furrowing, and bright eyes squinting so that he can’t see what color they are anymore.

“So,” she says, annoyed, and though Jungkook does wonder what has piqued her annoyance, he is more curious about her herself. Her eyebrow raises. “You seem to have taken my seat.”

“No.” Jungkook is bristling, because who does she think she is. He pulls out his own ticket from his wallet in his back pocket. “I do not believe I have. You see my ticket here, says 9...” Jungkook trails off.

There is silence as she waits for him to continue.

“Does it say A or B?” she inquires, that note of patient annoyance in her voice. Really Jungkook thinks it is condescension.

“B. I suppose I read it wrong,” Jungkook says, the apology in his voice noticeably missing. He gets up into the aisle, leaning into her as he does so. She steps back.

Jungkook tries to get more comfortable again (but comfort obviously doesn’t exist in economy), but he finds himself staring at her, her profile much more interesting than the small window on her right. She reads a SkyMall magazine, and Jungkook finds himself much more entranced than he would like.

The plane rumbles as it takes off, the vibrations making Jungkook sick, he’s always hated the sound and the stale air of the plane. But quickly he finds himself falling asleep with headphones in his ears and the sweet sound of Dean melting honey upon his eardrums.

When Jungkook wakes up, he smells mango and mint, a fruit cocktail in the air, and he’s swallowing hair, the strands stuck in his mouth and in his nose. It’s not bad precisely, the luscious locks smooth and silky, but there is a weight on his chest that he can’t say was there before, a weight that’s actually quite nice, Jungkook smiles. Maybe the morning never fucking happened and it was all a nightmare. Yes, nightmares tend to be actually scary, not incredibly boring, but who knows.

He opens his eyes, the blurry lines of the airplane coming into sharp awareness, and Jungkook becomes painfully aware of the vibration of the airplane, he can tell from a quick glance at the window that they are still in the air. And another quick glance tells him that it’s–

Her. She’s sleeping on his chest, little wisps of hair blowing out of her space with every breath, light snores that sound like a lullaby Jungkook could fall asleep to, her sweet face unmarred by annoyed scowls. If he thought she was pretty before, with her glares of dislike, she’s beautiful now, all peaceful and still and so, so relaxed. He can’t deny that he’s attracted to her. He lets her sleep, lets her stay lost in the land of dreams, in the land of beauty and horrors. Really though, it’s for his own benefit, he could stay here smelling the orange and green scent of her hair forever, letting it wash over him like a tidal wave, too much and altogether too little, the waves pulling him under and over; he’s unable to stop himself from falling into the chasm of her, though he knows little about her, not even able to let the sweet taste of her name grace his lips. Though only this morning he hated her and all the cheeriness she represented. He’s been pulled so deep that he lets her pull him into dreamland with her, and his breath slows and deepens.

She’s staring at him: he can tell from the prickling feeling of his face, the piercing of her eyes, noticeable even with his own eyes closed. Jungkook’s mind wants to leap to conclusions (What if they have a connection?), but he forces himself to stop.

“I can feel your glare,” he smirks and opens his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been hated so intensely by someone I don’t know.”

She blushes, the pretty pink shading her face like a painting, and Jungkook’s hand itches to touch her pink cheeks, or maybe draw it. He would do it in pastels, wine, and sunset, and rose gray.

“I’m sorry.” Then to Jungkook’s extreme disappointment, she turns and looks outside the window. But Jungkook can’t help himself from teasing her.

“So,” he drawls, “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” she mutters.

“Yes,” he announces, “I’m sure my chest was incredibly comfortable.”

And she blushes again, but this time his mind jumps to white sheets and long nights and her coral cheeks against his silk duvet.

“I’m sorry about that, too,” she says.

“Don’t be.” She swallows at his words and turns to look at Busan; from the air, the sea-city is beautiful, but the plane circles the city for the third time now, and Jungkook knows it can’t be that interesting. He keeps hoping for her to turn and look at him, with those eyes as deep as oceans, just as full of emotion, ever changing, ever beautiful. Maybe she’ll talk to him. And maybe she won’t. But maybe she’ll say–

“Hey.” There is an apologetic look on her face, all wide eyes and downturned puckered mouth that Jungkook wants to kiss. He wonders if tastes like the strawberries it looks like. He wonders if he will be given a chance to smooth the remorseful look that shadows her face. “I’m sorry. About earlier I mean. I just– I was really stressed, and I’m not a morning person, and I’m incredibly sorry.”

Jungkook can’t help the grin that stretches his mouth, her pout is just so cute, and so fucking adorable. He doesn’t know what has made him take a complete 360, but the girl is cute, so why the hell not forgive her.

“It’s okay. I can’t deny it, I was a bit of an ass, too.”

Her eyes of galaxies widen, “A bit?” she choruses, in a tone that tells him she thinks his assholery was much more than a bit.

“You know, a smidgen.”

“Definitely more than a smidgen.”

“You think?” he asks, and the grin has definitely been permanently etched onto his face. He doesn’t ever want to stop grinning like this, so wide it hurts. Probably a bit belatedly, he wonders if there is anything on his teeth. But that thought stays in the recesses of his mind because he realizes she is grinning just as wide at him, pearly whites stark against the natural red of her lips, the angles of her face beautiful and elegant. Jungkook can feel his heart fluttering a bit, as she leans into whisper into his ear.

“I think so, yeah,” she says, lips brushing against the cuff his ear. Maybe it’s just him that feels the electricity of their proximity. Maybe it’s the both of them, but either way Jungkook finds himself, in this two-sentence conversation that they’ve just, that he likes her.

“So,” Jungkook smiles, taking a chance here, heart in his throat, pounding and fluttering so much that he can barely hear his voice. He only stares at stars that make up her eyes, at the soft curves of her face, and then he continues, “Maybe I can make it up to you by buying you breakfast when we get to Busan?”

He can see her hesitance, just by the way her eyes close, the waves of emotion in her eyes unavailable to him.

“There’s a beautiful cafe on the beach,” he cajoles. He knows that the way his eyes widen and his bunny teeth stick out that no one can resist. He doesn’t prove to be wrong.

She blinks and smiles. “Okay,” she agrees.

“I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he remembers.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been asked on a date before I got a name.”

His mouth tries to smile, before he realizes he’s smiling as wide as he can. “Was I going to get a name?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date before without getting a name first.”

“Well, unfortunately,” she is smiling too, and Jungkook wants to see that smile as they walk on the beach, wants to remember it as he sits to the droning of people at his business meetings, wants kiss it when he gets home. “I don’t think that today is the day. I’m Y/N.”

He laughs as the plane lands in Busan; the captain’s speaking, but he cares about the way that she laughs back, the way it sounds like the tinkle of bells, the sound effect that seems to come with magic. And it is magic, when she speaks to him and his heart flutter like a giddy school girl’s. And Jungkook realizes, after breakfast, after he’s attained her number, that sometimes mornings on which you have to wake up at 3 AM without any good coffee aren’t all that bad.

#mornings without good coffee #bts scenarios #bts scenario #jungkook scenarios #fluff #smut #angst #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #mine #jungkook fic

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Im A Millennial Republican And Im Sick Of All The Crying

Let me start by asking: do you remember a time when ones political leanings were a topic kept wholly and unequivocally private? I do. I remember when it was uncouth, improper, and just plain rude to ask someone who they voted for and why outside of intimate family and loved ones. Do you want to know why that was such an excellent practice? Because it didnt drive a stake between you, me, and everyone else. At the end of the day, your take on abortion, on the death penalty, on civil rights these are the innermost things about you. They are very personal opinions. This is part of the reason I am so against the liberal attitude. I dont feel the need to scream my opinions from every abstract rooftop I can find, gathering people to my cause. I also dont feel the need to cast people from my proverbial Olympus when they have (the audacity) to disagree with me or my causes. This past year has been a media circus and a shitshow. Ive long gone quiet as members of my party are painted as racists, bigots, and terrible people. It wasnt enough that the silent majority showed up on Election Day and blew your minds to say were here, were relevant, the Republican personality is still constantly under fire.

I am a young, female Republican that has voted for candidates from both major political parties. And I didnt make that decision blanketed in the ignorance of privilege. Privilege, especially racial privilege, is part of my life certainly. But I have suffered personally the way everyone suffers. And that is an important piece of knowledge to remember. Everyone comes from struggle. No one has a perfect life. Since when did the national currency become sympathy and pity? I have zero let me reiterate ZERO interest in playing the who had the worse life game with people my age. Because, believe me, I could play hardball if I wanted to about individual suffering. But I enjoy my privacy, and my dirty laundry is, unfortunately, none of your business. My struggle is not why people should notice me and remember my life. My sad story doesnt chalk up my measure of relevance. How about my sense of humor? My undying loyalty? My work ethic? Those are the things I want celebrated. Not the fact that Ive survived what Ive survived. And because Ive lived through real trauma, I want that to be the thing that defines me least. Todays democrat seems to be a card carrying member in the belief of youre only as good as what youve overcome, when theyre also championing the hope that one day, no one will have to overcome anything.

I voted for Donald Trump. Not out of choice, but out of necessity. Thats who my party chose as its representative. And, sorry to say it DNC, your party didnt bring a valuable player to the table. Im not going to be star-spangled thrilled for Hillary just because we share the common biological fact of both owning uteruses. Do I LIKE Donald Trump? No, I think hes a big mouth who says stupid things and isnt representative character of what I believe a president should be. But neither was Hillary Clinton. And neither was Barack Obama. In the light of no choice, I made one in the voting booth rather than being inactive.And maybe this is hard for whoever holds the position of POTUS, but I swear to God, there needs to be a stop on the current Commander in Chief rolling over like a pig in shit over the celebrity of the position. Youre not a celebrity you are much, much more than that. Youre our face to the rest of the world. Not a fucking actor or someone who shakes their shit on stage for my amusement. Youre not a star, youre a country. Thats the job you signed up for. Not appearing on fucking Between Two Ferns. Not creating photo ops of you shooting hoops with Steph Curry. Youre more than a meme and more than a dad joke. Act like it. Do you know why I didnt vote for Hillary Clinton? Because she was so goddamn condescending. What, because Im in my twenties, and youre parading Jay-Z and Beyonces endorsement in my face, thats it? Vote won? I dont fucking think so. The absolute last thing I am concerned about when it comes to a president is who star-studded, ZERO political acumen Los-fucking-Angeles is voting for. If the 1% of people who are so removed from financial burden, from prejudice, from hardship of any kind, thinks youre the end all be all of White House potential thats a major red flag for me. The American public and the American millennial is so much more than our likes on Facebook and what we read on Buzzfeed. And if thats not obvious to you, then youre not my candidate. Stop bumping tits with Katy Perry go to fucking Wisconsin.

Socially, Im a liberal person. I love the LGBT and queer community, and they should have every opportunity and every right to be happy in this world, whatever that may be. I believe in racial equality. Just because your ancestors were born closer to the equator than mine (because thats exactly what difference in skin color is) is a non-fucking-entity and should be treated as such. As a professional woman fighting to find a place in corporate America, Im definitely a feminist. I believe women of any and all races are capable, smart, better than the female stereotype, and a million other wonderful things. And you can keep your abortions, too, because I think theyre a necessity for people in special cases. But that doesnt mean abortions are for me. Were literally arguing a matter of life or death here, and just in case the sign-slinging left is wrong when we all meet our maker, Id rather not fall on that side of the line. Our welfare system is a broken, shell of a thing that doesnt find the people that need it and allows itself to be taken advantage of by far too many. I believe in a right to bear arms, because as a survivor of rape and someone who lives in a big city, theres no way Im going through that shit a second time. I believe in a capitalist country where the ceiling is only as high as you settle for, for individual instances of prosperity. The economy is a balancing act, and the more Obama poured his efforts into urban centers (his voters shocker), the more the working class in Middle America suffered.

To me, the prime segregator between a millennial voter of opposing parties boils down to one thing attitude. Far too many people today have their hands out for what they can get for as little effort as possible. Far too many people are bleeding hearts for every sob story. The modern democrat isnt waging a war against Donald Trump, theyre waging a war against a persons choice to be an asshole. If I want to be selfish with the money Ive earned and see as much of it possible in my paycheck, I have that right. If I choose to be uncaring about whatever cause and its GoFundMe than youve posted, thats okay, too. And you can turn your nose up at it as much as you want, but it doesnt stop it from being true. Newsflash, enlightened NYC hipster you are not the only people that exist. Just because you majored in philosophy at Fordham doesnt mean youre some renaissance man. Its fucking disgusting to paint a Republican as uneducated. I have a Masters Degree, and you can suck on it. In their efforts to be a social media vigilante for every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a struggle, the democrats have become the bullies. Theyll shame, troll, and shit on anyone who doesnt think Bernie Sanders is the fucking Messiah. In their efforts to encircle everyone in their warm, squishy embrace, theyve fleshed out an entire stereotype against 304 electoral districts worth of voters. The tables have turned youre the assholes, now. Youre no better than the Duck Dynasty backwater racists you paint most Republicans to be. Ripping down blue ribbons for law enforcement, Facebook status making, weeping on the picket line, crying on each others shoulders in the auditorium, straight up assholes. My struggle doesnt define me. My shortcomings are not my identifiers. I dont need your pity. And when I need your support, Ill ask for it.In the modern Democrats mission for extreme tolerance, theyve become the alienators. So pull your head out of your ass, young blowhard. Take a look around. Its never going to be Kumbaya for the masses. There is no safe space.

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