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hit the slopes. (m) jjk
sequel to concrete king ! (read this first)
pairing. skaterboy!jk x reader genre. fluff, smut, pure goofy energy from both parties word count. 13.6k warnings. skaterboy!jk becomes snowboarder!jk for a quick sec, sweet summer romance turns into sick winter lovefest, mint!jk hehe, they’re idiots in the best possible way<3, smut in forms of: dry humping, pussy job, dirty talk, cute praising, light choking, spit kink (c’mon now…), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, one (1) consensual slap, jungkook is rough as fuck but also sweet as hell (and still a big fking dork bc seasons change but ppl dont !!! ) summary. you can take the king off of the concrete but you can’t take his confidence, until you somehow manage to one up him on the slopes. now jungkook’s wondering if he has a kink for being humbled by you. note. happy holidays!! it’s almost been a year since this couple was brought to life and i love and missed them dearly (and i know a few of you did too) so i figured why not write them another sickly sweet love story. i hope you guys enjoy it, please feel free to leave some feedback on here or message me, i’d greatly appreciate it muah muah<333 (don’t ask for another part pls & thx heh)
The wind is frigid around you as you make your way up the street, the typical California heat gone from the air, no longer needing to lather up on sunscreen and seek shade. It’s a bit of a bummer that you can only experience slight changes in the seasons for a few days at a time, rainstorms scattering throughout the months with bright days slipped in between, only a few short dips in temperature before it’s back to sunny but tolerable days. As the year comes to an end, the chill of a west coast winter creeps in as much as the city will let it.
Today, the weather calls for mid 60’s with wind so strong it nearly knocks you on your ass as you exit your vehicle and make your way up the familiar steps. Your hand clutches onto the plastic takeout bag as tightly as you can, urging mother nature to chill out for a second in order to not knock the egg rolls clean out of your grasp.
“Jesus,” you huff as you slip past the door to Jungkook’s apartment, slamming it shut behind you and taking a second to rest against the wood and collect yourself.
“Any wipe outs?” Jungkook’s voice comes from somewhere in his apartment, most likely in his room folding up laundry—something you’ve come to learn is one of his favorite things to do.
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This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.
e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.
I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.
This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.
And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.
