#but that doesn’t make it any less wrong

[likelikedirtycute]

I believe you have good intentions. But what you said was this:

…did he violate her? This would imply ill, malicious intent on his part.

Take a second to think through what you wrote and how it applies to real life examples of assault and rape. You know that statement perpetuates rape culture.

You’re right that in real life, the victim gets to define their experience for themselves. But in a fictional narrative, that doesn’t apply, and there is no reason not to call a violation what it is.

Acknowledging that this fictional instance was a violation doesn’t mean yelling at a 12 year old that he’s a rapist. Again, I believe you have good intentions, but try to examine why you have such a knee-jerk reaction here. Why does even the abstract idea of acknowledging that a young boy violated a young girl feel equivalent to yelling at him that he’s a horrible rapist forever?

When we’re talking in the abstract, not “to” either character, why is the first thought about how he would feel if it was said to him, and not how she would feel having her sadness and frustration validated? (And you can argue that if Katara were real, she might not want to call this a violation, since it doesn’t get addressed on screen either way. But she was canonically sad and angry - that’s shown to us extremely clearly on screen.)

When you say “acknowledge the behavior is wrong” - that’s what we’re doing when we talk about this fictional event as a violation. If Aang was a real person, talking to him about why this was wrong would have to include acknowledging that another human being’s autonomy was violated, and that he did that.

Again, that doesn’t mean yelling or saying he’s irredeemable, but the desire to shy away from acknowledging the truth of what happened is one of the ways that rape culture is perpetuated. Part of teaching the lesson and allowing children to grow is being clear about what they did wrong.

I also want to mention the part about “under the assumption that said child reciprocated said feelings.” Imagine if Aang, or any 12 year old boy offers a friend tea or a snack. He really wants to have a snack with his friend, and he genuinely thinks his friend will want to as well. Friend says “it’s not the right time right now.” He says “well when is the right time?” Friend says “I don’t know, I’m confused.”

If you asked the 12 year old, whether it’s Aang or a hypothetical child “Do you still think your friend wants a snack right now as much as you do?” - what do you think he’d say?

If those words aren’t said, if there’s no communication or very ambiguous communication from either side, then yes, that’s is a situation where someone might misstep because they believe the other person feels the same way. It still absolutely can be violating, and that’s why it’s best for the person wanting to initiate contact to communicate. But that’s the kind of thing that a child might not realize as they are first navigating these things, because even adults sometimes think they are reading someone correctly and it turns out they’re not.

That’s what you’re treating this situation as, but that’s not what happened. Katara’s words were clear and would not be understood as reciprocation in any other context. If Aang was under the impression that Katara returned his feelings, it’s because he made a decision that what she was saying wasn’t real or didn’t matter. Him believing his feelings were reciprocated isn’t a justification or even context for the violation - it is a fundamental part of it.

"You can like Zutara without disliking Aang" Sure I can. But why do I have to?

I think I'm justified in disliking Aang. "He has good traits" If someone treats their partner poorly, it is very well justified to not like them, and even if they are a nice person to everyone else but their partner. That's even worse.

Aang violated Katara twice during the show. "He's 12" But she was 14. That is a VERY good reason to not like him. If this was any other show, you would never let it slide. But because he's 12 and squishy, it's okay. But what about Katara? Are you forgetting the person he hurt?

The way he treats her in their married life is insane too. People forget Aang grew up to be an adult but don't hold him accountable because he's the Avatar.

Also, "Katara could never hate Aang" but why couldn't she? If a friend of mine were to kiss me without my consent, am I not allowed to hate him for what he did because he's nice? If a writer were to write Katara to hate Aang it would be logical. It would be her full right to. He violated her.

[usedpidemo]

Life of the party (Loossemble Yeojin)

You regret getting yourself out on the market so soon.

To be fair, it’s been a little over six months since your last breakup, the terms of which remain hazy, even to this day. It isn’t exactly a definitive conclusion, one where you can comfortably say you’re wishing each other the best, nor is it a destructive mess either. 

The unfortunate reality is: it was never gonna last. You both had it wrong from the start. The foundations of your relationship were built primarily around sex—pure, unadulterated, raw—at its most primal form. You had this magnetic effect on each other, your bodies crashing on top of the other endlessly, creating these seemingly boundless explosions until you couldn’t take it anymore. It took your body giving out for you to learn an important lesson: that much of a good thing can be turn bad.

So you confess that you need space, the same thing other girls have told you previously. You’ve certainly learned from each relationship, right down to the textbook words that signify each phase—and this was the decline. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t take it well, and she lashes out in a fit of anger. 

You don’t see each other again. 

That should have been the end of that.

Except, you see her, six months on, hiding in the crowd of a party you have no business attending. 

—————

You recognize her right away: so distinctly small compared to everyone else that in any other situation, protecting her would be the first thing on your mind. Kids shouldn’t be allowed here, anyway; it’s only been five minutes and your senses are pervaded with the sights and smells of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and every negative vice under the sun. Except she isn’t a kid; she’s about as old as you, balancing her job and personal life like everyone else in this room. 

Surely, this has to be some kind of mistake—or an elaborate trap. 

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” you face Hyunjin, your self-proclaimed guide to this madness, expression uncertain, tone dour. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Kim Hyunjin doesn’t take no for an answer. She’s all about expanding her social circles and connections, others’ interests be damned. “Come on. Don’t be like that. You’ll find that everyone is friendly! Here, let me introduce you.”

Without hesitation or care for your concerns, she takes you by the hand and drags you to the first girl she spots with her eyes. “I’d like you to meet Hyeju.”

Hyeju stares at you with a cold, apathetic glare. On one hand is a cup, the drink barely consumed. Other than stand awkwardly, you’ve done nothing, yet you’re giving off quite a negative first impression. Jittery nerves, awkward expressions—it’s terrible body language that gets people ostracized and bullied on social media.

“Sup,” she says, casually, extending out her free arm to shake.

Initially hesitant, you acquiesce, smiling while trembling, as though you’re uncomfortable. The feeling is mutual. “Hello.”

Ever the social butterfly, Hyunjin isn’t able to read the room, oblivious to the fact that you and Hyeju are polar opposites. As a result, you’re both undeniably incompatible. At least you can find some commonality in being unable to move the chat forward; whether out of kindness or a general difficulty in making a meaningful conversation out of your circumstances is up for interpretation.

“Well, if you need me, I’ll just go to the bathroom,” Hyeju says, breaking the cold silence that has been occupying the space for minutes. It’’s so apparent, that it may as well have been hours. She walks away, much to your relief—and to Hyunjin’s disappointment.

“Typical Hyeju, so cold to everyone that isn’t a girl,” she remarks, shaking her head in disbelief in a playful manner. In reality, she should have realized at the outset it was an outlandish plan to link up with a man, much less someone new. 

Hyunjin looks around the area, scanning for potential new acquaintances and friends. She finds—no one. Everyone appears to have formed their own little groups or cliques, unintentionally singling you out. If there was any more apparent of a sign that you shouldn’t be here, this is it.

And you’ll make it known to her. Anything to get the notion through that thick skull of hers.

“See? I told you this party wasn’t meant for me,” you comment, moving your finger in every direction, pointing out the obvious. It’s certainly quite the problem—for Hyunjin that is. For you, it’s a blessing in disguise. “Look—if you want, I’ll just pick you up later. Just text me when you wanna go home.”

Annoyed, she shakes her head, vehemently denying the offer, pouting at you for even thinking about leaving her by herself. “Hey! Don’t be such an asshole, okay? You want me to make you look bad? Try it. I dare you!”

You can only sigh in defeat. That’s how these girls get you: by gaslighting or through emotional blackmail, and it works. Every single time. And even after making the same mistakes over and over, you still wonder why you’ve been through four failed relationships in two years, now on your fifth. Perhaps there’s a common denominator that you’re quite stubborn to admit or are completely unaware of—you.

Clearing your throat with a cough, you reply, “Can’t say I’ve been made to look bad before.”

You’re testing Hyunjin’s patience, and for no good reason. This party is the only thing she’s been looking forward all week long, and no amount of negativity is going to deny her. “Let’s just have fun tonight, all right? That’s all I want. Don’t piss me off. It’s been quite the week for me, and this is the only thing keeping me from going insane.”

You shrug at her demand; you’ll definitely have more fun being anywhere else but here. She doesn’t seem to care about your plight, why should you?

Still, you follow her close behind, sharpening your focus anad keeping a close watch around your surroundings. Hyunjin doesn’t know she’s here, let alone your entire history with her. What started as a dull, uneventful night has slowly turned into a high stakes game of cat and mouse. With her stature, she could be anywhere; in front of you, over your shoulder, even as your very shadow. 

So it becomes all the more troubling when Hyunjin does introduce you to more of her friends, keeping you preoccupied. She might as well have everyone form a large circle and present themselves like it’s the first day of class. You go through the motions, dropping all this information overload at the earliest opportunity in an attempt to keep some semblance of awareness around you. 

And sure enough, she’s there. She’s no hallucination. In the midst of the crowd, Yeojin stands across the room, all barely five feet of her. Her blue oversized sweater drapes half of her frame like a curtain. In one of the rare instances where her short stature works to her benefit, she effortlessly disappears when someone else walks between your line or sight, but not before smiling at you—grinning, asking, begging for trouble.

You blink twice, and before you know it, she’s gone. Your attention is suddenly called by Hyunjin, seemingly introducing you to yet another one of her friends. Still, your mind remains fixated on her—the girl you haven’t seen in six months. Her number had been removed from your contacts, every photo deleted and her social media accounts blocked. Of course, meeting her again was still plausible; you haven’t moved out from this side of the country, but the fact you’ve run into each other at the same building, at the same occasion—it seems too good to be true.

“Hey—I need to use the bathroom,” you tell Hyunjin mindlessly, your stare lingering at the open passage at the other side of the room, your escape route. The words seemingly go unnoticed, until you look at her, deep in conversation with her another one of her countless friends.

That’s your cue to escape.

So you make a beeline for the exit, trying to catch even the slightest glimpse, but to no avail. You scour every room, looking for any sign of her, only to find nothing. She could have easily left the party in the time you were distracted. Asking anyone for her whereabouts is akin to a death sentence; word spreads like wildfire, and if anyone else knew of your history with Yeojin, it would be the end of the world.

You recognize you’re tempting fate with your next decision. It’s dangerous. You should let her go; there’s a reason why you haven’t spoken to her ever since.

Going through your phone, you put in the numbers. Truth is, her number is no longer saved in your contacts, but kept deep inside your notes app. Taking a deep breath, you press the danger button, cautiously waiting for her to pick up.

She answers.

“Hey.”

Even through a single word, you can visualize that bratty, cocky grin. Her smug attitude, the triumph in her voice, it’s oh so crystal clear. As if you’ve finally come calling back like the prodigal son, having recognized the error of your ways, after swearing you’d be somebody without her, even though it’s the exact opposite: she’s the one who walked out on you.

“Yeojin.”

“Missed your babygirl?”

“Fuck you.”

She gets off on that one single word. It’s branded deep into her veins. Even when you’re no longer together, it’s become a part of her. To say you’ve left an indelible mark on her would be an understatement. You’ve changed Yeojin—for the worse.

“That word lost all its meaning when you walked out on me,” you follow, months of frustration boiling up through your voice. “So don’t come at me with that anymore.”

“Technically, I came up with the idea of calling me babygirl. So I have the final say in whether it means anything or not.”

There she goes again, not even thirty seconds in, acting as if she were the biggest, most important person, which right now, unfortunately, she is. You already knew how disastrous it would be to open Pandora’s box the moment you even thought of calling her, yet here you are, regretting that decision and its consequences. Clearly you didn’t think this through—or you simply just needed an excuse to get away from the crowd, from Hyunjin, from everything.

Likewise, she’s feeling the same way too.

“Anyway, what brings you crawling back? Let’s talk.”

“Yeah.” You carefully look over your shoulder, keeping tabs on the party happening inside. No one has thought of stepping out to catch some air, thankfully, but they’ll be coming out in droves soon enough. “Let’s talk.”

“Basement parking lot. If you dare,” she says before hanging up, challenging you, as if you weren’t planning to head there regardless.

—————

As the elevator doors open, Yeojin’s echoed laugh is the first thing that welcomes you to the otherwise empty parking lot. The second being her shameless, mocking face when she turns around and familiarizes herself with your presence. Scanning you from head to toe, her eyes glint with delight, seeing that for the most part, nothing has changed.

For the most part. You look traumatized.

“So great to see you again,” Yeojin remarks, running up to meet you in a warm, endearing embrace. “I missed you so much.”

Pushing her away, her lips can’t help but leave marks on your neck, leaving familiar pink lipstick marks on your skin. Barely a minute since you’ve reunited, and you’re already wishing Yeojin was once again gone in your life.

“C’mon, lighten up. Aren’t you happy to see me too?” She elbows your rib playfully, its impact a feathery blow but otherwise devastating to your psyche. Every little thing she does is purposefully curated and designed to piss you off. 

“You’ve left me with no other choice,” you tell her, sighing, wishing you’d be anywhere else but this building. It’s turned into your personal hell, your inescapable prison.

“Poor Hyunjin’s gonna be so heartbroken when she finds out you’ve left her for me,” she remarks, grinning, smirking, gloating. “How long have you been together? Two months?”

“Two weeks,” you immediately correct her, because in all honesty, you’re still in the talking stage. This party was a way—or a trap—for Hyunjin to get through your otherwise impenetrable shell. She doesn’t seem to have learned from others that you’re the homebody, stay at home type. Maybe she does, but she believes she can fix you. And maybe it’s for the better to end this relationship before it deepens further, because it’ll probably hurt less—for her, at least.

Yeojin makes a face—exaggerating her features, surprised that you didn’t spend the last six months isolating yourself in your apartment, ashamed after fumbling the self-proclaimed so-called cutie hottie of the city.

“That’ll do it,” she continues to comment, her tongue a weapon to fire against anything and anyone.. “I’m amazed that it took you that long to leave her. Such a talkative bitch, right? I bet she won’t let you hit that fat ass of hers.”

To her credit, she’s correct about two of three things. You’re baffled at how she still has friends, knowing how much she constantly spites them behind their backs, and how narcissistic she is. Your conversations with her prove this.

But to avoid pouring fuel to the fire, you simply let it pass without another word, until she’s forced to change the conversation.

“So—you wanna come fuck me?” Yeojin is so unabashedly straightforward that it’s refreshing, as much as you hate how direct and to the point she is. “I don’t see any reason for us to talk any further, except for slamming that big cock of yours inside me.”

Taking a step back, you’re not exactly stunned by her choice of attire tonight. If there’s anything Yeojin has taught you, it’s to be prepared for any opportunity where she’ll pounce and you’re forced to fuck her brains out. She’s always been like this: dressing the bare minimum to avoid getting arrested under public indecency, making the flimsiest excuses to get railed that she’d forgo all pretense and be candid about wanting to walk around with your cum leaking from her cunt. She loves the thrill of the chase, while you hate drawing all this unwanted attention by playing along with her dangerous antics.

It’s why you wanted out to begin with.

“How’d you know I was gonna be here?” you question her, despite recognizing that she’ll give an unreliable answer.

“Everyone knows this is the party to be at,” she comments, tone matter-of-fact, crossing her legs, her arms folded behind her back. “All our college friends are here. It’s a reunion. Didn’t Hyunjin tell you that?”

You overlooked all the fine details when she was discussing this with you on the way here. Maybe even while you were busy gaming yesterday.

“Well that explains why I saw Heejin back there, and the others, I guess.”

“Still the forgetful S.O.B even after all this time,” she remarks, unable to resist throwing whatever snide remark she can. “You know Sooyoung was there too! Your ex? And Yerim! Your other ex. And also Jinsol—”

“You know damn well I didn’t ask to be invited,” you say, crossing your arms and shooting her a frustrated glare. It’s an anger aimed toward your circumstances, not specifically at Yeojin herself, even if she was the icing on the cake of what is a rather miserable night. “Given any other choice, I’d rather not call you. Nine times out of ten.”

“Yet here you are—stuck with me. So who’s really the loser now?”

God, Yeojin makes it difficult to be patient sometimes. Often, actually.

“Let me put it to you this way,” Yeojin starts again, and you’re certain she’s about to say something dangerous.. There’s a persuasiveness in her delivery that you can’t help but listen. “You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I just want to get fucked, but this is boring me. You’re bored as hell, too. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

In all honesty, yes you do. You could have seen the conclusion coming a mile away.

“Yeah. You’re asking me to fuck you.” 

“Exactly!” Yeojin grins at your response, elated to hear the answer straight from the source. She’s full of joy, she’s close to jumping for joy at how well you know her after all this time. It’s both a blessing and a curse. “So you can either do one of two things: you can leave me here, pretend this never happened, and go back up there. And God knows if that place is a wreck by now. Or, you can have me here. Up to you.”

You look left and right, scanning your surroundings. Ticketing is electronic, so there is little risk of getting caught by guards. But then, there are cameras scattered all over the place. And while there are dozens of rows with cars parked side by side to hide behind, there’s no telling exactly when someone is going to emerge from that elevator and peek through your secret act, even if everyone is all conveniently partying upstairs making a bigger scene.

Yeojin’s pushing the limit as to how you can come away with her completely unscathed. So really, it’s a pick your poison situation, with either choice resulting in a slow, agonizing death.

A gunshot to the head would be a better fate than this.

“You’re fucking insane if you think I’m going to fuck you in an empty parking lot, Yeojin,” you tell her, unamused at the offer. There’s a third, hidden option that doesn’t have to involve this much risk; it’s hiding somewhere beneath that playful facade of hers. 

Yeojin doesn’t flinch at all. She knows you can take it and follow through, as you have done for her countless times. In the movie theater, in a bathroom stall, in the locker room—you’ve followed her through some of the most cramped and dangerous places, leaving a scene behind, barely escaping with your lives. If anything, a parking lot is on the tamer side. So much legroom, so much space, with little in terms of opposition—you’re never gonna have this free of a runway to fuck her brains out that isn’t confined to a bedroom, which, in her words, is ‘boring.’

Yeojin faces you with a smirk. A taunting, shit-eating grin that’s insufferable to stare at for longer than five seconds. She stares back as if she’s got it all mapped out, which, judging by how composed and deliberate she has been, is more likely than you think. It wouldn’t surprise you if she had spent the past few weeks positioning everything to fall into their respective place, working around countless different outcomes, to lure you out for the occasion. 

From the pocket of her oversized sweater she pulls out a pair of keys, jingling them directly in your face. Pressing a button, a clicking sound echoes throughout the basement. It’s the alarm coming from your car.

Panic immediately sets in. “How did you—”

“Took em’ while I was hugging you,” she says, her confidence at an all-time high, flaunting the item around like it’s hers. Like she owns you.

“Give it,” you demand, extending your hand out, deliberately ignoring the obvious: she won’t yield easily.

“Nah,” is the immediate response, silent but heartily laughing at your admittedly feeble and foolish attempt to reason with her. “Gonna have to play with my terms.”

“Will you stop—God damn it.” 

You’re falling back into old ways like they’re worn out shoes. Like it’s second nature, a force of habit. She’s living in your head rent-free.

“No problem.” Taking a moment to compose yourself, you turn around and make a beeline for the lone elevator. The most effective way to kill something is right at the source: her desire for attention. “I’ll be back later for the keys when the party’s done.”

“What? You’re seriously not gonna go up there, are you?” Yeojin doesn’t buy your ruse one bit. “You wanna lose a perfectly nice car to the girl you already lost too?”

“You need a booster seat to see the road clearly, bitch,” you retort, your heated exchange turning into an impromptu screaming contest. “And besides, you still don’t have a fucking driver’s license.”

Right then and there, triggered by your remark, she snaps. 

Briskly following you in hot pursuit, you shut the elevator door on her as you’re taken up back to the party. Missing you by the slimmest of margins, the last thing you see before the panels close is her scowl, a fist hurled in the air, and the echo of a emphatic ‘fuck’ that rips through the entire basement.

Only now are you starting to truly grasp the consequences of reopening old wounds.

When you rejoin the function, the atmosphere and overall area has turned into an irredeemable mess—a far cry from when you first entered the room. The whole place reeks of smoke, alcohol, and even slick. There’s guests laid out on the floor unconscious, choking in a pool of their own saliva and vomit, while everyone else has turned up their lasciviousness and energy up to eleven. You’re searching for Hyunjin, hoping she hasn’t been corrupted by the madness of it all, and you eventually find her—deep in a passionate kiss with Heejin in the corner of the karaoke room, behind a sea of other inebriated partygoers. 

And even if you screamed from the depths of your lungs, the guy on the microphone—not even trying to hit a note—overpowers anything else. He’s singing close to the mic, filling the room with a horrible screech that fucking rings, leaving a resounding pain thumping in everyone’s ears, including yours. 

You recognize the whole situation is a complete and utter disaster. The best option being, throwing yourself out the balcony. Someone probably did.

So before someone exposes you to more doses of lethal poisoning, you quickly shuffle out of there, and bolt into the elevator. You don’t head for the basement, because a little demon is waiting for you there. Instead, you land on the ground floor, quietly walking past the front desk and security like a local tenant. They’re just standing there, idle and seemingly oblivious to the situation happening upstairs. There’s no way anyone dwelling near hasn’t called the security on them.

None of that is your business, however. 

As you make your way out the apartment lobby and into the foyer, your phone receives a text. One you shouldn’t be giving a second of your attention to. It’s Yeojin.

> Where tf are you

She’s typing as you read, while you’re waiting for her to finish her follow up before possibly replying:

> You know I can’t fucking drive

You chuckle at her self-awareness, regardless of the sincerity—or lack thereof. She’s still going:

> I know you’re not at that party. I just KNOW

> Tell me where tf are u

You think about it for a good minute or two, undecided on whether to leave her on read or to actually formulate a response. You settle on the latter.

> Keep my keys warm for me, I’ll come by for them next week

She doesn’t reply back. Instead, she decides to call you straight up, and you’re still playing with fire, answering her right away:

“Hello?” Yeojin’s already shouting through the phone, but it’s nothing compared to the absolute violation that is the guy on the karaoke.

“Hey.”

Her spunky rage echoes through the phone’s seakers, charming more than threatening. She’s barking angrily like a tiny dog. “Are you seriously gonna leave me? Without your keys? I’m going to throw them away. And then what will you do?”

“Go ahead,” you tell her, matter-of-fact, because you know she won’t follow through. She’s all bark and no bite.

Yeojin growls, so evidently frustrated, so annoyed that you’re not as flexible as you once were. “I hope she fucking cheats on you!” she yells, eliciting a gentle chuckle out of you.

“What’s so funny?” she adds, catching your half-hearted laugh through the grainy reception.

“God seems to have heard you then.”

“She did? Really? What happened now?” Yeojin sounds surprised, as if she hasn’t been secretly praying for you and your loved ones’ downfall ever since. 

“I saw her making out with Heejin. As in, deeply lip locked. Tongues out and everything.”

After pausing for a moment, letting the details sink in, she says, “Well. I shouldn’t be surprised about that. They’re joined at the hip, honestly.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm. But look—” her inflection abruptly shifts, going from relaxed to casual. “Let’s just call it a truce for tonight, yeah? I’m tired. You’re tired. I just wanna go home, and so do you. So tell me where you are exactly, and I will give back the car key.”

You find Yeojin willingly surrendering hard to believe, as if you’ve suddenly stepped into an alternate reality. That, or her attitude has changed abruptly in the span of five minutes for no good reason. “Are you being serious for once? I don’t buy it.”

“You’re so unbearable, you know?” she replies, confirming your theory that she hasn’t changed—at least completely. But after firing back, she groans, deflated. “Just tell me where you are so we can talk like adults for once.”

Your eyes happen to stumble upon a cafe across the street, open 24 hours. You’ve found it; the place where you’ll settle the score and arrange everything on your terms.

—————

As soon as you finish stirring your coffee, Yeojin comes into view. Slowly approaching you, her mannerisms are careful, deliberate, as though you’re two professionals meeting for business negotiations. You don’t welcome her with any pleasantries—no greetings, no playful taunts, only a cold, watchful glare.

Sitting down across you, she notices there’s only one cup of coffee on the table. It bothers her seeing you like this: moving on your own, without her at your side. It’s completely unnatural. “Didn’t think to order me one?”

You blink a few times. Not a single word is uttered. You carefully lift the cup and take a sip of your drink before putting it back down, much to her not so subtle chagrin. 

She takes a deep breath and exhales. Every quiet interaction, every movement of the eyes is a tense exchange. Neither of you are willing to make the first move, cautious of getting undercut or taken by surprise. It’s a quiet stalemate. 

Eventually, Yeojin relents. Leaves you for a moment to buy her own drink. The realization finally dawns on her: that you’re not going to budge or fold like you used to.

And for once, she should grow up too.

“What’s with the look?” Yeojin casually shoots at you, taking a sip of her iced coffee, pointing out your stone-faced expression. Her observation: it looks painful holding on to that face. Your muscles must be straining keeping it together. “It’s not like I’m gonna pull a gun on you and rob you, or anything like that.”

An incorrect assessment. She does have something you need: your car keys.

“Is it because of me?” she adds, jokingly pointing her index finger back at herself. Knowing very well that she’s a huge reason why. It’s in her blood not to take issues seriously whenever it concerns you. “I know. Don’t worry. Lighten up a bit.”

But you don’t, out of precaution—worried of what may happen when she sees the slimmest of openings.

She leans forward, her frame halfway over the table. Her stature means she has to make a concerted effort to reach you, which has been the story of her night so far. Even her attempt at looking angry comes off as half-hearted and unserious. It shows when she tries to grab for your shirt; she physically can’t—unless she wants to pay the cafe for a new desk.

“Yeojin, please,” is your reply, huffing in her direction before looking away, avoiding eye contact.

“Please what? Stop being annoying?” she says, offended by the implied intention, when in reality, you just want things to be resolved once and for all. That you can go your separate ways and never cross paths again. 

What a cruel thing to do in her eyes. 

“How bout you stop being a bitch so I can give you your damn car keys back?” Yeojin finally breaks from her playful facade, fiercely jingling your keys in front of you, having abandoned all sense of subtlety and teasing. The desperation is finally catching up. “Jesus. You’re just as annoying as when I left you.”

Of course, it doesn’t bother you in any shape or form. She grows more frustrated at your lack of a direct response.

Placing the keys on the table, she sits back down, averting your gaze but in the opposite direction—sighing.

You shoot her a brief glance, checking once, then again for good measure, before sneakily taking the car keys back while she hasn’t noticed. Unsurprisingly, it’s part of yet another plan of hers.

“Go. Take them. If it that’s what will make you happy,” she blurts out, evidently defeated, her tone crestfallen. “I just wanted to see you. You know—for old times sake.”

“Hey. Don’t get all nostalgic, saying you miss me when you were the one that walked out on me, remember?” You shut down all hopes of reconciliation with that one response. “I can see why you haven’t been in a relationship for longer than two weeks.”

Yeojin turns her head toward you, visibly irate. She looks as if she’s refusing to take accountability. “You know today’s my birthday right?”

“Is it?” you tell her, knowing she’s lying with a straight face—it was two weeks ago.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, leaning slightly forward on the table. “As if you haven’t been following me in secret. All those pictures I’ve been posting on Instagram—”

“Has nothing to do with me,” you interrupt, brushing her rebuttal away as if it were meaningless. “You’ve always been thirst trapping. Seriously, you should take up being a camgirl if you want all that attention.”

Yeojin narrows her eyes. Try as she might, there’s no universe where she rips your throat out at the suggestion. “No fucking way.”

“I could help you make an account if you’re having problems signing up,” you tell her, “At least you can make money that way. And you get to have a new guy to use as your personal toy every single week without looking stupid.”

“It means nothing without you,” she says, taking another sip of her drink in between. “Something about you feels—different. Like, this all feels hollow and useless when you’re not around.”

“Stop being melodramatic and embrace what you really are,” you immediately retort, not buying her feeble attempts at sentimentality. “A slut.”

“Are you being dense?” Yeojin’s voice turns a bit more raspy and sharp with each response, as if she’s being attacked on a personal level, when it’s all true. You’ve found her like this: a thirst trapping self-professed model who posts suggestive pictures of herself and in the lewdest poses. Fifty thousand followers and eight boyfriends later, not much has changed. Making herself look available despite being in said relationships, using the most suggestive captions—they might as well be nonexistent. “I’m not a slut!”

“Yeah you are,” you tell her, flashing your phone displaying her current boyfriend’s Instagram page. The last post dated barely over 24 hours ago, her side profile clearly in view, kissing him on the cheek. No lying or running around such evidence. “A slut. Does he—”

Yeojin leans back on the couch, her infidelity exposed, distraught at getting caught red handed. She doesn’t even try to keep the secret contained, belting out her demand, “Hey—don’t you fucking dare send anything!”

“I’m not going to,” you tell her, pulling back your phone, taking no pleasure from cornering her like this. More often than not, reining her in was a burden and an immense struggle that didn’t provide any relief, only uncertainty as to when she’ll break loose again. She’s never been comfortable as a caged animal; she has to run free. “I think I oughta let him know where your whereabouts are, you know? Out of concern for—”

She’s suddenly lunging for your phone, trying to snatch it off your hands. Shielding it with your body, her strikes prove to be surprisingly painful, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you hold on—for her sake and yours especially. When she relents, you take the opening to push her away, sending her back on the other side.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she says, grasping at straws to gain even a little sympathy or favor back, when all that goodwill disappeared the moment she walked out of your life. You press somewhere on your phone—and the sound rings through her ears like a gunshot. Drawing it back to your pockets, you’ve seemingly fired a weapon aimed directly at her heart.

“Too late.” 

Yeojin melts, falling further into the couch, having put her down for good.

“I hope you didn’t actually send it,” she mutters from beneath the table, away from your direct view, her final cry of defeat. “God, don’t take this from me, please—” she’s pleading, begging for her life, knowing it’ll be what ends her. 

“You’ve done this to yourself,” you tell her, sounding like a judge sending her off to her damnation. “You left me with no other choice.”

“Really, I didn’t,” she replies, still refusing to take any sort of accountability for her actions, and that’ll never truly change. “He—he didn’t wanna go with me to the party.”

“Did he ask for an invite? Or did you simply leave him behind without a second thought?”

Yeojin cannot answer that question. She goes quiet, unable to respond.

“I figured,” you tell her, feeling a little sympathy for how vulnerable and defeated she looks. “If you seriously think you can crawl your way out of this one, you’re gravely mistaken.”

It’s easy to remember why leaving Yeojin—or in this case, Yeojin leaving you—was the best thing to ever happen to your life. Cleaning up after her is often a chore, one that requires so much effort for someone of her little stature. You can’t even pick her off the couch without applying some force; she’s lying on her side, staring blankly into the darkness, her soul drained in its entirety, but her body glued to the couch. Had she been a pet, and believe her, she’d rather be an animal more than human, she’d be living her best life, getting all the attention she craves and doing whatever she wants without punishment. But in this world, actions have consequences, and she’s starting to reap what she has sown.

It’s a good thing no one else is around to see or hear your little scene. Nevertheless, you might as well keep it contained before word spreads like wildfire. 

You don’t want to be seen with her in public ever again.

Locking yourselves inside the men’s bathroom, you plop Yeojin down on the floor. Despite looking modern, it’s not the most well-maintained. Someone should really get on it, but the workers aren’t paid enough to care. She fits naturally in her new surroundings: strewn on the floor in nothing but messy clothes and passed out after a wild night of unchecked debauchery.

“I hate you,” she murmurs, getting off the ground and sitting right in front of you, within close proximity of your pants. You’re unbuckling the belt, working your way down the zipper and buttons. “If you think giving me your cock as consolation is gonna make me feel better—”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” you tell her, pulling down your trousers and whipping out your cock from its confines, stroking it to full mast in front of her face. It’s not enjoyable whatsoever; if anything, it feels like a waste of a perfectly hot load to give back to someone you hate. You’re questioning yourself if this is even the right thing to do—which it isn’t. 

Yeojin takes hold of your cock mid pump, begging softly with her eyes to allow her control. You oblige her as she jerks your tip toward her pristine features, her fingers moving like it’s second nature. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to push me like that. I mean—he’s still my boyfriend—”

“Not anymore,” you remark, grabbing a fistful of her short dark locks, eliciting a whiny yelp from her saccharine lips. “This is for ruining my night,” you rasp, breathing heavily as her grip spreads throughout your loins, struggling to keep yourself together. All that pent up frustration finally bubbling to the surface, and now with an outlet for release. 

The timing couldn’t have been any more perfect.

Soon, your muscles tense and tremble uncontrollably as Yeojin’s hot breath and lips fill themselves with your cock. Slowly but surely, her mouth takes you, inch by inch, her tongue wrapping and licking around the tip, down your length, and you can’t contain yourself any further. As pleasure builds from within your stomach, you gradually loosen up—groaning away from her in a half-assed attempt to hide your not so subtle enjoyment. 

“Maybe I do miss this mouth,” you blurt out, heaving deeply between breaths as her noises vibrate and surge through your shaft, reaching the ends of your body, shocking every nerve. From careful reluctance to reinvigorated enthusiasm, Yeojin sinks back in, having never lost a beat in the time she’s last filled her mouth full of you. With all the relationships she’s had ever since, it would have been disappointing had she forgotten how to work her magic. Fortunately, sucking cock is one department she has never let you down on.

She releases your cock from her lips with a wet, audible pop, giving your tip a kiss. Looking up, the grin on her features is reforming. “Aha—I knew you would fucking fold like a bitch—”

You force yourself back in, dissolving her words with a mouthful of cock, pulling at her locks to regain command. Digging her fingers deep into your thighs, unwilling to let go, you’re back at square one. This is how everything starts: with Yeojin on her knees, her hands gripped to your skin, sucking on your shaft while you drag her by the hair. It’s a twisted game of tug of war, where both of you end up winners.

But right now, you have the upper hand: Yeojin’s satisfied moans reverberate through your shaft, disappearing and reappearing in her mouth with a fresh coat of saliva and precum. She’s bobbing her head back and forth, her cheeks hollowing out, her lips reaching further down your length with each stroke. She’s eerily quiet too, her noises reduced to mostly incoherent sounds as she dives further down, kissing and sucking on your balls, gasping at little breaths for air. It feels so good, so heavenly, that you’re considering backtracking all those missteps from long ago.

All this ecstasy for you and you alone—your lust and greed knows no bounds.

She looks up, her eyes wide, your cock pressed halfway between her mouth, spit falling from the edges of her lips, muttering, vibrating: “You like that? You like what I’m doing to your cock?”

“Fuck—fuck yes, babygirl.” 

You finally fold, using the one word you swore to never use again, breaking your own sacred vow. It should hurt, but it doesn’t—it was never really of dire importance, anyway. So much for being the bigger person in this relationship.

“That’s right. Tell me I’m your babygirl,” she goads, going down and sucking your balls a second time, giving them a squeeze, twisting your head into a pile of mush.

Even when you pull by her hair, Yeojin uses it to her advantage, pressing her nose against your stomach, her lips reaching your base, kissing you and marking every inch of your cock with her lips. This indescribable suction that absolutely swallows you—it’s a miracle you haven’t dissolved right then and there. Your senses are beyond overwhelmed, and it’s only registering blurs of her: her eyes, her moans, her everything. It’s come to a point where you’re forced to pump into her, filling her down to the throat in a desperation attempt to keep the fire burning.

Those fucking eyes—staring back and forth between your aimless gaze and your cock. It’s unbelievable. The room begins to spin around. There’s so much happening all at once to say a single word, let alone an entire sentence. Even when she’s gagging and coughing, she’s still relentless, her efforts steady and unshakeable. Only God knows the smile hiding beneath the pain and pleasure, getting what she wants in the end.

“So—so fucking close—” you manage to sputter, your jaw going completely slack, your groans reaching up to high heaven in a thunderous echo. The tug on her hair is so tight, you’re threatening to rip them out. 

With your cock buried deep in her throat, Yeojin’s eyes are welling up from the overwhelming sensation, basking in this old, familiar feeling. She doesn’t know if she’ll get an opportunity like this again (hopefully more in the future). Her fingers clamp around your length, ensuring your load lands nowhere but her. Face, mouth, clothes—anything to cover her as a memento reminder of what things used to be. 

She effortlessly strokes away, fully sinking into the act. Your cock tenses and tenses, until the pressure becomes too suffocating. You can’t hold it in any longer; you can only hope the outcome isn’t violent enough to be made into a crime scene.

It takes only a few more fleeting moments. Between raging storms, there’s calms that give off the illusion that everything will be fine—when there’s no chance of that happening. The confined space fills your ears with echoes of lewd noises, her dampened moans, your throaty grunts, and everything else in between. Her hot breath tickles your cock, muttering a gentle whisper, a soft plea (please cum), and it sends you careening over the edge.

A slosh sound passes through deaf ears, and you’re left blind, screaming, throbbing for her. Releasing your load, shooting heavy blasts into something—someone—till your cock no longer aches. Pulling her hair is like pulling a broken lever: completely ineffective and useless. 

When you finally snap from your spiraling daze, you’re welcomed back by the most snapshot pornographic image you’ve ever seen: her mouth wide, tongue exposed, sticky white and full of cum. It’s everywhere—on her hair, dripping down her face and chin, even on her clothes. You didn’t think Yeojin could gleam any brighter, but she’s glistening so brilliantly it’s blinding. 

“Mmm,” she hums to herself, licking herself clean of all the mess, if there’s even anything to salvage, while you’re left wobbling, struggling for air. “Fuck. That tastes so good.”

She’s running her fingers along the fabric, picking off what little pieces of you remain. Lingering on the blots on her sweater, she realizes it’s beyond wear and begins to lift the garb over her head. Behind that thick piece of clothing, she’s wearing—nothing.Not even a bra. Her wooly fleece is hiding those small but taut nipples and the rest of pale, creamy skin.

But before you get a good view, you reach for her arms and bring them back down. “Shit. Shit. Stop.”

Startled at your sudden turn and lunge, Yeojin backs away. “What are you—”

You snap at her, “Quiet.” 

You hurriedly reach for the exit. Carefully opening the door and looking outside, you notice that not much has happened, if at all.  And then your eyes widen at the new sight. Two new customers have entered the store and are making their way around a table, drinks in tow.

As you lock the door behind you, Yeojin looks at you amusingly, her gaze mostly centered around your oozing cock. “Damn. I thought you were gonna run around the cafe with—that.”

You fire back with a quiet, yet resounding glare. She doesn’t react whatsoever. Here’s you again, making impulsive moves, almost threatening to get caught in public like that.

“I mean, everyone’s gonna see that—”

“Hush.” 

Placing a finger between her lips to shut her up, understandably, you’re irate. Somehow, your head wasn’t in the right place. Those last ten minutes and beyond, from the time you carried Yeojin into the men’s room till now—you didn’t think you were gonna wind up like this. Public restrooms were always how you’d get yourselves in trouble, and how she’d prefer getting fucked.

It should have been a thing of the past, a part of you buried deep in the absolute depths of your mind. Yet here you are, carrying Yeojin onto the sink, pulling on her clothes. One after another, her platforms and stockings fall to the floor, until she’s left with the thinnest piece of underwear imaginable. And then you’ve come to the realization about two things: one—she’s not wearing anything other than a skimpy thong beneath, cleverfully concealed by her oversized sweater, and two—she’s soaking wet. A careful touch of her nylons reinforces your observation.

“I hope you’re fine going home without your stockings,” you tell her, kicking the soiled garments beneath the sink. Hopefully no one gets a hint as to whoever’s left them behind. “Jesus—you’re fucking horny, you know that?”

Yeojin giggles. She wears your comment like a badge of honor. 

Wrapping her arms around your waist, she’s hoping to get the rest of your clothes off in return, but you push her away. Shaking your head in disagreement, you follow with, “Do as I say, and we’ll get through this—quickly.”

As you try to keep her in check, she’s already looking for other ways to mess you up. Case in point, her fingers are pumping your cock back into hardness, forcing that last word to come out a tone higher. She wraps you around her hands, squeezing what little cum you currently have, moaning at the slick, silky touch. Her legs are spreading wide in an effort to distract you from the primary concern, which is her.

“But what if I don’t wanna do it quickly? What if I wanted you to fuck me for hours?” she playfully asks, twisting her grip tighter to elicit a cry from you. “What if I wanted to fuck me till I pass out? Like you always have?”

“Mm—not gonna happen,” you sputter out, swiping her hand away before ultimately seizing it, relieving the pain for now. “Not if you keep being this stupid.”

“Not you calling me stupid—aah—ah fuck—”

Yeojin trembles from the waist up, her train of thought derailed by the new sensation entering her dripping pussy: your cock. Both of you form a harmonious cacophony of moans that fill the confined room as your bodies intertwine. The hot sensation of your shaft impales her in brutal slow motion, her skinny thighs clamping around your hips, the tug of her cunt near inescapable as you fill her to the hilt. 

At first, she wrestles for control. Pulling at your shirt, at your skin, threatening to rip your flesh clean, as a respite. But as the feeling overwhelms her sense, she’s losing the fight just as quickly. Your bodies are perfectly connected, fit as two pieces of a puzzle that complete the other. Her eyes flare wide open, her gaze shooting up to the ceiling as she begins to ascend. “H-holy shit—this—so—goddamn big—”

The feeling is mutual. “God, Yeoj—you’re—goddamn tight—fuck—”

Her cunt clenches, and it’s so, so intoxicatingly tight. As if she were really built to be used and fucked. Not to mention, her stature makes her easy to carry and toss around on a whim.

Little by little, you’re lifting her off the sink, giving her no choice but to cling to you for support. Might as well; no one else is able to give her the time of day and the same level of care and attention as you, both emotionally and sexually. There’s a reason why she’s come back to you like a needy, loyal pet. 

Her nails dig into your scalp and at the back of your neck. Whispering against your ear, her breath hot, she begs, “Fuck me. Please—fuck—fuck—ah!”

And you’re doing exactly that. Carefully drawing your cock back close to her slick entrance, you’re thrusting upward, your bodies uncontrollably trembling and quivering as you plunge back in, delivering a stroke that makes Yeojin scream. She’s so feathery, so airtight, that you can bear the weight of the world and then some.

She drives her fingers deep into your skin, aching, crying. “So—so fucking good—I missed this—more—more—”

And you’re doing it again. Giving her exactly what she wants: a slow, good fucking. It’s what she lives for: to be pounded and used, to be an outlet of pleasure. 

You’re hammering up and into her, gripping her lean waist pressed against the bathroom sink, your attention focused on the little details. The whispers that fill your ears, the repetitive but gratifying moans and begs she makes, asking for more, harder, faster, and the satisfaction that comes with being fucked senseless. The way her legs clamp tight with each thrust. The restroom wasn’t designed to keep secrets; it’s clear in your collective groans and grunts that bounce off the thin four walls of this confined space. You can only hope you’re not being loud enough for those two patrons to hear.

Better yet, you can only pray Yeojin’s voice cracks, because even after yapping up a storm, she’s keening. Her tone rides a delicate wave between soothing, gentle quiet and eardrum shattering, high alert whining. You’re unsure if it's a joke or if she’s really feeling each stroke. you can never tell whether Yeojin is truly serious, even during sex. Regardless, her cries are breaching through the confines of the bathroom, and you can’t contain her, even if you tried.

And she loves it. More than anything, it’s the thrill. The possibility and wanting to be caught. Consequences be damned, if she can get railed in public, she absolutely will. It’s the sort of attention she craves for, the one people will remember—for better or for worse. Someone like her can’t simply be bottled up.

With it comes a new idea. You prop Yeojin back on the sink, facing her against the mirror and bending her over the counter. 

“You wanna see yourself getting fucked? Here.” 

Grunting against her ear, you tilt up Yeojin’s head as the glass reflects your image back. Her mouth falls wide as you fill her cunt with your cock, a thunderous echo slipping from her lips, her cry reverberating through the bathroom. Taking a mental snapshot of your position, it’s here where you notice that there is, in fact, a camera hidden in the corner of the restroom. The entire time, you’ve been under surveillance, but that’s the least of your concern. It’s about how you’re gonna make a good impression, despite facing away, the mirror serving as your primary point of focus.

And damn, you look so good together, fitting like a glove.

Before you lose control over Yeojin, you’re making an even worse mess of the restroom thanks to her. With each thrust, her slick spills from her core and onto the floor, onto your pants. You have her hands pinned on the sink for good measure, foregoing any sort of pace and rhythm for quick, senseless pounding. Her face is utterly wrecked, her features constantly twisting and contorting, dropping the occasional curse and praise here and there. The echo of skin slapping skin rings like music to your ears. It’s pushing you further than her continued cries for more.

It’s already perfect as is, but then she’s wrapping a leg around yours, and you’re daring to try something new. 

So you lift her off the ground, wrapping both her legs around your hips, before continuing to hammer into her. Holding Yeojin by the waist, her back arches up, with her petite ass following along. Your cock comes into view, disappearing and reappearing behind her glistening hole, wet and coated with copious amounts of nectar. Every entry and exit feels smooth and effortless, as if you’re meant to be. 

She tries to push herself up, and it gives you another idea. Brushing a hand up her lean figure, lifting her sweater slowly, eventually reaching her chest. An emphatic cry assaults your ears as you grab one of her tits, crushing it under your grasp.

It’s unfortunate you can’t push her jumper up a little more. What’s even the point of putting on a show when they can’t see?

Still, she feels so soft and malleable, ready to be used at your command. You’re rubbing your fingers along her taut nipple, rigid to touch, and it forces out these whines out of her. Anything to keep your mind off the inevitable, and it’s close. Everywhere you look, she’s right there, overwhelming your senses. Her pussy convulsing, her ass rippling with each stroke, her half nude figure you’re dying to strip completely—it’s all too much. The knot between your stomach grows tighter and tighter, choking you till you’re close to suffocating.

Admittedly, it’s happening sooner than you hoped. This is what you wanted from the start, but as you’ve been fucking her and remembering why you’ve put up with her for so long, you’re starting to second guess every decision.

There’s only so much to regret.

“Gonna cum again, babygirl—” you hiss, shutting your eyes and pouring every effort into filling her, making sure she never asks for anything from you ever again. Rolling your hips forward and with your bodies crashing violently, you have no choice but to hold onto her for safety.

And that’s what completely ends you.

In that particular stroke, as you fill Yeojin to the absolute hilt with your cock, your bodies melt—with yours falling on top of her. Your voices intertwine and form a grand symphony of deep cries from the depths of your lungs. Gripping her waist, her pussy pulses and cums, pouring her nectar onto your shaft and to the floor. Staining your legs, keeping you glued together, the bond between you can’t get any closer. 

You feel every bit of Yeojin coming undone. Her eyes are wide shut, jaw slacked and on the sink, her voice gradually tearing itself to shreds. Even as she’s falling from that blissful high, she’s able to mutter two words, her most meaningful ones yet: “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

And then it’s your turn. 

You follow right after with your own climax, taking a deep breath as you unload every drop of cum onto her pussy. Twitching and aching inside her, your cock sticks inside, unable to pull itself out, wanting to stay in this perfect mixture of warmth and wetness forever. It just feels right. You find it difficult to stop throbbing, even if the only thing left to shoot are blanks.

Subconsciously letting her legs fall back down to earth, you can’t unglue yourself from her. The stickiness is keeping you together, and so is your tired body. Completely drained of all your strength, you press down on her, giving a back hug that also serves as a way to use her as your personal cushion. You stay like this, cuddled up and gasping for air, letting the hours pass you by peacefully undisturbed. Neither of you say a single word, both out of exhaustion and out of respect for the moment. Messy bathroom be damned, this is the most tender and intimate you’ve ever been, and you wish your relationship had taken a different direction than what ended up happening. 

It’s a glimpse into what could have been—and that’s what makes it heartbreaking.

Eventually, you lift yourself off her, severing the connection between you. Your cum pulls apart when you take a step back, surprisingly rigid and firm. Simple tissues won’t fix it. To make matters worse, Yeojin spins around, wrapping her arms around your neck before pulling you down with her for a deep, intimate kiss. It isn’t the very act that’s the issue here; it’s how effortlessly you sink in and reciprocate her feelings. 

Then your conscience reminds you. You feel dirty. You quickly pull back, disgusted—mostly at yourself.

Taking a moment, you both exchange lengthy stares at each other, unsure of what to say. Until—

“What have I done?”

“What I think you have done,” Yeojin says, gleefully, tracing a finger down your wrinkled shirt, marked in sweat and her fingerprints. That sly grin of hers will forever haunt you in your memories. “Is get your girlfriend back.”

—————

It’s too late. 

It’s already half past midnight. The streets are empty. Yeojin’s quietly sits in the passenger seat of your car while soft music plays in the background to fill in the blanks. There’s five missed calls and a dozen texts from Hyunjin asking for your whereabouts, none of which you bother to read. Consequences are the last thing on your mind. Right now, it’s about leaving the girl beside you for good, and that means driving her home.

To be clear, you’re taking her back home—to her place, not yours. Your apartment is the last thing on the list you want ruined tonight as well.

Even after everything, she’s still not satisfied. She unbuckles her seatbelt, activating the ceaseless alarm that assaults your ears. You’re still a fair distance away, and the trains have stopped operating hours ago. You really had no other choice but to drive her.

“Hey. Put your seatbelt on,” you blurt out at the sound of the harness clicking, only shooting a brief glimpse toward her before returning your focus on the road ahead. “What are you—”

She’s back to her old ways. Slithering across the center console and over the gear stick, resting her head on your lap. Feeling extra touchy-feely, her hands rub along the fabric of your jeans, admiring your growing bulge poking through. Yeojin has no regard for personal space; never has, never will.

It comes as no surprise that you struggle to breathe, let alone drive in a straight line. Fortunately, you’re driving along an empty road to crash into anything other than maybe a guardrail or a lamp post. 

“Christ—” You mutter, shifting your lap around to cramp Yeojin, but she follows your path close behind, causing you even more discomfort. “Stop it, Yeojin—”

To your annoyance, she’s unbuckling your pants, sliding them down along with your boxers. With no care or consideration, she runs her tongue across your stiff length, up to your tip. Her hand grips you, pumping you hard, building immeasurable pleasure in your loins. Cramped inside a moving vehicle, getting pleasured in near darkness with a rebellious girl thinking she’s doing you a favor—you’re once again regretting every decision that has lead you to this miserable situation. 

You feel yourself getting dizzy in real time. You can only hold back for so long before you eventually crumble, like you always have. When it comes to Yeojin, she gets what she wants, always at your expense.

“Keep driving,” she commands, licking circles around your tip, against your best wishes. She sounds like she has complete authority over you, really pushing her assertiveness at the worst moment imaginable. Tonight has given you plenty of losses, far too many to count—you won’t let her win another one. 

Your attempt at grabbing her hair comes off as a light head pat, a complement for how good she is with her mouth. Even if that was the intent, she’s still gonna blow you inside this car. Idle minds are the devil’s workshop, and she’s being puppeteered by lust every time you share a ride. No matter the distance or time taken, she’s always getting through your pants, ensuring no journey is complete without leaving the vehicle a dire mess.

If she keeps this up—and she will—she won’t be only one trying to roll on top of you.

Pulling over the side of the road, Yeojin realizes you’ve stopped driving. Opening the door, you lift yourself off the driver’s seat and step outside, leaving her to bounce her head against the warm leather. Taking all the fresh, cool air in, you finally feel relaxed. You hadn’t given yourself a moment to breathe: after your little escapde in the cafe restroom, you were sprinting back to the parking lot, maintaining a low cover, and speeding through the city. The last few hours have been a whirlwind of highs and lows, none of it really sinking in—unless you were to indulge in a few drinks. And it’s still not over—not until you finally bring Yeojin home. 

Based on how obstinate she has been, still laying down on the driver’s seat, she doesn’t want this night to end.

“Get off,” you shout at her, tone grating and sharp. You’re just about to call it quits. If you weren’t so morally conscious, you would have left her behind already.

“Get off? That’s what I was trying to do,” she remarks, sarcastic and facetious. Rolling over to her stomach, swinging her legs back and forth, she’s looking silly, not even trying to hide her smirk. getting a kick out of teasing you. 

You’re deeply caught up in your impatience and frustration to notice she’s baited you into sounding lewd. “Fuck off. After this, we’re done. So fucking done.”

“Are we? That didn’t seem like it when you were fucking me from behind—”

“Get back in the passenger seat,” you interrupt her, having walked from the middle of the highway to the car in an instant, whipping out a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment. You didn’t need to say a word for her to understand the potential threat and subsequently comply. To make sure she doesn’t wrestle control away from you, you ensure it stays of her reach for the rest of the trip.

And thankfully, she doesn’t bother harassing you even once. The idea doesn’t even come to mind. She sits still, as a good girl should.

Fortunately, you were only less than ten minutes away from her house. If the city was quiet, the suburban village where she lives is dead silent. Save for a few streetlights, it appears as though no one else resides here—or are on vacation elsewhere. Most times you’ve spent together, it’s been in the comfort of your apartment.

Hovering over Yeojin’s side, you swing the passenger door open. Even though it’s a long shot, you’re expecting her to get out. The moment she does, your foot will be right on the gas pedal, leaving her behind once and forall. Unsurprisingly, she stares at you instead, seemingly anticipating something—perhaps a kiss, an embrace, a fond farewell.

She gets none of that. You even unbuckle her seatbelt for good measure, telling a lot without saying anything at all.

Yeojin unbuckles your seatbelt, breaking the tension. Unusually, you don’t move a muscle, not slapping her hand away, not even when her finger trails down your hand, reaching for your pants once again. It’s clear she’s bothered by how you’ve left her stockings back at the cafe, leaving her in nothing but an oversized sweater. She’s moving in the opposite direction, shifting past the center console and onto your lap. You freely welcome her—all 4’11 inches of her—into your arms.

Kissing you on the lips, Yeojin slips her hand between your cheeks, her hands sinking down your body and to your pants, sliding them down along with your boxers. The entire time, you’ve left your clothes unbuttoned and readily accessible for her to reach. Gently smiling through the smooch, she rubs her nose against yours, softly giggling, as if to say she’s known about your little secret.

But what’s there to really say?

Effortlessly falling between the cracks, an airy moan departs your lips as Yeojin fills herself with your shaft. Firmly stuck in place with her body pressed all over you, your hands take lease of her clothed back, tired of feeling its wooly fabric. Lifting up her sweater over her head to be tossed aside right after, Yeojin is finally reduced to nothing. 

You gaze down at her bare figure, awestruck. In return, she unbuttons down your shirt, exposing some of your skin, pecking down to your neck and your chest. Her little kisses leave you lightheaded, caressing her short hair in appreciation.

You’re overstaying your welcome; you should be lone gone by now. You are, in fact—just not the way you anticipated.

Propping her over your lap, your relationship with Yeojin works best when your hearts are pounding wildly, screaming each other’s name like it’s the most important thing in the world. Nothing else but the sex matters, like right now. No wonder she often has to coax you into getting reckless, otherwise your conversations would only revolve around constant petty arguments with no clear resolution. It’s because of your how well your bodies complement one another that you’re still tolerating her presence in your lives. 

All it takes is one look at her, riding you like her life depends on it, her cunt effortlessly bouncing on your cock, basking in the sensation of getting impaled over and over again. She’s kissing all over your face, biting on your ear, rocking you like she wants to sweep you off your feet. And it leaves you utterly speechless every single time.

“God—please—give it all to me—fuck me like you mean it—”

And you’re right there with her, matching her pace with every upward stroke. You especially love holding Yeojin like this, cradled in your arms, forcing every inch of your cock deep into her wet pussy, drawing these little whimpers out from her puckery lips. The more she keeps talking—pleading—the greater your motivation. 

Though it overwhelms you—the tensing, the pulsing, the heat—you keep going. Her cunt feels so incredible, you only wished it was on a woman that had a better personality, one that wasn’t making you regret your existence. But you don’t care about that—not when you’re taking control, losing grip to your lust and wanting to overpower her.

It hurts all the more when she sounds perfect, especially when you spin her around and pin her against the steering wheel. Watching her back arch, her ass ripple with each stroke, seemingly trying to outyell the car horn, putting you both on neighborhood watch for noise complaint. Not that there’s anyone around to wake up and alert the authorities when looking at your surroundings, but the desire for shameless attention will always arouse Yeojin. 

You’re the only one who enables this kind of behavior, but you never realized that. That, or she’s looks too good to notice.

You can only focus on reaching that climax again, hammering away at her cunt, watching her shimmy her hips as she grips the steering column, blanketing every lewd sound and profanity with a blast of the klaxon. It’s as if you’re demanding her to scream your name, to proclaim to everyone that she’s yours and yours alone.

“Cum,” you tell her. An instruction to be met. A demand. “Cum all over this fucking cock, slut.”

The rapid change in intensity leaves her in an uncontrollable daze, setting her on fire. Throwing her head back, her body violently quivering in your grasp, she keens. She can’t take it any longer getting used so mercilessly, even when she wants more. “Gonna cum—oh God—so so fucking wet, ah—”

She continues to bounce relentlessly even as the pleasure rips her in half. Of course Yeojin doesn’t give two shits about messing up your carpets; it’s a given that she’ll make you pay for a fresh pair every time you have sex in the car. She cums—and she cums hard. Her slick juices puddle up on your lap, sticking on your skin, splattering on the edge of the leather seat, all while releasing a weak, airy moan that cracks her voice as a result of all that shouting and moaning. 

It’s enough to push you over the edge. The wetness, the smooth noise of skin slapping skin interspliced with her cries of pleasure. Nothing this pornographic should sound like music, but it does.

Yeojin whines a passionate cry when it hits—that rush of cum that fills her womb. Every little drop, you pour onto her needy, aching core. She’s knocked the wind from your sails; you can only utter a hoarse groan of relief, in contrast to the relentless earsplitting noises that have pervaded your ears for the longest time. 

You don’t get the opportunity to take one final look at your handiwork. As soon as the climax ends, the crash follows immediately after, sending your head reeling. Yeojin takes this opportunity to pick her sweater off the carpet floor and put it back on. Hobbling out the passenger door, she leaves you slumped back in the drivers’ seat.

Only now do you realize that her side of the door has been open the entire time.

“It’s been fun,” Yeojin says, evaluating herself at the side-view mirror to ensure she’s not a complete mess. Even though she looksfar beyond saving given how grimy her appearance is. Frazzled hair, soiled sweater drenched in sweat and cum—not to mention she has nothing but her platforms to make up her lower half. Her underwear is lost somewhere beneath the car seats, likely as a memento. “You know, I got a whole boyfriend to go home to and what not—”

“Surely he isn’t waiting for you inside that house, right?” you ask, puzzled by the sudden care for her actual lover. “I mean, I did send him that message—”

“I know you didn’t.” Yeojin grins widely at your response, having seen through the bluff. You never sent anything. It’s a secret worth keeping for yourself. “He’s on vacation, by the way. Thanks for giving me the best night I’ve had in forever.”

“Yeah, and thanks for ruining what was already a terrible one,” you reply, refusing to leave without delivering one last character breaking blow. 

She laughs while walking backwards toward her house, smiling wide. “No problem. Talk to you later?”

Closing the passenger door and starting the engine, you shout back, “Never. Not in a million years.”

“Of course.” Yeojin opens the front door to her house, stepping inside, hiding herself behind the panel except her pretty face. “You know where to find me. Call me anytime.”

—————

(A/N: Well this was unfortunate timing in the worst way imaginable lmao. That's what happens when you get lazy with editing.

Thank you for the commission! I would also like to thank you for giving me carte blanche; first time writing someone Loona and Yeojin has always the boldest one despite being the maknae. Also gonna give this space to link fae's Yeojin fic that she posted earlier for anyone interested in a froggy double feature. Madlad's doing Kinkvember a month after debut, that's insane. Contract news broke out right as I was in the middle of editing and the power went down lmao. Anyway, finals is approaching, so I want to get it sorted before locking in for the final few weeks of the year. Thank you for reading!)

[theconstantsidekick]

Everybody Loves A Clown

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x BestFriend!Reader

Genre: fluff covered angst

Summary: John died a week ago, and Dean's been weird. Sam's been up his ass about it but it finally comes to a head when Y/n decides to talk to him about the whole thing.

a/n: it has an open ending but i can write more if y'all eat this up

Warnings: Smoking, mentions of smoking, romanticisation of smoking, a lot of that yes, sorry. Don't smoke kids

“You were right,” Sam admits.

“About what?” Dean asks from where he stands over the Impala, wrench in hand.

“About me and Dad,” Sam answers with red eyes and a crack in his voice. “I’m sorry that the last time I was with him I tried to pick a fight. I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry with him. I mean, for all I know he died thinking that I hate him.” He pauses. “So, you’re right. What I’m doing right now, it’s too little… It’s too late.” His lips tremble. There’s a self-deprecating smile on his lips as he continues, “I miss him, man. And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not all-right. Not at all.” There’s tears in his eyes now as he stares directly at Dean. “But neither are you. That much I know.” He waits for a second, seeing if Dean might answer, and still knowing that he won’t. “I’ll let you get back to work.” With that he walks off.

Dean doesn’t know what to… do.

He fidgets.

He paces and fidgets.

He clenches his jaw hard enough for it to hurt and then he paces and fidgets some more. 

Until his eyes fall on her.

“The fuck do you want?” He asks her.

In turn for his crude tone and cruder words, he is given half a smile. “Nothing,” she tells him.

“Then what the hell are you doin’ here?” He bites back. 

To her credit, she doesn’t flinch away at his harshness. No, she just smiles wider. 

She gets to her feet from where she was sitting on the steps of the shed behind them and walks over to Dean. She pulls something out of her pocket as she asks, “Asking, if you want a cigarette?”

The lack of pretence throws Dean off completely. “What?” is all that he can bring himself to say.

She shrugs, shaking the pack of menthols in her hands. “You want one?”

Dean, again, is met with the curiously unsolvable puzzle that is Y/N and left struck. “I didn’t know you smoked?” It’s a stupid thing to say, all things considered. But the fact that the answer is stupider consoles him some.

“I don’t!” she exclaims, a little too defensive to be God's honest truth. She pulls one cigarette out of the box. “Do you want one or not?” She throws the box at him. 

Dean catches it on reflex. 

“Fuckin’ menthols,” Dean curses looking at the box, but pulls one out for himself all the same. 

“Might make your swimmers less effective,” she says a little too easily as she lights his cigarette, “but they’re a certified cure to sadness.” She smiles, lighting her own. And standing this close, with the flame from the lighter painting her all shades of yellow, Dean has to physically pull himself away. He has to will himself to take a step back and catch his breath. He gulps and takes a drag. He is clenching his jaw again.

“You should mind what you’re sayin’ while lighting a guy’s cigarette. Talking about my ‘swimmers’ when you’re an inch away from my face?” He shakes his head. “Another guy might take it the wrong way.”

“Or the right way,” she mutters, so jumbled and wrong, Dean’s not even sure he heard it correctly.

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she dismisses him off handedly, a little too easily. 

He decides to let it pass, because again, he’s not sure he heard it right. And if he did, he’s not sure he has the mental wherewithal to be able to deal with that implication. So, he lets it pass. 

Besides, she doesn’t really give him any other option. “You remember how Sam was when Jess died last year?”

“It was last fucking year, yes! ‘Course I remember it,” Dean throws back, exhaling smoke out as he speaks.

She nods, “And?”

He knows what she’s getting at. “Sam was a mess,” he answers the unasked question. “I’m not like that.”

“That’s precisely the point I’m trying to make,” she states, taking a drag. “Not the second half, the first. Sam deals with emotions very openly. He… He lets himself fall apart and crumble. That’s what he’s gonna do now. He’s gonna get sad and he’s going to try and do things that John would have wanted him to do when he was alive. He is going to feel guilty and he is going to be a mess… because he deals with death, like he deals with everything else. He’s not emotionally constipated like you are. He’s normal…” She shakes her head slowly from side to side, reconsidering her words. “Or well, as normal as anyone in this line of work can be.”

Dean takes another puff. “Well, does he have to drag me into it?”

“Yes!” She answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

And it fucking isn’t. “Why?!”

“Because he isn’t used to this.”

“What? Death? We just established that—”

She shakes her head at him like he’s being difficult for the sake of it… Maybe he is, but it’s not fair for her to be able to read him that easily. She cuts him off then, with, “No. He’s not used to you being like this.” And the words hit him hard. She must see it too because then she pauses and brings the cigarette to her lips and takes a long drag. “He’s used to the flirty, cocky Dean, who’s an overall dickhead.” When she exhales the smoke, it’s thick and white. Don’t smoke, my ass, Dean thinks to himself. “He’s going to ask you if you need something. He’s going to try to make you feel better and he’s going to keep checking up on you, because he has never seen you—his big brother—bereft before.”

And fuck, if she isn’t talking complete and utter sense. 

He runs a tired hand over his face, cigarette clipped between the index and the middle finger. “And what, you have?”

He’s not very good at people assessing him and his brother emotionally so accurately, okay? He needs to retaliate.

“No,” she replies easily with a smile. “When your mom passed away you were too young, and with everything that followed, I’m not even sure you had the opportunity to deal with it. This might as well be your first time dealing with loss.”

He clicks his tongue and raises his brows briefly in semi-agreement. And having been assess accurately once again, “Well, isn’t that just fucked?”

She nods. “It is.” She brings the cigarette to her lips. “But at least you’ve got me.”

He laughs. 

It’s kind of cruel that he does and he knows it.

But he laughs, because what the fucking hell?

And again, he’s fully aware of his cruelty in this moment and ready for the repercussions. 

What he isn’t ready for is to look at her and see her wearing a smile instead of a hurt look on her face.

“You think you’re gonna save me, sweetheart?” He retorts, adding to his asshole-ry.

She shrugs. “I don’t think I’m meant to save you, Dean,” she says, all too politely while taking a puff from the cigarette. “I just meant…” she looks at him. “I know what you’re going through.”

“No, you fucking don’t.” His words are harsh and cold and painful and mean.

You’ll break her, he thinks. You’ll break her and it’ll hurt worse than anything ever could.

But she doesn’t seem to be breaking. “Your dad died ‘cause of a demon and you feel responsible for it—”

“I don’t feel responsible for it, I am responsible for it. He died to save my life. It was supposed to be me who you salt and burned, not him! It was me who was supposed to be dead, not him!” And he’ll carry that weight with him for the rest of his fucking life. “You have no fucking idea what I’m going through.”

Her eyes are locked to his as she counters without hesitation. “My brother died because of a demon and I feel responsible for it.”

Dean can do nothing but close his eyes and yell out in frustration, “It’s not the same!”

“Isn’t it?” she bites back, standing straight and unmoving in the face of Dean’s rage. She doesn’t let him answer. “It was supposed to be my job. I was supposed to be the one who got possessed by a demon and driven around like a meat-suit. I was supposed to be the one who died in a freakin’ basement like a rat. It was my job, Dean. I was the first call, the second and the third… But I just decided to ignore it. But he didn’t… ‘Cause he’s nicer than I am…” She winces, looking away. She looks hurt for the first time since they began this conversation. And it seems she’d done it to herself. Because then she corrects, “Was nicer…” She takes another drag from her cigarette. “So, fuck you. But I know what you’re going through.”

He bites his lips.

Then he lets his head fall.

Because as much as he’d like to fight her on this, he can’t. 

She’s right… as usual.

He doesn’t know what to say to any of that so he stays quiet. Moreover, he thinks he’s kinda supposed to. Because she doesn’t swear often, even less so at him. So yeah, zipping it might be the right call here.

She takes charge then, as he begins pacing and smoking once more. “This might be your first go around at grief. Sam’s second. But, for once, I’m the season player.” 

When he turns to look at her, she’s smiling.

“Does that mean you’re gonna keep fucking smiling at me like that?” He retaliates, again. He’s already told you the logic behind that one.

“Sorry,” she holds up her hands in surrender. “I don’t mean to. I’m not smiling at you—not really.” She smiles again. “It’s just… It’s just that look on your face. I’ve seen it before.”

“I thought we just established you’ve never seen me like this before?”

“No, not on you,” she clarifies.

“Then?”

“In the mirror,” she tells him honestly. “Every morning for the last three years.”

Fuck him. Fuck this. And fuck everything.

A part of him, a selfless and kind part of him wishes she didn’t get him, wishes she’d rather be hurt at his words than look at him with so much understanding.

But another part of him, the selfish and unkind part of him, is comforted by the fact that at least someone does, in fact, get him. Even more so, he’s comforted by the fact that it’s her.

“So, take it from someone with experience,” she begins then, breaking him out of his mind numbing miserable thoughts. “You’re gonna wanna explode. You’re gonna wanna break something.”

“You got a cure for that, oh experienced one?”

She smiles again. “Yeah, break it.”

“What??”

She shrugs all too easily, taking another drag. “If you can find something you can break, that won’t hurt anyone, that you could ideally fix, then yeah! Break it.”

He stops pacing to look at her and cocks her head. “Will it make me feel better?” He is genuinely curious.

She outright laughs at him then, “No!” She brings her foot up and butt the cigarette on the back of her boot, sending embers falling to the ground like fireworks. “Nothing ever will…” She looks back at him, still smiling, “But it'll help.”

Dean sighs. 

He nods.

And then he throws the cigarette to the ground, steps on it and then walks over to the side. He picks up a crowbar, and then he walks back to the Impala. He grips the crowbar tighter and then he smashes the window. 

Then he starts slamming it into the trunk, over and over and over and over again. It clatters to the ground. 

He keeps at it till there’s a hole in the metal near as big as the one in his heart. 

And when he’s done, he lets the crowbar fall to the ground and pulls the packet of smokes out of his pocket. He grabs a cigarette and places it right between his lips. When he looks up, she’s close to him again, lighter in hand.

She looks at him and he looks at her.

Then she lights his cigarette. “How’d it feel?”

“It didn’t make me feel any better,” he replies, handing her the packet back to her when she smiles at him. “But it helped.”

She nods, and takes the entire packet to her lips, with her teeth she pulls one cigarette out and then lights it, pocketing the packet and lighter in one go. “Look, I know you… You don’t know how to deal with this, and as much as I want to, I can’t really help you with it either but unlike me, Sam’s not gonna get it.”

“I know,” he tells her. Because he knows that his brother means well, but he has a tendency of being too in your face about it. 

She hums in agreement, as if hearing her thoughts. And fuck, if he’s to go by her track record, maybe she can. “You’re gonna wanna get mad, go crazy and lash out. So… I’m suggesting that you do that with me, instead of him.” Her eyes are too fucking kind as she adds, “If you want to get mad, go crazy and lash out—lash out at me, get mad at me.”

Dean can’t fucking breathe.

“Why?” he asks.

“‘Cause he’s grieving too.”

“That the only reason?” he asks, hoping for… well, you know what he’s hoping for. You’re his inner monologue.

She tilts her head with a sweet smile. “You gotta mind what you’re saying, Winchester. Being emotionally vulnerable when you’re an inch away from my face? Another woman might take it the wrong way.”

He can’t help himself.

He snorts.

“Or the right way,” he says then with a smile of his own. 

And fuck it all, her face turns red at the realisation that he’d heard her. 

He loves it so fucking much that he’s not even bummed about her taking a step away from him.

“Asshole,” she curses him, but her heart’s not in it.

“I’ve got one condition though,” he says and watches confusion break onto her face. “For lashing out at you instead of Sam.”

She shakes her head fondly, at his wording. “What is it?”

“You promise to do the same.” It’s the kindest thing he can offer her. His misery, in exchange for hers.

She chuckles at that. Morbid as it may be, their sense of humor was always on par with each other. “Sure,” she says. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

He raises his hand, cigarette still wedged between his fingers, “Shake on it?”

Apparently, that’s the wrong thing to say ‘cause then she makes a disgusted face like the hand he’s offered is covered in snot. 

Slapping it away, she throws the smoke in her hands away and she steps closer. And then hugs him. 

The action catches Dean off-guard. 

It takes a second for his brain and his heart to have a meeting and catch up with each other. And then finally his brain sends the signal out for his to hands drop the cigarette and wrap around her. 

Probably encouraged by him hugging her back, her grip on him tightens. And fuck if that doesn’t thaw Dean’s cold, broken, blackened heart. He happily does the same, snuggling his face into her neck and breathing her in.

They stay like that for a bit, until Dean realises she’s waiting on him, letting him have his fill.

Reluctantly, eventually, Dean lets her go. 

When he does, if she can spot his misty eyes, she doesn’t mention it. 

Instead she says, “Now, hand me the crowbar.”

“Huh?”

“What, you think I don’t wanna break shit?”

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

(Dark!) Luke Castellan HC's - Dating

Pairing: Dark Luke Castellan x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female reader

WARNINGS: Toxic Relationship.

Please, reblog and give me feedback.

AN: I'm really on a dangerous lack of drafts to publish 😭 so this is the best I have for you guys, hope you like it!

–

Luke is a golden boy at the Half-Blood Camp. A wise camp counselor, a loyal friend and a fierce warrior. He’s nothing short of perfect, no one being able to call out any flaw about the curly-haired boy. 

Him being so perfect has you doubting yourself. Perhaps you’re being too delusional, your brain over-analysing everything in a self-sabotage attempt.

Maybe you’re the one who has issues. But no matter how much you try to reason with yourself, the bad feeling still lingers around - worsening every day you spend in Luke’s company.

Luke isn’t toxic. Then why do his actions screen overprotective boyfriend? The suffocating way he hovers over your shoulder, insisting on tagging along whenever you go somewhere. Doesn’t matter if you’re going to the bathroom, he’ll say he’ll wait outside for you. 

Wants you to accompany him as he performs his counselor duties around the camp, even if it means you being bored while he helps the campers. Your siblings sometimes joke that you and Luke seem attached by the hip but the fact that you see less and less of them takes away all humor. 

Luke isn’t toxic. Then why are you suddenly not allowed to practice with any combat tools? Luke vehemently argues that you’re too clumsy, too much of an airhead to be touching swords.

And for the first time in your life, you resent being daughter of Aphrodite as Luke fixes you a kiss on your forehead, cooing that he’ll protect you. 

Luke isn’t toxic. Then why does he never take you seriously enough?  Everything you say is immediately refuted, words manipulated into denying your requests.

You want to go to a party? You can’t because Luke wants to have a date night instead.

You’d like to participate in the Catch the Flag game? No will do because your boyfriend thinks you’re too fragile for that.

You try to become a camp counselor? Aw, but Luke thinks that you’re not the most appropriate person for that. 

Luke isn’t toxic. Then do you feel so trapped with him? It’s like you’re slowly losing all your autonomy, submitting to Luke’s demands.

Upon a deeper reflection, you realize that Luke is the one that takes the decisions of your life. And the worst is that you have no courage to stand up against him.

Your boyfriend has a special way of making you feel little, as if you’re the one who is wrong. That you can’t seem to think properly so he takes over the reign - to help you, of course. 

[rindreamery]

the apartment we won't share.

it just wasn't meant to be— a bitter sentiment you and itoshi rin had agreed on. you two deserved better, wanted better, but it doesn't change the fact that you two will always love each other. you'll stay stuck, thinking of him, in an apartment you will never share.

itoshi rin x reader - angst, no comfort - w.c. 2k

“it gets better with time,” you always tell yourself.

but the world continues to move around you, and you still feel like you’re frozen in time. your mind is trapped in its own prison— drifting off to a place you can never return to, dreaming of a time when you had everything you wanted. 

you feel like you’re stuck in an empty apartment in winter. the walls are white and barren, and the world outside is covered in a blanket of snow, and it’s like you’re staring at a blank slate. the wooden floors are aging terribly, cracking and lifting, but that doesn’t bother you. it doesn’t make you like it any less. you could always repair it, or maybe you could simply throw a rug over it and pretend that everything was okay. 

it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours, and you guys were going to fix it together. 

it was a blank slate filled with dreams and promises about the future— dreaming of what kind of people you two would turn into, dreaming of what it would look like when it was no longer winter. imagining, as you stared out the window, what the world outside would look like as the snow faded away into a new season, into something else. would the trees outside bloom into cherry blossoms? or would they bloom into peach blossoms? 

“i think they’ll be apple blossoms,” rin had answered, then. “what do you think?”

“that wasn’t even one of the options,” you frowned at him, playfully nudging his side. he frowned back at you, staring at one another— but neither of you could fight the urge to smile. “to answer your question, though, i think it’ll be peach.”

the trees outside were now starting to bloom. the petals were light pink with a cleft on the tip, they looked like hearts, a singular flower on each stem, smelling faintly of fresh sap and honey. the sweet scent wafts into the open window, but you feel anything but. bitterly, you realize: you were both wrong. it was a cherry blossom tree, blooming softly against the fresh green of the grass around it, the remnants of winter having melted away into a fresh spring. 

the world is renewing itself; a rebirth. and it makes you feel somewhat spiteful, it makes you feel as if you’re falling behind. as if the world isn’t giving you enough time to grieve what you’ve lost. and then you start to wonder, it makes you start to think of him again, and you lose all your progress. 

you think of him because you know rin. he overthinks, gets lost in his thoughts, as often as you do. so, does he feel the same way, right now? is he thinking of you too? does he miss you as much as you miss him? but you stop yourself— it’s unhealthy. 

you just find it funny, how time works— how, one day, you could go from planning your future around one another, together. and then, the next, he’s gone and you’re alone. you’re left to sit by yourself in the empty living room, boxes of furniture remaining unopened around you, because they were things you both had decided on. things you both wanted. you couldn’t bring yourself to open them.

and then a flash of green catches your eyes from your peripheral, sitting on top of a box.

“i think this would look cute,” you had tugged at his hand, grabbing his attention, to show a potted cactus. it was short, stubby, in its early stages of maturing. it was perfect. “i wanna watch it grow by our window.”

“yeah,” your eyes remained fixated on the cactus, but his eyes had remained on you. you didn’t see the small smile on his lips, the look of love swirling in his eyes, unconditional then. “let’s watch it grow, together.”

the cactus never really grew, you realize. 

it’s wilting, leaning against its pot for support, the once-vibrant green now fading into a muddier green. it was never placed on the windowsill, always tucked away in a dark corner of the room. stunted by the neglect as you had both grown busy, as you had started to drift away.

time heals, people had always said to you, but you now know that time also has the power to tear things apart.

it's a victim to time. (and maybe, you think to yourself, you were too.)

you’re staring at it until your eyes begin to blur, and then you simply blink away the haziness. you turn your head away, trying to suppress the memories, the questions. willing the what-ifs that lingered in the corner of your mind to go away. but it doesn’t work, and the thoughts keep pushing and pushing, until it's at the forefront of your mind. 

what if i hadn't let him go? what if i asked him to stay? what if we fought harder? what if we had become better for each other?  your mind keeps asking all these questions, but you have no answers. what would this apartment look like right now?

happier— that, you know that answer to.

as you sit on the floor, you think of how it used to be, of what the two of you used to be— images of happy smiles and secret, shared moments float around somewhere in your thoughts. the echoes of soft laughter still bounces around the walls, sometimes, but it's no longer from you. just from a hallucination of a distant version of yourself, dancing around the room. an unfamiliar feeling bubbles in your heart. it feels weird to miss him, but it feels even weirder to miss yourself. is that even possible?

you begin to wonder where it all went wrong. and your mind starts to snowball.

truthfully, you couldn’t pinpoint it, the moment when you realized he was slipping through your fingers— or was it you? or was it neither? maybe just the space between two of you, growing with each day, until the two of you could no longer get to one another. until neither of you could reach each other’s hearts. to feel so distant, with a man you loved and lived with, was a different type of loneliness.

this room, you realize as you sit in the center of it all, has always felt so much larger without him. 

“how many kids do you want?” you were both lying on the floor, staring at the empty ceiling. your legs were intertwined, your head placed on his chest, listening to the constant thrum of his heart. you felt him hum, at your words. “do you even want kids?”

“i don’t care, honestly.” his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “as long as it’s with you, i’m happy with whatever.”

“gross, who even are you? this is not the rin i know.” you joked, and you felt him pinch your side. “i’m just kidding… me too, though.”

the life you imagined sharing with rin, the plans you both made— all of it fades into a hazy, but somehow vivid, dream. you always find yourself wanting to slip into it, to fantasize and live in it for one day longer, to remember how it felt. but you remind yourself: there’s a reason why it ended.

you both deserved more— more than whatever the two of you could provide. 

“i’m sorry,” you remember hearing rin’s distant voice through the phone. “i know i said i’d be able to make it back for christmas, i just— i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay,” you stood there, phone pressed to your ear, as you stared out the window as the blizzard covered the world in snow. you felt cold, despite the walls surrounding you, bracing you from the harsh winds. you felt cold but you understood why, all too well. “most of the planes wouldn’t even land in this weather anyways. besides, i was supposed to go with you, but i couldn't.”

you knew what dating someone like him meant. you knew it would mean having to spend time away from him, thousands of miles between you, and infrequent phone calls. you knew— but you didn’t want to get used to it. you didn’t want to know what it felt like to be constantly disappointed, to sit by your phone as you sat through the radio silence. to feel guilty everytime you wanted more from him.

you just wanted him there. (but you knew that was too much to ask for.)

“i still wish i was there with you,” he had said after a beat of silence, and his voice was softer. “i miss you.”

“me too,” and maybe in a sick moment of clarity, you realized he deserved someone who didn’t need him; not as much as you did. i wish you were here too, but you never said it.

you both deserved more— something the two of you would never be able to give to one another. 

what if i had tried? another question, straggling after the torrent of many others you had asked yourself.

but you shake your head, because you know the answer. trying wouldn't have fixed anything.

you still wished it was different. words would never be able to explain how you feel; the deep stinging in your heart, the tugs at your heartstring, the feeling of pain that shoots through your fingers when you think too deeply of him. words would never be able to explain how much you wish that it didn’t have to be like this. 

you think that maybe the weight of the future was too heavy for the both of you, maybe you two just weren’t ready for whatever you had dreamed of. rin, driven by his ambition, his thirst for greatness, and you—stuck between wanting him to be everything he dreamed of but also wanting to be the one he chose. 

you didn't want him to choose, so you chose for him.

it was at the peak of winter when it all fell apart in your hands. “i think… i think it’s been a long time coming, honestly.” you had laughed bitterly, you laughed even though your heart felt like it was being ripped into two. your voice was soft and broken, like you were already grieving, and the raging blizzard outside threatened to drown you out. “i just want you to be happy. but, i want me to be happy too.”

you both stand in the middle of the room, still as unfurnished as when you had both bought it.

“i’m sorry,” was all rin could say. but he couldn’t even look at you. his fingers were intertwined with yours, hands shaking as he held onto you, but he couldn’t meet your eyes. “i’m sorry i couldn’t be enough for you.”

you couldn't look at him either.

you stared out, blinking away the tears that pooled in your eyes. you wanted to speak, you wanted to tell him that it wasn’t just him— but the words all felt like they were stuck in your throat. constantly gulping back the barrage of tears, soothing yourself, too afraid to cry in front of him. 

afraid that if you did, he would want to take it all back. to take you back. to hold you in his arms and tell you that this was a mistake. 

and that you would cave, and repeat the cycle.

you knew, then, that love wasn’t enough to hold you both together— not when you were both chasing different versions of happiness for one another.

maybe, your dreams had never aligned to begin with.

but that’s what made it hurt more. the fact that you could never truly hate him for leaving like he did, because you did too. you could never hate him for wanting better, for reaching for something more than what you could give him. because you wanted it too. maybe not the same dreams, but you wanted to be someone who could stand beside him, strong enough to handle everything he was destined for. you wanted to be the one to hold him when things got tough. but you couldn’t pretend to be that somebody for him. 

so you let go.

not because you stopped loving him, but because you loved him enough to let him go. you still love him, and maybe always will, even as you learn to live without him. you'll always think of him when the snow first comes around, and when the trees start to bloom. it’s a kind of love that doesn’t fade, the kind that sticks with you forever, no matter how much you wish it would. 

the world continues to move around you, as it always does, indifferent to the memories you carry. maybe you’ll always wonder what could have been, dream of an apartment you’ll never share, for the future that was never for you two to have. 

the world will continue to move, and you know that, eventually, you will too.

note. i was listening to "the apartment we won't share" and "seasons" non-stop while writing this. i just needed to write something sad LMFAO

© rindreamery, 2024

tags. @choccorin @mininji

[back2bluesidex]

Slide - The Vacation - MYG

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader 

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?

Word count: 1.6k

Summary: 

"I can see the pain in your eyes I don't wanna say that I'm God, but I'll take you to heaven if you die" 

Alternatively, 

Yoongi finally finds an answer to all of his questions.

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Warnings: Angst, angst and angst

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon (for early access)

Taglist requests are closed for now

A/N: This chapter has both readers and Yoongi's pov.

Read the next chapter

“I want to try being with you. If you’d let me.” Yoongi had said, just less than an hour ago, standing at your dining place. 

If you have ever thought you would be squealing like a schoolgirl when he mistakenly professes his love for you - then you had been wrong. Because those words of his - rang hollow. 

Those words of his had no promise, no meaning, only a tone of experiment - or maybe less than that. 

Your tears have dried up. You have cried much more in the span of a year than you ever had in these twenty eight years of life. 

So you don’t cry. 

Even when you stare at your bathroom mirror, without the sign of another life springing into you - you don’t cry. 

Even when the metallic smell of your own blood-soaked sheets dances around your senses - you don’t cry. 

Even when Yoongi’s voice saying he doesn’t know what he feels for you rings loudly in your head - you don’t cry. 

The woman who is standing at the place of your reflection is you - but emptier. 

Now, truly, you have nothing left in yourself. 

The baby is gone, Yoongi is gone, you - yourself - are gone. 

When Yoongi broke and scattered the broken pieces all over your sanity, you picked those up, put them up in a stack. 

Now that you are at the same place, who is going to do that for you? 

No one? 

Yourself. 

So you decide, you need a vacation. 

Attachment and Expectations are two human behaviors that you have always dreaded. 

You have purposefully stayed away from everyone, whoever you thought would get you attached. And you have always expected the least positive outcome whenever it comes to human connections. 

At the beginning, Yoongi was no exception. 

You admired him but never stepped past the professional boundaries in fear of getting attached, until he broke the norms. 

Even when you realized you fell in love, you expected nothing more than the warmth of his body. But your resolve weakened whenever he looked at you for a little longer than necessary, whenever he shared tales about Holly, whenever he treated you to a meal. 

Now that you are determined to heal yourself - you realize this is the root of the problem. 

You are attached to Yoongi and you have expected Yoongi to have a similar feeling towards you. 

Wrong. So wrong. 

You need to break free. 

So, you try to save what’s left of your sanity and avoid looking at Yoongi as he and Namjoon sit right across from you in the same meeting room where everything went south a month and half ago. 

Your feet bounce under the table, your breath shortens under Namjoon’s scrutinizing eyes. 

“Y/N, tell us what’s wrong? Why suddenly - I mean, I am not saying no your application but you have hardly ever been to such a long holiday? And if I am being honest, then you look quite unwell. Is there something we should know?” Namjoon is concerned, you know that. You are even grateful but you have no energy to answer him, no energy to lie anymore. 

You have no will to spend another minute inside the same room as Yoongi - because no matter what - you love him and you want him to wrap his hands around you and let you cry in his embrace. 

You want him to mourn with you. 

You want him to mourn for you. 

“I was pregnant. I lost the baby two nights ago. I am neither mentally nor physically fit to work for now. Besides, I don’t have any important projects going on.” you reply flatly. 

Saying these words out loud, makes things even more real. 

Pain crawls back inside your heart and fills your eyes to the brim. 

Namjoon has gone quiet. 

Yoongi has always been silent. 

“O-oh.. I- I didn’t know. I’m sorry. It must be tough, Y/N. Please take care of yourself.” Namjoon fumbles with words, a rare sight. 

Funny how your misery has rendered the smart ones dumb. 

He approves your leave in his laptop as you raise your feet to leave. 

“Are you going alone?” His voice interrupts your action. 

Yoongi doesn’t look at you, he stares blankly at the table. 

“Yes.” you reply.

“Stay safe.” he adds. 

And you want nothing more than to scream at him, to tell him that he fucked you up. But in reality you know he is troubled too - that it’s your fault as much as it's his.  

“Sure.” you mutter, as you quietly slip out of the room. 

Two nights ago when you left the bathroom the first thing you did was to look for your phone. When you found it laying idly by your laptop on your desk, you dialed Hoseok’s number for the second time that evening. 

You were incredibly sorry to him. 

He was but a stranger to you and had no responsibility of attending to your troubles but still he showed up when you called him sitting on your bloody bed and came rushing to you despite being busy. 

This time too, he received your call right after two rings. 

“I need a vacation, Hoseok. Do you.. Do you know any wellness retreats that might help me?” you asked.

“That’s a really good thought, Y/N. I will send you a few links, check those out, okay?” he replied. 

And that’s how you ended up packing your bags for a month-long retreat in Thailand. 

Yoongi didn’t come back home that night. 

He went straight to a snack bar and drank seven bottles of distilled Soju all alone. 

However, he didn’t black out this time. He knew there would be no calling you if he passed out on the floor, covered in vomit and mud. 

He knew there would be no kindness from your side - he doesn’t deserve it - he never had. 

While he drank the only thing he could recall is that you were carrying his baby. That you were on the very first step of being a mother and him a father. 

Weird how, if these same words would have come out Gyuri’s mouth, he would have freaked out so bad. 

But it’s you. And whenever he thought of you, he could picture a quiet life. A condo in an upscale neighborhood, floor to ceiling windows where he could enjoy mellow sunlight sitting on the couch with you. 

Where he could cook for you in the kitchen and then serve you food piping hot or maybe feed you upon blowing a little. 

Those thoughts had always shaken him to the core, made him question his feelings towards you but at the end of the day, he always left himself with no answer. 

On the next morning when he woke up with the worst hangover ever, he decided to do what you have asked him to. 

He decided to give himself time and question himself regularly, repeatedly, that what is it that he feels for you? 

And while doing so, he decided to stay away from you - give you time to find your footing and mourn for the loss. 

He decides to mourn too. 

However, he got completely ruined like a damp wall with several cracks when he read your leave application. 

You had applied for a month-long holiday. 

A month without you? Without seeing you for a glance? Without hearing from you, even a word? Without having to watch you pressing the button on the seventh floor on the elevator, without your quiet sitting figure in the meetings, without your habit of writing lyrics on pen and paper rather than using your ipad? 

Can he… can he survive? 

“Y/N..” he finds himself following you after you leave the meeting room. 

You don’t startle, nor do you turn back. You stand in the middle of the corridor and wait for him to finish his sentence. 

“When are you leaving?” he asks from where his feet are stuck on the floor. 

“Tomorrow morning.” you reply briefly. 

“Incheon?” 

“Gimpo” 

“Can I come? To see you off?” 

“You don’t need to.”

“I want to. I want to see you off. I want to know… to know what I- what I feel for you.” 

He confesses to your back. 

You, probably, sigh. 

“Okay.” you say before walking off. 

When he reaches the airport as per the timing you have sent him - he sees you sitting a little far away from the check in counter. 

“Hey.” he approaches you. 

You look up at him with tired, blank eyes. Your eyes want to make him cry. 

“Hi. I was only waiting for you. I gotta go check in.” your voice is just as blank. 

He nods. 

“Bye.” you try to walk away from him. 

But he stops you with a hand on your wrist. 

“I will.. I will be here when you come back.” he whispers, only for you to hear. 

You nod. 

And then something crashes inside Yoongi, the dam of his eyes breaks and tears start falling unbound. He pulls you closer to his body, envelops you in a hug. 

You stay still but he doesn’t mind. 

He relishes your warmth, your smell, your feel for as long as he can. 

When he lets go, his lips find yours. 

He kisses you softly, with everything he has in himself. 

You don’t kiss him back but he doesn’t mind. 

For you, he will wait. 

Because right then, while you part your way from him, Yoongi finds an answer to all his questions. 

Yoongi realizes… He is in love with you.

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[black--sun]

Ichigo wants to argue. Fighting to keep words from coming out is like trying to swallow a rock. It feels wrong. It twists his stomach. How could he not look? That's like telling him not to care. That's not even what Shiro wants. Ichigo lowers his voice, because he’s not trying to start a fight. “You’re so full of shit. When something bad happens to someone you care about, it’s not better just because you didn’t watch. You know that.” That time Ichigo got a stomach full of glass and went missing from the city for a few days made that clear. 

He tries to look as innocent as possible in the face of that sour expression, but he’s definitely not managing it. He likes the idea of Shiro jumping him more than any smart person should. There's definitely something wrong with him. He smirks. “You’re the one that’d have to reimburse the store to pay for the damage if you want to keep shopping here. And we’d just end up screwing around on a pile of clothes somewhere anyway.” They don’t fight because Shiro doesn’t trust himself, not because Ichigo is opposed. He’s never been afraid of getting hurt. But his brain is still riding that imagination train hard enough that Shiro’s threesome idea doesn’t have any trouble sparking and flaring to life behind his eyes. He blinks and catches his toes on a table leg, knocking his knee and hip into the corner edge. He grunts at the sudden stop and hisses a curse, still nonplussed and thinking of bare skin and bloody knuckles. He’s not even sure what to say to that. His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he straightens and steps around the table like it didn’t just nearly take him down. But there’s heat creeping up the back of his neck. “You think that suggestion would make him less mad or more?” Which isn’t a no, because he’s not stupid. But also, “Since when are you interested in Grimmjow?” Is that a thing now? Ichigo’s asked about it before. Shiro’s answers never made it sound like it happened, but he also never directly said it didn’t. Probably on purpose. He looks over in spite of trying to be nonchalant. “Are you and Grimmjow fucking?” 

The key’s tag has a number on it, which seems pointless since there’s only two doors, and the small lock wouldn’t stop anyone if they wanted inside. He uses the key and pushes the door open, dropping it and the stack of clothes onto a chair. He glances back to Shiro and his empty hands. “You didn’t find anything?” It’s the first time it occurs to him that he might’ve dragged Shiro here just for himself and not because Shiro wanted to shop. He closes the door, because it won’t stop Shiro if he decides to come along, but it will keep someone from unintentionally seeing his gun as the distressed sweater comes off. He doesn’t need to try on the sweatshirt, but he does.

An expression somewhere between tired and unimpressed flickers across his features and he shakes his head slightly. "Probably not." It's moments like this that he misses when his crew was smaller. Not everyone that came and went through the warehouse crew was loyal, but it sure seems like he was more respected back then.

That makes him laugh. Still smirking and a little sheepish, he says, "In your defense, I'm good at not lettin' that distract me." At least not in so far as getting his ass handed to him because of it. It was certainly a deciding factor on why Ichigo walked away from his attempted murder, that and because Shiro's opportunistic. Ichigo was strong and a good fighter and couldn't sell him out because Shiro knew his dirty secrets. It was really a win-win for Shiro. Ichigo's response to his comment about his drug use sends a flash of stung anger through him. Ichigo's not around to see anything. Hell, if Ichigo had been around, he might have had the support he needed to keep from using again to begin with. Part of him knows it's not fair to pin his relapse on Ichigo, but he's got it in his head that it wouldn't have happened if things had turned out different between them. "You don't have to look." It's muttered because any louder and he wouldn't be able to keep the hurt from his voice.

He turns a sour look in Ichigo's direction for that, but yeah ok, fine. Not only would it not be smart to get between them, but it probably would be good entertainment too. Still. "You're about to find out how well I can still fight." He arches a brow, "If I were you? I'd totally defend my friend and then make out with you. Then maybe invite Grimmjow for a threesome." Ok all of that might be true except the first part. He'd watch first too.

This store is distracting. He's not even trying to shop for himself but he finds himself idly pushing hangers aside and shuffling through stacked clothes. Every time he's ever been here he's found something he looks great in. He stops his casual perusal to follow Ichigo to the counter, not surprised when there's no real acknowledgement from the clerk. Shiro can't blame the kid, he'd hate a job like this too.

[drinkabletoxicdishsoap]

the fandom’s characterization of peri becoming a father to dev will always be interesting to me because where it did it even come from ???

I mean in operation birthday takeback, bro CLEARLY did not care. He honestly seemed so disinterested and didn’t even care when they went into his dad’s private office by accident. He didn’t seem care or smile for his godkid when he was happy. Even got a little mean when Hazel made a nice wish for him with the rocket boots (“Well that should keep him entertained for about 10 minutes” or smth like that)

Lost in Fairy World he didn’t really seem to care either??? he really only just wanted his wand and to ‘look good’ in front of his godkid and do things his way without his parents interfering. Sort of like how a babysitter wants to look good in front of the family of the kid they’re looking after if that makes sense.

The only time we ever seen him actually care about dev was in the finale when he said that. But even after fairy world got turned to normal he didn’t really seem sad about dev??? he was just smiling after, seemed genuine too and not a fake one. Maybe it’s just me, but if I was a fairy and lost my first godkid, who took over my home, I would be doing anything BUT smiling, even if we won in the end. Peri doesn’t seem like one to hide his emotions easily either (maybe I’m reading into his character wrong)

You could bring up best of luck, which I would say is a fair point, but I’m going to bring back the babysitter/job synonym. Wouldn’t you get jealous of the person that stole your position or place in a work environment after you got fired?? Especially if your rival/enemy took that position?? I PERSONALLY don’t think the jealousy comes from a place of care, but maybe that’s just me.

It could honestly just be the fandom’s way of coping since Dev doesn’t seem to have any good people in his life after the finale, but why Peri? I mean if you really want to make one of the fairies a father figure to dev, I’d say the anti fairies more over are his family but that’s IF we have to choose.

Don’t get me wrong, I do think all of the peri and dev being a father son duo is super cute and heartwarming!! I love seeing all of the art and fics of that because it really is sweet :3 but to me, it just doesn’t really make sense and seems more out of character for Peri if anything.

He seems to care more about following Da Rules in my opinion. And while I do think it’s important to follow rules, especially when it comes to a job, you shouldn’t rely on them. At a job, you shouldn’t be constantly looking over rules to make sure you’re following them, you might end up tripping over yourself. That’s what Peri ended up doing.

If I assign the duo as anything, it would be the tired babysitter who just wants to get paid and the kid he’s looking after. A dude working a 9-5 at his job he couldn’t really care less about (dev).

I mean (only from his words) he wanted to go into the family business. Not because he genuinely cares for kids, but because it’s what his family has done. He’s treating godparenting as work, not stepping into a kids family and genuinely looking after them.

I do wonder if he would act the same way if he had an easier godkid.

BUT!!!! that’s just my thoughts. I’m sorry if I got anything wrong and feel me to correct me if I did !! Also if you disagree with anything that I’m saying, tell me why in either the replies or reblogs !! I would love to hear other people’s perspectives or opinions.

That’s it 😨 thank you so much for coming to another yap session and I hope you have a great day/night wherever you are in the world <3

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

EMG normal, not done w tests but expect those be normal n even if not, it not explain things

which. normal EMG good thing, yea. have some scary ones on own ddx that this rule out.

people be relief n happy for me n expect me feel same but. don’t have time feel that because all that feel is dread.

dread because this my frail weak last mental defense against trauma & gaslighting & internalized gaslighting “there nothing wrong” “you want something wrong” “you just crazy (derogatory).” last thing keeping me going n trying.

dread that this will (& already has) be use against me. parents already imagine future where “am” in it but am not actually in—a year three years five years later, able bodied walking talking n living independent n “finally happy.” parents encouraged to force me walk use wheelchair less speak more. as someone already with no escape from them because still severely disabled with symptoms & high support needs even if no diagnosis (some diagnosis), who already feel trapped & suffocated & hopeless with no future or escape here before this. worry life going get so much worse.

they don’t understand autism here. don’t understand stereotypical autism don’t understand not-stereotypical autism it all same coin. here see self as ultra in “not-stereotypical autism” category because autism regression include nonverbal late in life. be diagnosed by top autism place in US not matter. it didn’t it doesn’t & it won’t. for people not born nonverbal they see two option: physical muscle or vocal cord issue or psychosomatic mental illness but derogatory. its “real” in sense they supposed say that but its not real. fact that am actually mentally ill just support that more.

wheelchair bad. nonverbal bad. AAC tablet bad. no one can imagine happy life with them except me.

n no one can understand or even try to understand that those actually not what make my life utterly miserable: not have support needs met, not have communication support needs met (give me enviroment that actually feel safe use AAC then maybe will actually communicate more goddamn it), be trapped physically, be trapped mentally by past abuse with people who did that to me who currently doing that to me, have NO COMMUNITY n that there never ever ever will be any community here in person for me so long as stay here. with no end in sight. unless make one for myself. which—too fucking disabled to do that except [redacted]. which. even that, am too severely disabled thus surveillanced to do that.

not to mention those actually one of very few thing in my life give me joy right now (other joy is fiber arts. ok end of list. everything else even stuff used to enjoy is fucking chore. n even fiber arts becoming more of past time & routine than active joy)—it the only fucking thing that giving me any sort of hint of community right now (n also literally allow me do basic function in life like go places but. DIGRESS). even if it fucking small & pathetic & ironically isolating (bc my god the ableism against us. but without community will just be pathetic & isolated ALL ALONE). to advocate take it away, it incredibly cruel.

everyone expect me be able bodied neurotypical walking talking live independent n it that my personal failure not able do that because there “no medical reason” (…still have life long diagnoses but those not good enough real enough for them), faker. n just lost last mental defense against that. so yeah guess am.

dread too for what doctor going say n recommend after all this. honestly more preferable discharge me & let me go back to old life tbh.

in perfect world there be symptom management with no diagnoses & no definitive test results, that focus on work with what got, when it unrealistic or not fucking worth it try turn life upside down make “back” into “normal.” but. mm such thing not exist.

want be treat with dignity & respect & believed & agency even when don’t know what wrong & negative tests.

[blog-by-kij]

I love the Inside Out films because in the first one, Joy—among other characteristics—is a huge arrogant, controlling, and self-centered ass and in the second one she’s a less arrogant, controlling, and self-centered ass BUT that’s the point! That’s great! They didn’t make her suddenly not any of those things in the second one, which is good because that would be a bizarre and bad character rewrite. What would she be if she’s not those things? She’s still those things but understands how to better use those characteristics to serve Riley the person, rather than her idea of what Riley should be. This is her whole entire job, and she does it well. Nothing wrong with being proud of a job well done.

BUT, when she doesn’t understand how the other emotions are necessary too, she ends up suppressing Sadness or attempting to curate Riley to make her happy, in a softer way than Anxiety did but still to the same effect—controlling and restricting Riley’s full experiences at the expense of Riley. She became not controlling of other emotions by the second film but turned out to still be a little bit controlling of Riley in that one. But by that time, she already had the experience of learning that she could be wrong and was therefore more open to the idea that she could be doing something wrong again. Joy will do literally anything to make Riley happy, and that includes—most importantly—growing as a character, reflecting on her actions, changing behaviors, and learning how the other emotions do in fact ultimately make Riley a happier and better person.

Another thing I like is that she wasn’t mad at Anxiety, she didn’t punish Anxiety or suppress her, because she learned from Sadness that all emotions have a valuable purpose for Riley and she didn’t ever need to be reminded of that. In real life, when does being mad at or punishing your anxiety or sadness or anything help? And then in the end, Anxiety drinks her tea on her special chair, suggesting that Joy and the others made a space where Anxiety could be close and a part of it all in a way that serves Riley best. They made a way to respect the function that Anxiety has without ignoring her or letting her have excessive control over Riley. Not exerting excessive control over Riley is a lesson that Joy learned alongside Anxiety, and perhaps couldn’t be learned from anyone other than Anxiety.

Joy has to be the one that the story is told through because she has to be the one to learn and grow—and by the end of both films, she is a much stronger character for it all, and Riley is too. This makes perfect sense, because when you think about it, your capacity for joy is strengthened when you understand and value the legitimate role that sadness and anxiety play in your life.

[infiniteeight8]

Tony wants to have sex with Stephen but, despite what the rumors say, he’s never actually been with a man before, and he’s not sure how to approach this with Stephen. He finally has to admit the truth when the perfect opportunity appears and Tony’s out of excuses. And the truth is he’s nervous. (Less of a sex fic and more an emotional one) (also Stephen’s experience with men is up to you!)

The tabloids started speculating about Tony’s sexuality when he was fourteen. By the time he turned twenty-five they’d stopped speculating and just started assuming that he was bisexual. And they’re not exactly wrong, but of the dozens of men that have been splashed across sensationalist pages as his latest fling, Tony has slept with exactly none of them.

Partly that’s because it’s easier with women, but mostly that’s because Tony is much pickier about men. He finds most women at least a little bit attractive, but with men… well, sometimes it seems like the stars have to align before that electric thrum of interest sparks. Tony had assumed that meant he was unlikely to find a man he actually wanted as a partner.

Fate is laughing at him now

Who ever imagined that Tony would one day curse his past self’s restraint? Damn it, if he’d fucked a few marginally interesting guys he’d have some idea what to do with the absolutely spectacular man currently taking his pants off!

He could stop everything. He’s done it before. But he doesn’t want to stop, and it’s not like that would fix the problem, anyway; Tony isn’t about to fuck around on Stephen, and there’s really no other solution. So Tony steels himself. “Stephen.”

Stephen must hear something in his voice, because he stops immediately, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at Tony. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Tony says quickly. He swallows hard. Here goes nothing. “I just… haven’t actually done this before.” He’s expecting the surprise. Tony braces himself for the disbelief that will surely follow.

Stephen laughs and shakes his head. “That’ll teach me to give the tabloids any credit at all,” he says wryly. “I’m not rushing you, am I?"

Relief almost makes Tony dizzy. “You’re not rushing me at all,” Tony promises. “I want this. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

Stephens expression softens. “Tony, I’m not here because I want an expert lover. I’m here because I want you.”

Tony blushes. “Charmer,” he teases, and pulls Stephen into another kiss.

[hopeintheashes]

He’s not actually sure why Chim facetimed him rather than texting. As far as he can tell, there was nothing particularly pressing that Chim needed to ask him; but really, they hadn’t gotten that far. He’d answered, and Chim had taken one look at him and asked if he was okay. Buck had shaken his head, meaning don’t ask, but Chim’s eyes had gone even more worried than before and he’d said, “Come over for dinner,” and Buck had been too overwhelmed to do anything other than nod.

Dinner helped, being with Jee, center of attention and light of the room, but now she’s in bed listening to Maddie read her a story and Buck’s head is pounding with the heartbeat of never, never, never again.

“Spill.”

Buck blinks up at Chim from his spot on the couch.

“You didn’t bring baked goods, which means whatever's wrong isn't about Tommy. So, I repeat: Spill.”

Buck opens his mouth to protest and closes it again. Chim raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“It’s… a secret,” Buck says finally, which certainly doesn’t make Chim’s eyebrows go down.

“What’s a secret?” Maddie turns off the hallway light behind her and comes through into the living room. Sits down beside him on the couch.

“Why Buck looks like the world’s about to end.”

Maddie’s eyes go soft. “Hey, you’re keeping our secret. We can keep yours.”

“It’s not mine.” Eyes down. Watching his hands shake. Wondering when that started. Eddie’s kitchen, probably. And then just never stopped.

“Buck…” Maddie slides closer on the couch, a hand on his shoulder. So gentle it’s going to shatter him.

“Eddie’s moving to Texas.” He says it fast, like that will make it hurt less. Like it will make up for the fact that he’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to tell. “Effective immediately.” He swallows. His mouth is dry. Tastes like ash. “And he’s probably never coming back.”

“He’s…” Chim, trying to catch up. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Evan,” Maddie whispers, and that’s what breaks him. He's angrily swiping away tears because this isn’t– he shouldn’t–

Maddie pulls him into a hug, and he turns his face into her sweater and sobs.

. . .

Later, Maddie leads him to the guest bedroom and sits on top of the covers and strokes his hair like she did when he was little. He doesn't have any tears left, just a pins-and-needles numbness that covers him like an extra blanket in the dark. “Sleep,” she says, and Chim nods in agreement from the door.

. . .

He wakes up aching. The dark outside the windows is just starting to lift into pre-dawn light, the birds starting to sing. They shouldn’t be singing. They should know that there's a chasm growing by the moment, somewhere in the desert between here and Texas, and that it's going to swallow him whole.

His head is splitting but he has to pee, so he stumbles out of the warmth of bed into the freezing air outside the covers. When he comes out of the bathroom, Chim is leaning in the hall, comfortable in short sleeves even as Buck shivers inside his thick hoodie, completely unable to get warm.

Buck blinks at him in confusion and pain, and Chim sighs and presses the backs of his fingers to Buck’s forehead; slips a hand under his hood to feel the back of Buck’s neck. “Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Chim says, but it’s more to himself than anything else, and he presses his palm against Buck’s shoulder blades and leads him back to the guest room.

“How…” Buck whispers, and Chim gently pushes him back toward his bed.

“Maddie told me,” Chim says, and god, this family and secrets, “but also, I’ve known you a long time, Buck. You get a feeling for these things.”

He'd googled it, once. Whether stress fevers were a real thing. Eddie had laughed a little; had ghosted a hand over his hair and rearranged the blanket draped over him where he was lying on Eddie’s couch. Not sure what you’d call this if it’s not real, he’d said, and Buck had replied, Just being broken, I guess. He’d kinda-sorta meant it as a joke but it didn’t land, Eddie working his lip between his teeth with worried eyes, and Buck had shivered and closed his eyes and Eddie had worked his fingers into Buck’s curls and sat next to him on the couch until he’d fallen asleep.

Eddie’s not gone yet, but he’s getting on a plane in the morning. Making a long weekend of it, using a personal day for the one shift he’s going to miss.

And maybe he'll come back and say goodbye, but then he’ll be gone forever.

He wonders whether they've invented a surgery yet for this kind of hole in your heart.

“It’s not forever,” Chim says quietly, sitting on the side of his bed like Maddie had done last night. Like he can read his mind.

“You don’t know that.” He’s trembling, fever chills and the effort of trying to hold them back, jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering, wrapped in blankets and freezing cold.

“But I know Eddie. And I sure as hell know you.” Chim watches him for a moment, and then sighs again, quiet, and tells him to scootch over, and lays down beside him, on top of the covers on the bed.

He wonders, sometimes, what it would have been like if Daniel had lived. What having an older brother would have been like.

Maybe like this.

Maybe not.

They lie there until the first true light filters in and little feet come running down the hall. Jee barrels in and Chim sweeps her up onto the bed to take his place. “Keep your uncle Buck company, I’m gonna make some coffee.”

“Okay.” Jee wriggles around like an inchworm until she’s under the covers as well and kicks her feet happily in the warmth.

He hears the coffee start, and Chim reappears with water and painkillers. “What do you think, Jee, should we keep Buck for today?”

“We should keep him forever!” Jee says, feet kicking again.

“We’ve got you,” Chim says. Maddie appears behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder.

“Got you,” Jee echoes, snuggling into his side.

He can’t speak, but he nods, swallows, blinks, and nods again.

The sun slips further into the room. The birds are singing, and he can't stop it no matter how hard he tries.

Chim and Maddie go into the kitchen to pour their coffee, and Jee wraps both of her arms around one of his.

“Got you,” she says again.

He swallows, and nods, and kisses her hair. A bird perches on their window, silhouetted for a moment, and flies off into the day.  

. . .

. . .

[thesixsixsixeyes]

It wasn’t like he brought people over often. He’s actually never let any other person lay in his bed until now. Until Suguru… The first person for Satoru for many things actually. His first true friend, his first partner in crime, his first crush, his first love, and now he will be his first person to have sex with. But it wasn’t just having sex, not for him. He realizes it might be that for Suguru. It doesn’t matter though. For now, nothing else mattered even if he knew his heart might be even more broken in the morning. 

It wasn’t that he never tried to move on or tried to date. He did, a few times when time allowed it, not that he had much time. But he tried to fool around, yet each time he felt so wrong just letting anyone too close, let alone anyone touch his bare skin, and go beyond that. For a brief moment, he thought what if he was asexual? But he knew that wasn’t right, not with how damn turned-on he could get at times, specifically when he thought about Suguru. There might be a few people he found attractive but none worthy enough to make him pursue more.

Perhaps he should be more nervous or worried that he will disappoint Suguru, but he’s waited so long for this moment that he wasn’t going to dwell on that. He knew he might not get another chance like this, so he would make the most of it. He watches Suguru as he pours out some of the lubricant. His chest rising and falling a little less rapidly now, but he still feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest. Almost like it's lodged in his throat even, unable to speak, only watching the beautiful man before him.

Even in the dark room, the dim light of outside casting over Suguru he was so damn gorgeous and perfect just as he always remembered him. Sure he’s grown just as he had but still this was his Suguru, no matter what he’d always be his Suguru. His breath hitched slightly when Suguru finally spoke and grabbed hold of his leaking cock. He has to bite down on his lower lip to try and get ahold of himself. His bright eyes trained on Suguru’s and he tries to keep his composure but when Suguru finally begins to stroke him, his head falls back and he curses softly, a low groan escaping him. He had imagined how good it would feel to have Suguru touch him, but this was so much better than he could have imagined.

And then his head is snapping back up and he could almost laugh at Suguru’s words. How did he want it? No, he didn’t want it. He wanted HIM! He needed Suguru. Suddenly he grips Suguru’s wrist and yanks him up towards him, crashing their mouths together in another passionate kiss and flips them over, rolling until Suguru is beneath him. His kiss softens slightly, more tender and loving as he slowly pulls back to look down at the other.

 “How do YOU want it, Suguru? I’ll do anything you want me to. Anything. Let me make you feel good, please.”

He knows those are dangerous words but tonight he just wants to pretend that they truly belonged to each other. He trails his mouth down Suguru’s neck and lower. His hands trail down as well, down his sides until he’s gripping his waist, then they go further down to grip those strong thighs. He squeezes and pulls Sugur closer as he settles between his legs. His mouth still leaves soft open-mouthed kisses all over his chest and then back up his neck. Trailing back up to his face. Nuzzling his cheek and then murmuring against his ear.

“I want you, I need you.” 

His hand grips Suguru’s length gently, his thumb rubbing the tip before he slowly strokes him. His own aching cock pressed against Suguru’s inner thigh, he shifts slightly, guiding Suguru’s legs as he gets further between them, pressing his erection to Suguru’s ass, almost teasingly. He was torn between wanting to worship Suguru’s body and wanting to be deep inside him. The desire and yearning only grew by the second.

Suguru Geto was surprised. It was a test -- everything was a test. The sensation of Satoru's lips and hands were still warm on his skin as he sat back far enough to allow the famed six eyes to find what he needed. Sure lubricant wasn't odd; he was a man, perhaps a man who masturbated more frequently than Suguru imagined. Once again, he had this image of Satoru at sixteen, more the prodigal soldier of the jujutsu world than a horny boy.

Unfortunately his ideals did not change but a lot of other things about Satoru did. He wasn't lanky and awkward... and he got laid apparently. Regularly at that too considering he only had ONE condom left. It was almost fate. Suguru could have laughed but, frankly, he was too surprised and something else -- a slight twisting of his guts that could have been jealousy. It was ridiculous! Here Suguru was sacrificing everything for a better world, and the ivory god was sitting fat and happy.

What kind of jujutsu groupies did he bring home? Suguru did not want to imagine Satoru sleeping with normal humans (cockroaches). It sours his mood slightly which happens quite a lot these days. He sat back onto Satoru's thighs and watched him with those glimmering purple eyes that could scare a rattlesnake. What little light was coming through from the outside, soft and cool, made for a show on both of their naked bodies. It made Suguru look more like one with the darkness while Satoru naturally looked angelic.. if angels packed massive erections of course.

The dark haired sorcerer allowed the condom in its wrapper to fall onto Satoru's abdomen before he popped open to the lid of the bottle of lube. The bottle was tilted to the side, and Suguru watched, with a blank expression, as the liquid spilled messily onto Satoru's groin. What little ivory hair was present glistened slightly. When more than plenty was spilled over Suguru sat the bottle up-right on his partner's sternum, then wrapped his fingers around the hot, glistening cock. Pressure was applied but he did not jerk.

“ How do you want it, Satoru? ”

His voice almost sounded threatening. He didn't look at Satoru's face, instead watched as he finally began pumping his slick cock. Big, thick, and pink. Of course the six eyes and limitless had the prettiest cock. He slowly pumped Satoru's erection twice, thrice, and four times, then released and lowered his hand to palm his lube-slick balls instead.

“ Me inside of you. Or you inside of me? ”

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

One of the things that sticks out to me about Jon is just how active and readily available his kindness is. And it’s funny because the fandom at large considers Jon to be someone with a good heart, but he usually isn’t specifically linked to kindness as a key character trait even though he should be. Because every now and then, we have moments where Jon is just so proactive in how good he is to people. Not like it’s a performance, but it’s just something that comes to him naturally. And it doesn’t have to be big things either because sometimes, it’s really the little things that matter. Take this interaction with Tyrion for example:

“Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned.

Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at him. “Is that animal a wolf?”

“A direwolf,” Jon said. “His name is Ghost.” He stared up at the little man, his disappointment suddenly forgotten. “What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you at the feast?”

“Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?”

- Jon I, AGOT

First, it’s quite adorable how readily he strikes up conversation with Tyrion, a man he’s just met. The hint of curiosity mixed with concern when he asks Tyrion why he isn’t at the feast is cute.

But it’s the last line that stands out to me. “Shall I bring a ladder?” Because he could’ve just said “shall I call for a ladder?” but he didn’t. The latter suggests that someone else will do the brunt of the work. It’s still kind, because he’d still be looking out for Tyrion, but it puts him in a passive role. Instead, he means to get the ladder himself. He will look for it, bring it, and position it for Tyrion to use. So now his kindness is very much active. His empathy is on full display here as well because he acknowledges that Tyrion may need assistance and takes the initiate to provide it.

This seems like such a silly thing to get hung up on but I love this small moment because it provides a lot of depth to a character who is meant to serve as the series’ traditional hero - a role that is often times “good” by default without exploring how or why. Anyone who’s read Jon I knows that he has spent the chapter being a raging jerk. But GRRM uses this moment to remind us that despite being a moody, asshole-ish, 14 yr old boy, Jon is a really good kid at the end of the day. He’s is kind and he’s so active in how he practices his kindness. Even to people he doesn’t know and has no obligations to.

Because we’ve had a bit of whiplash so far. Bran I established Jon as a sweet and empathetic, self-sacrificial brother. But the first part of Jon I makes us question that when we see his pettiness and immaturity on full display. It almost seems like a case of unreliable narration from Bran, until we get to this last part when Jon gets a small moment to redeem himself. Which he does ~ and it’s done beautifully because it later links to some of the larger themes in Jon’s storyline. That he is one who actively looks out for the “cripples and bastards and broken things”. It’s not just looking out for Bran when they found the direwolf pups, but looking out for Tyrion in this chapter, and then for Arya and Bran again in Jon II, and then for Grenn in the last part of Jon III, and for Sam in Jon IV, and so forth and so forth. It’s a pattern that’s established through big and small moments all throughout AGOT where Jon still has a lot of growing up to do. But these moments, at large, serve as an anchor to remind us why we ought to care for this hero’s journey.

[soullessjack]

i think perhaps another layer of autism in jacks character is that he’s fine with being different, but is always upset to be treated or perceived differently.

[danielnelsen]

things aren’t going well with peach. while i think my dad’s very right to be concerned that she hasn’t eaten anything in nearly 60 hours (obviously i am too), im becoming increasingly concerned that she hasn’t slept at all in around 36 hours and prior to that she was under anaesthetic, which isn’t exactly restful, so it’s closer to 48 hrs

like dad took her back to the vet today and we’ve got injections for her painkillers now because she’s not eating, and also injections for fluids (because she doesn’t drink; she only gets water from her food), so the not eating is Bad but also kinda under management, but if she doesn’t sleep soon i’m extremely worried. dad was like ‘if she doesn’t eat by tomorrow afternoon we’ll take her back because the injections will run out’ but like. if she doesn’t sleep tonight we have GOT to take her back first thing in the morning so they can sedate her or something