#it's still a lot but it's a lot in a better way i think

[urmum-lovesme]

Bunny (P5)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: its been tough day today y'all #Ihateexams (projecting in this chpt idk if you can tell BAHAHA). Also I'm sorry for the late update 😬. My poor girl y/n idk if things can get any worse than this tbh..? (or can they....)

warnings: smoking, weed, drinking, a strip club, naked women, harassment, mention of sex, crying, aggressive behaviour (shoving/shouting), mentions of domestic abuse.

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5)

Y/N stood at the sink, scrubbing at a plate with slow, methodical circles. The warm water ran over her hands, the sound of it filling the quiet kitchen. It was almost unsettling... the quiet. Usually, the house was filled with slurred shouting, breaking bottles, slamming drawers or the heavy silence of a man passed out on the couch. But today?

Today, Luke was standing right next to her, drying the dishes.

Just a towel in his hands, stacking plates in uneven piles as she placed them onto the drying rack. It wasn’t much- but it was sober. He was sober. Maybe a little hungover, his face drawn into a small tired frown, but he wasn’t slurring his words, wasn’t swaying on his feet. That alone made her stomach twist.

“You been out a lot lately,” 

“I’ve been working.”

Luke commented, voice rough from sleep or whiskey- probably both she couldn't differentiate between the two anymore. Y/N hummed, placing another plate on the drying rack. He let out a low exhale, rubbing the towel over a glass. 

“That’s good… keeping busy.” 

A pause. 

“JJ doin’ alright?”

Her hands faltered just slightly before she continued clearing her throat, “Yeah. He’s- good.”

Luke nodded, setting the glass down with a quiet clink, running a hand over his face. It was such a normal thing, a simple chore, standing here washing dishes with her dad. It should’ve been a small moment like it was for so many other people, something forgettable, something easy. She could feel the way her chest ached, feel the way she wanted to hold onto this moment, just for a little while- mind floating back to when she was younger and he’d take her and JJ on fishing trips with him, make them crappy, burnt pancakes for breakfast. But she couldn’t help the instinct of keeping her walls up, watching him from the corner of her eye, waiting for the moment the calm shattered, for reality to crash back down.

Because with Luke, it always did.

The kitchen was now quiet, except for the clink of dishes and the hum of the old ceiling fan overhead. The dim light cast long shadows across the counters, stretching out between them. Y/N wiped her hands on the rag, dishes now washed, her gaze still flickered to Luke drying the last dish. The silence had been hanging heavy; she could feel it pressing down on her shoulders, waiting to crack open. And then, without looking up, Luke muttered, 

“Better not be lying.”

Y/N’s hands froze still gripping onto the rag in her hands, she blinked once, twice, before glancing over at him. 

“What?”

Luke finally looked at her, his eyes sharp, unreadable, “about working”. Y/N felt her pulse quicken. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral, even as she slowly pulled her hands towards the sink, wiping it with the rag. 

“I work at the country club.”

Luke huffed, tossing the dish towel he was using onto the counter. “Yeah-” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms.

“You sure?”

“Yes- you think I’m dealing dru—?”

“-I think you’re my kid, and I know what it looks like when someone’s keeping secrets.” 

He cut in but his voice wasn’t raised, it didn’t need to be. It was threatening enough as it was. Y/N inhaled sharply through her nose, her grip tightening around the cloth in her hands. She wanted to snap back, wanted to tell him to fuck off, that shes the only reason they still had a roof over their heads and food in the fridge- but there was something in his tone, in the way he was watching her, that made it harder to breathe. She swallowed hard. 

“I told you,” she said, voice quieter now, “I’m a waitress and sometimes... I clean”

 “I hope so.”

Luke stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. Y/N’s stomach twisted. He dropped the dish cloth onto the counter and walked over to the fridge, cracking it open and grabbing a bottle of beer. Then he walked away without another word, leaving her standing there, heart pounding, hands fisting the material of her t-shirt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The club was louder than usual tonight, the air thick with sweat and smoke. Y/N felt the exhaustion settling deep in her bones, dragging at her every step. It had been a long week- too long. She picked up an extra shift at the country club and seemed to be coming to the club every evening, so all she wanted was to get through the night without any more bullshit but, of course, that was too much to ask.

“Aw c’mon sweetheart, give me a smile.”

Y/N barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She forced a tight-lipped grin instead, just enough to appease the drunk tourist slouched in front of her. He looked like the type who had never stepped foot in a place like this before, all sunburnt and sloppy, his polo shirt wrinkled from a day of drinking. “Just trying to get past sugar” she said, voice smooth but empty. The guy let out a loud, obnoxious laugh and leaned in closer. 

“And I’m just trying to have a little fun, sugar”

Y/N’s fingers twitched at her sides. She could feel the sweat sticking to her skin, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too suffocating. She spoke out to the man, keeping her tone light even though she could feel her patience fraying.

“I’m sure there are plenty of other girls who’d love to entertain you,” 

The man clucked his tongue, tilting his head as his eyes went down to stare at her chest- tits being pushed up by a leopard print bra- before noticing the slight frown on her brow. 

“Don’t be like that. You’re too pretty to have a face like that.”

Her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head at his comment. She didn’t want to deal with this tonight. Not after the week she’d had. Not after— the man reached out, just barely brushing his fingers against her waist. It was light, barely anything. But it was enough for Y/N to take a sharp step back, her bracelets jingling at the sound, heart kicking up into her throat. She said, her voice sharper now,

“Don’t touch me”

“Whoa, relax, baby. No need to get all worked up.”

The guy raised his hands like he was innocent, like she was the one making a scene. Y/N swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Her nails dug into her palms, her entire body stiff as she fought to keep herself together as she walked over to an empty booth but she wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. She sank into the empty booth, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes- trying not to smudge her mascara- as she tried to shake off the lingering tension from the encounter. Her pulse was still thrumming too fast, her body coiled tight. She just needed a second- just a second to breathe.

“Hey”

A soft voice pulled her back. Y/N blinked up to see Bambi standing there, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her head tilted in concern.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Y/N exhaled, nodding quickly. Bambi didn’t look convinced. She slid into the seat across from her, watching her carefully. “Maybe you should take a break Bunny…” Y/N shook her head before she could even think about it. 

“No, he was just an asshole. I’m fine.”

Bambi sighed, reaching out to rub Y/N’s arm lightly. Her voice dropped, softer now. “C’mon, don’t be like this, okay? Just take the rest of the night off. It’s dead in here anyway.” Y/N hesitated, her gaze flickering up to the small digital clock on the wall.

1:37 AM.

She could technically leave. The money tonight hadn’t been great, but she wasn’t sure she had the energy to keep pushing through either. “I don’t know…” she muttered. Bambi didn’t wait for her to make a decision. She just stood up, nodding her head toward the back. 

“C’mon.”

Y/N followed her into the dressing room, the fluorescent lights making everything feel a little too bright. Bambi shuffled through her bag, muttering under her breath, until she finally pulled something out and turned back to Y/N. She watched as Bambi pressed a small joint into her palm.

“Take the night off” 

Y/N stared down at it for a moment before her fingers curled around it. Maybe just this once couldn’t hurt? Y/N stepped out of the club, her bag now  slung over her shoulder as she zipped up her hoodie against the cool night air. The parking lot was mostly empty, the neon glow from the club’s sign casting long, eerie shadows across the pavement.

It was one of those rare nights that Rafe didn’t show up, and for once, she felt relieved. The last time she saw him was at the country club that night- so it's not like she was eager to see him again. But it was odd, him not being there. In all these past few weeks he’d been getting under her skin more than usual, and she didn’t have the energy to deal with his shit tonight anyways. Always in the background, always watching, always pushing- she couldn’t deny that it was starting to get to her. So maybe it was good that he wasn't there... She let out a slow breath as she made her way towards her car thinking about getting home, showering, and forgetting this night- this week- ever happened. But then she saw it.

Something fluttering against her windshield. Her brows pulled together as she got closer, her stomach twisting in irritation before she even knew what it was. And sure enough—

“What the fuck?”

A goddamn parking ticket

Y/N snatched it off the glass, scoffing as she scanned over the bullshit fine. She always parked here. She never got ticketed. But apparently, one of her tires was inches over the line, and that was enough for some asshole cop to give her a fine?

“Fucks sake” 

She muttered, shoving the ticket into her bag as she yanked her car door open. She threw herself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut a little harder than necessary. Just one more thing, one more headache. She dumped her bag into the passenger seat before her hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles tight, her jaw locked.

She just needed to get out of here.

Yet she couldn’t figure out if she was thinking of the club parking lot- or the island in general. Y/N let out a slow breath, her head falling back against the headrest. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, just long enough to let the exhaustion settle in her bones. Surprisingly, sitting alone in her car with the world muffled behind closed doors was hitting her all at once. She exhaled again, longer this time, before reaching up to tug at her earrings. The hoops clinked softly as she dropped them into the cupholder. Then came the rings, the thin ones stacked over her fingers, and finally the bracelets- the million little silver chains and beads that lined her wrists.

Her eyes flickered down.

A deep, ugly bruise was forming just beneath the faint imprints the bracelets had left behind. It had been a few days, but the color was still harsh- fading from deep purple to that sickly yellow-green. A reminder of her father's hold over her life, even when he wasn’t around. Her fingers ghosted over it and she swallowed looking away. Her gaze landed on the joint in the cupholder instead, its paper crinkled slightly from being shoved into her palm earlier. She thought about it. Thought about lighting up, about just forgetting for a little while and falling into the muffled haze she hasn’t been in for a while, but before she could, the screen of her phone lit up in her lap.

JJ (10)

She sighed, unlocking her phone with tired fingers.

JJ  :  yo 

JJ  :  are you coming to the bonfire tonight y/n? 

JJ : I literally told the gang ur coming

JJ  :  bruh 

JJ  :  answer ur phoneeeee

JJ  :  seriously?????

JJ  :  i've seen you like twice this week and its literally Saturday 

JJ  :  where are you 

JJ  :  you never spend time with me anymore what is going on with you

JJ : ?

Her grip tightened on the phone slightly before she groaned, tossing it onto the passenger seat and dragging a hand down her face. JJ was having a go at her- she was the older sibling wasn’t it meant to be the other way around? Did he really think she was choosing to distance herself from him- she’s the only one keeping their family afloat and now she’s getting punished by him too. She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek as she jammed the key into the ignition, shifting the car into reverse.

The tires screeched slightly against the pavement as she pulled out of the parking lot, gripping the wheel a little too hard. She sighed through her nose, stretching her fingers along the steering wheel. The hum of the engine was the only thing filling the silence, and it was too heavy, so she reached for the radio flicking the knob with her thumb. Nothing. She twisted it again but still nothing. Her eye twitched as she muttered, smacking the side of the console in frustration. 

"Stupid piece of shit" 

Yet the radio stayed stubbornly dead, leaving her with just the sound of her own breathing and the occasional rattle of the engine. The Cut blurred past her windows as she drove, the streetlights casting flickering shadows across the road. Her fingers drummed against the wheel, her body still buzzing with the exhaustion of the night. As she sat in silence driving she couldn’t help but mull over the question in her mind- and then it hit her

She didn’t want to go home.

Why the hell would she? Home was where all her problems were. Where her dad’s temper sat in the walls like cigarette smoke, where she could still hear the echoes of slammed doors and broken bottles. No, she couldn’t go back there- she didn’t want to. Her fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles paling as she made a sharp turn, diverting from the usual route. 

She knew exactly where she needed to be.

The road stretched longer as she drove toward the beach, the town fading behind her, the air growing saltier. When she finally pulled into a small parking lot—one that was never busy, never full, one that she used to bring JJ to when they were younger and Luke had too much to drink. She let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. Looking out through the windscreen she could see the dark ocean stretched out in front of her, endless, the waves crashing against the shore in a slow, steady rhythm. She killed the engine, sitting there for a second, just staring and she let out a small sigh, eyes looking down at the joint still sitting in her cup holder.

For a second, she just stared at it, debating.

Then, with a quiet sigh, she grabbed it, fingers brushing against the lighter beside it as she slipped out of the car. The beach was almost completely dark, save for the glow of the distant streetlights casting long shadows across the sand. The wind rolled in off the water, cool against her skin as she walked a little further down. She sat down, legs bent, one arm wrapped around her knees as she pulled the joint to her lips, sparking the lighter. The flame flickered for a moment before catching, the tip burning red-hot as she inhaled, holding the smoke deep in her lungs before slowly blowing it out.

The tension in her chest didn’t ease, not really, but at least it dulled the sharp edges.

She took another drag.

Then another and before she could stop it, before she even realised, her vision blurred.

The tears came out of nowhere.

Hot, quiet, slipping down her cheeks, dripping onto the sleeves of her hoodie. She rubbed at her face roughly, sniffling as she took another pull from the joint, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She hated crying- Luke always told her it was a sign of weakness- she wasn’t weak. But she was just so fucking tired. Of working her ass off just to barely scrape by. Of dealing with her dad. Of feeling like she was letting everyone down, like JJ was slipping away.

Like she was letting him down. 

Y/N wiped her sleeve under her eyes again, sniffling hard, trying to force herself to get it together. The waves rolled in, soft and steady, the only sound filling the silence between her sniffles. The joint burned between her fingers, the cherry coloured tip glowing faintly in the dark. She brought it to her lips again, inhaling slow, the warmth spreading through her lungs, through her limbs, settling somewhere deep in her bones. Her eyes stayed locked on the water, mind hazy, thoughts swimming.

She barely even registered the sound of a car approaching in the distance. Not until the glow of headlights swept over the sand, catching the edge of her vision. Her head turned lazily, gaze trailing toward the parking lot just as a car pulled up right next to hers. She blinked at it once, twice, before looking back at the water, unfazed.

Probably just some kids hooking up.

No one ever came here. No one even knew about this spot. She rubbed at her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie, feeling the dampness of the material. The joint between her fingers had burned down about halfway now, the fuzzy warmth settling into her muscles, making her limbs feel heavier. She took another slow drag, exhaling through her nose, ignoring the sound of an engine cutting off behind her. Whoever it was, they weren’t her problem.

The bright glare of the headlights blinked off and the sound of a car door slamming shut echoed.  

She stayed still, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the water. Whoever it was, she didn’t care. Not enough to turn around, not enough to pull herself out of the haze settling over her, even when footsteps crunched against the sand.

A little uneven.

A little slow.

Whoever it was, were clearly coming her way. Her fingers tightened slightly around what was left of the joint, bringing it to her lips again just as the footsteps stopped.

Someone stood there, still as stone, eyes locked on her.

He hadn’t even recognized her at first- too caught up in his own head, too wired from the line he’d done before leaving Barry’s, his thoughts still tangled up in the mess of the night. He’d just wanted to clear his mind, let the salt air knock some sense back into him. But then he’d seen the curve of her shoulder and the delicate seashell inked into her skin, peeking out on her shoulder blade where her hoodie had slipped down. His jaw tensed, the buzz in his veins sharpening, his body instinctively pulling him closer before his mind could catch up.

He knew that tattoo.

And now, he wasn’t going anywhere- because what was she doing on his side of part beach?

“What are you doing here?”

His tone was unexpected- like he’d been caught off guard, like she was an intruder. But why wouldn’t he be? She doesn’t belong here. Not on this stretch of sand. This place was his mother’s. 

Their place.

Before everything turned to shit, she’d bring him here on Sundays, just the two of them. She’d pack fresh fruit in a cooler, spread out a towel, and run her fingers through his hair while he sat between her legs, half-asleep from the warmth of the sun. It was the only place he'd ever cherished. 

And now she was here. 

Sitting in his sand. 

Smoking on his beach. 

Y/N doesn’t even look up, her voice sharp, cutting through the thick silence.

“Sorry is this your beach, Rafe?”

She almost laughs at herself, because it’s fucking ridiculous—the whole situation. She was supposed to be alone. Sitting in peace. But then he showed up. Just like her goddamn father. Just like every other man in her life who couldn’t let her fucking breathe. She hears his steps before she sees him, the uneven drag of his shoes against the sand. Then suddenly, he’s towering over her, and she feels it—the shift in the air, the pull of something inevitable. Her fingers drop the burnt-out joint into the sand, and she moves to stand, to leave, to get the hell away from him, but—

Rafe blocks her.

She collides into his chest with a quiet oof, stumbling back slightly, her balance thrown off for just a second. Y/N exhales sharply, shaking her head, before trying to move past him again. But this time, Rafe doesn’t just stand there. His hand comes out fast, gripping her upper arm- not hard, but firm enough to stop her in her tracks. She has to take a step back, her pulse spiking, annoyance flashing hot in her chest as she lets out a small scoff even in her drugged haze.

“Don’t be a bitch, Maybank.”

The words land like a slap. A slow-burning ember turning into a wildfire. It’s not even just the insult- it’s the way he says it. That low, condescending drawl. Like he’s above her. Like he thinks he can control her, that she’s just another thing for him to mess with, to push and pull whenever it suits him. And she doesn’t know if it’s the anger which has been building for weeks now, or the fact she was high.

But before she even fully registers the movement her hands shove into his chest 

Forcefully 

Enough that Rafe actually stumbles back, his balance thrown for a split second. And he just stands there, staring at her. Like he’s trying to process what just happened. For once, there’s no quick comeback. No smug remark. Just stunned silence as he looks at her like she’s someone he doesn’t quite recognize.

But then—just as quickly—his expression shifts. That smug fucking smirk creeps back onto his face, eyes flickering with something almost amused. Y/N feels her blood boil.

“YOU'RE THE FUCKING BITCH!”

Her voice cracks with frustration as she yells the words out at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She doesn’t even recognise herself- doesn’t care that she’s causing a scene, doesn’t care that her whole body is vibrating with anger. She’s shaking as she points her finger at him jaggedly and loudly slurs out,

“You’re the stupid fucking bitch”

Her breath comes in ragged bursts, chest rising and falling too fast, her whole body trembling with the weight of everything she’s been holding inside. Her chest tightens, a lump forming in her throat, and she knows—knows—she’s about to break. But she can’t stop herself now.

Rafe’s eyebrows shoot up, taken aback. Not just by what she said, but how she said it. Her voice isn’t steady like always. It’s cracked, uneven, shaking as much as her hands. The words come out slower, slurred, not just from the blunt but from the exhaustion, she’s unraveling right in front of him, drowning in everything she’s tried so hard to keep buried.

She can’t take it anymore so with a harsh, desperate push, she shoves him back- harder this time. "What do you want from me, huh?" Her voice cracks as she spits the words at him, and her body shakes with the force of everything she’s holding in. 

"What do you want from me?.... Why won’t you just fucking leave me alone?!"

Her breath hitches, and her voice breaks completely in the middle of her sentence. It’s too much, and the tears she’s been fighting back spill over, streaking down her cheeks. They roll freely down her face now, mixing with the salt from the sea breeze, soaking into her already damp skin.

She stands there, trembling, her hands balled into fists, her chest heaving as she stares at him like she’s ready to either fight or run. For a moment, Rafe’s gaze softens but just as quickly, that softness vanishes, replaced by the cold indifference he wears so effortlessly.

He steps closer, his presence towering over her, filling the space between them. She can feel the weight of him standing there, like he’s waiting for something—and then, in his usual, dismissive tone, he speaks.

“You’re a fucking mess.”

It stings. The way he says it, like it's just another observation, like it means nothing to him. But it cuts deeper than anything he's said before.

Because she knows it true.

Her voice shakes with the anger which is still there, but now it’s mixed with something else- something raw and vulnerable.

“You’re so fucking selfish.”

She spits the words at him like they’re poison, her eyes flashing with something fierce, but he just stands there, watching her, as if it’s all some kind of show. She shoves him again, but this time he reacts faster, his hand shooting out to catch her wrist with surprising force.

“Don’t fucking push me.”

He holds her there, and the moment his fingers close around her wrist, she winces. It’s an instinctive reaction, and she can’t stop herself. The pain flares in an instant. Her bruised wrist—the one that’s been aching since her father grabbed it—feels like it’s being crushed.

Rafe notices. 

He sees the way her face contorts with the slightest touch, the way her breath hitches as she struggles to keep her composure. Her pulse quickens as she yanks her wrist free, glaring at him with a mixture of fury and desperation.

“Get off of me” 

She snaps, her voice breaking with frustration. He doesn’t say anything at first, but she can see the way his eyes linger on her, studying her like he’s piecing something together. It doesn’t take long for her to realize he’s noticed the bruise, and that just makes her snap harder.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” 

“Maybank—” 

But she cuts him off, her frustration pouring out in a torrent of words She points at herself, her finger trembling in the air before she repeatedly jabs it into her chest aggressively. 

“D'you think I want to work in that fucking club, huh? HUH, RAFE?!”

The words fly out of her like she’s been holding them back forever, her voice cracking slightly at the end. There’s desperation there now, unfiltered and it’s not just anger anymore. She’s screaming at him because he’s been tormenting her—trapping her in the world she’s trying to claw her way out of. Stuck between trying to survive and trying to hold onto a shred of dignity. The silence lingers between them, suffocating in its weight, and for the first time, it’s not charged with anger or frustration- it’s something else, something she can’t quite place. Her voice is quieter now, the anger draining out of her, leaving only exhaustion.

“Just leave me alone.”

The words are like a plea, but they still hold a sharp edge. She shoves past him, not bothering to spare him a glance as she walks towards her car, her body moving with purpose, as if every step is an effort to desperately escape from this moment, from him.

Behind her, Rafe watches her walk away, his eyes fixed on her retreating figure. His jaw clenches, and he gnaws at the inside of his cheek, unsure of what he’s feeling. There’s something there- it’s almost as if the walls he’s built around himself, the ones that keep him from caring about anything or anyone, are starting to crack. Why does he feel like this? Why does he feel this nagging sense of... 

Regret

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[plutotheplum]

chapter one | the proposal

multi x fem!reader

chapter summary: the spring season seems to have brought on an unrelenting case of baby fever. being single is a problem though... so who better to ask than your five, handsome friends?

cw: modern au, fluff, kissing, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of sex

wc: 1.7k

a/n: first chapter is here! something short and sweet before we get into the smut teehee ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎

also on ao3!

series masterlist | next up: the magician

“I want a baby.”

Usually you’d be sitting across from your head-over-heels, doting, caring husband that would be willing to do anything for you whilst having this conversation. It’s an important decision after all, having a baby and taking care of it, having the finances to dote on your child. It’d be nice… except for the fact you don’t have a husband, or a boyfriend for that matter.

Instead, you’re sitting across from five men, currently lumped together uncomfortably on your couch, staring at you with slight bewilderment in their eyes. It was your best shot, inviting them over. 

Besides, you’d decided that it was the spring season that had caught you in its snare. Going out to a cafe, taking a stroll in the park, perusing a bookstore; babies were everywhere. It hadn’t bothered you so much until you’d set your eyes on one of the cutest, chubbiest babies you’d ever seen, its little hand curling around your finger when you’d been waiting in line to buy your book. 

Yeah… you’d gotten baby fever.

“A baby?” Rafayel asks, his brows raising, “are- are you even ready for a baby?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you reply, fingers fidgeting nervously in your lap, your eyes drifting across each of them, “a lot. I even made a short presentation if any of you would like to-”

Zayne shakes his head subtly and you sink back down into the chair, having gotten up half-way.

“I am ready,” you breathe out finally, “I’m not getting any younger and I just think it’d be nice, y’know? I wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore.”

“Why’d you invite all of us over at once?” Caleb asks, his hands folding behind his head, drawing a sound of annoyance from Xavier who he elbows in the process.

“I didn’t want to have the conversation five times,” you sigh, “besides, I figured none of you would actually agree to this. I mean, it’s sort of crazy. Do I sound crazy?”

“Maybe a little frantic,” Sylus muses, propping his elbow up on the armrest of your couch, his head tilting lazily to watch you.

“There are other options,” Zayne offers, “other than what you’re proposing. I could help you look, if you wanted. I know someone I went to medical school with, maybe they could help?”

You flush lightly, shaking your head. “I um- I want to do it naturally,” you squeak out, cheeks growing hotter when you spy the grin on Caleb’s face. “Less- less complications that way, which is why I decided to ask all of you.”

“Well,” Caleb yawns, stretching his arms above his head, managing to knock one against Xavier’s head again, “I’m in.”

“What?” you sputter, staring at him with wide eyes. “You- you can’t just agree! I had a whole thing planned and we still need to go over agreements about how this is going to work.”

“I’m not just going to disappear once you have the baby,” Caleb sighs, staring at you, his gaze never wavering. “If we do this, we’re doing it together.”

“Oh,” you say, sitting back in your chair, “well if that’s what you’d like, but I don’t want you to feel obligated or anything.”

“Obligated?” Sylus interrupts, raising his brows, “Sweetie, if you decide to have one of our kids, we aren’t going to abandon you to handle everything on your own. It’s as much of our decision as it is yours.” He pauses for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. “With that being said, I also accept your proposal.”

“You do?” you ask, your head tilting. “Wouldn't the two of you be overkill? I really think one of you agreeing is enough-”

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Xavier pitches in finally, having had enough of being squished on the couch as he stands up, sending a brief glare towards Caleb. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he repeats, shifting on his feet, “if only the two of them got to have you. Besides, you said it was up to us to decide.”

Was he jealous? Maybe you’d dug yourself in a little too deep. You’d had fleeting moments with each of them, shared lazy kisses every now and then, had a few of their heads buried between your thighs on some nights, but nothing serious… especially not this serious.

“So all three of you,” you look pointedly at Caleb, Sylus and Xavier, “want to help?”

“Yes,” is the unanimous reply.

“I can’t have sex with all three of you!” you protest, looking at each of them, “I mean, I could but that’s besides the point!”

“You’ll have to alternate between us,” Zayne supplies, adjusting his glasses, his lithe fingers pushing them up to sit more securely on the bridge of his nose. The action distracts you for a moment, your mind conjuring up the memory of those very fingers sinking inside of your pussy only a few weeks ago when he’d been pent up and you’d been eager to help.

“Right,” you reply as though the situation made complete sense and nothing about this entire thing was crazy. “Alternate- wait,” you pause, your eyes flicking over to meet Zayne’s. “Us?” you echo, “what do you mean ‘us’?”

“Us,” Zayne says simply.

“Us- us as in you included?” you ask, voice pitching upwards with how incredulity takes hold of you, part of you hoping that your faith in the english language was now failing you.

“Yes,” he replies, his head tilting to take in your expression. “I am the most… qualified for this position.”

“This isn’t a job interview!” you snap, glaring at him, before pointing at the others accusingly, “and you are all way too eager to agree!”

“We’re helping you out,” Caleb counters, turning his attention to Zayne, “and what do you mean by qualified? You just have to cum inside of her.”

You wince at his crude words.

“I often see children during my rounds in the wards,” Zayne says coolly, “I don’t see you handling any children while you fly your plane around.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Caleb mutters, sending Zayne a glare.

“Okay,” you pitch in, hoping to ease some of the tension. “Rafayel?” you say, eyes focusing on the purple-haired man who’s been watching the situation unfold with amusement, “I’m glad you haven’t said anything, because four is more than eno-”

“Who said I didn’t agree?” he asks, raising his brows, “I’d be the odd one out, wouldn’t I? As Xavier said, that’d hardly be fair.”

“So what you’re all telling me, is that you’re all ready for a baby?” you ask bluntly, tilting your head skeptically. “Because I feel like none of you have thought this through.”

“We’re just giving you the best chance of having a baby,” Xavier says, meeting your skepticism with his own bluntness.

“Fine,” you breathe out, your eyes flitting across each of the handsome men. You’d be lying if you weren’t somewhat excited about the idea. “You’re all accepted.”

“Great,” Sylus says, standing up.

Your eyes widen when he approaches you, his arm tugging you to your feet, before wrapping around your waist.

“What are you-”

Your voice is muffled when he slots his lips over yours. You make a noise of protest until he presses closer, your eyes fluttering shut at the soothing stroke of his thumb against your cheek. A soft whine escapes you, arms sliding up to wrap around his neck, your lips working against his eagerly.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Caleb snaps.

You squeak when you’re pulled away from Sylus, arms reaching out to grab for him, only for Caleb to swat your hands away, sending you an equally harsh glare.

“I thought we were getting started,” Sylus drawls, his eyes flashing with a hint of disdain. “I’m not one to sit around and watch.”

Caleb snaps out a retort and your shoulders sag as you watch the two men begin to argue.

“Are you sure you wanna have a baby with one of them?” Rafayel asks, his voice hushed as he sidles up to you. “They seem awfully… ill-tempered.”

You blink up at him, face falling. “Do you think that’ll affect the baby?”

Rafayel nods, putting on a grave disposition until you see Zayne roll his eyes.

“We’ll alternate,” Zayne says, rubbing his temples, “like I said. It’s the fairest way and none of your egos will get hurt in the process. We can draw numbers to figure out the order.”

You end up scrawling the numbers one to five on a piece of paper, ripping them up before scrunching them, so they can’t see what’s written on the paper.

“Take your pick,” you offer, opening your hands up for each one of them to choose a crumpled piece of paper.

You stare at each of them expectantly as they open up the pieces of paper, rocking up on your toes to peek over Xavier’s shoulder. 

Two.

Well, you could handle that. You smile up at him and he smiles back, dipping his head quickly to kiss your cheek.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Caleb groans staring down at his paper.

“Did you place last?” Rafayel asks smugly, waving his paper around as though he had won the lottery. “I’m first!”

“Asshole,” Caleb grouses, ripping up his paper agitatedly, “third.”

You turn your attention to Zayne and Sylus, raising your brows.

“Fourth,” Zayne says, tucking his paper away neatly into the pocket of his trousers.

You swallow nervously, glancing towards Sylus. He gives you a devilish grin in return, flipping his paper to show you the messily scribbled five. 

“You’re not… mad about it?” you ask tentatively.

“Why should I be?” Sylus asks, running a hand through his snowy hair, the strands falling across his forehead prettily, “It just means that I get to spend the longest with you.”

Well, that sounds more like a threat than anything. You weren’t a stranger to Sylus’ ways, you’d spent a few nights in his bed, face shoved into the pillows while you’d sobbed and cried pathetically with every snap of his hips against your ass. 

“Right,” you clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray your nervousness.

Your gaze drifts over each man. Smug Rafayel, mellow Xavier, disgruntled Caleb, stoic Zayne and devilish Sylus.

Yeah, you think, you were definitely in for it.

taglist >///<

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[luveline]

hotchner request :) i love love love your writing so much and he’s always so accurate!💗

maybe reader visiting him in the office late at night cause she missed him and wanted cuddles xx

There are two halves to your wanting him. The innocent half that wants to be held softly for softness’ sake, and the half with an ulterior motive, who wants the afterglow, the rough and tumble and the hand behind your neck when it’s over, encouraging your face into his neck. These halves are equal, as implied, so it isn’t salaciousness that drives you to his workplace, but you aren’t without motive as you nudge your way into his office, skin still ever so slightly damp with lotions and oils. 

And Aaron, he could read you if he needed to. If you falter and make him suspicious of you, he might watch too carefully and catch how much you miss him in something as small as a raised hand, so you enter the room with a good helping of bravado. “You!” you whisper-shout, letting the door shut soundly behind you. “Lovely man in the black suit! Warrant’s out for your arrest.” 

“What are the charges?” he asks, sitting back in his chair, a pen between two fingers. 

“Abandoning your– me.”

“That’s quite serious.” 

“That’s what I thought,” you say with a mock sniff. You follow your segue around his desk, sniff quickly melted into wanting, leaning down as he angles his face upward for a fleeting hello-kiss. 

He takes your arm before you can move away. “You aren’t abandoned. I was about to leave.” 

“I don’t trust your definition of about to,” you say lightly. 

Aaron clears a space for you on his desk. You sit on it squarely, ready to wait for half an hour as he wraps his loose ends. You worry sometimes he wouldn’t make it home if it weren’t for you reminding him so physically. 

“Do you ever get sick of seeing me here?” you ask. 

You always wind up like this on his desk, dark lacquer wood under your thighs, your foot tapping against the stem of his chair as he works. 

“Obviously I don’t,” he says without heat, “I think the work would go a lot quicker if you were there more often.” 

“Yeah?” 

He raises his eyebrows at your tone. “Are things more urgent than I thought?” he asks, hint of a smile in the lines either side of his eyes, the squinting that comes with smugness. 

It’d be easy to let him pull you to the centre of the desk, to let your legs fall to either side of him as he comes forward to kiss you, but the seconds draw longer, and you aren’t close enough. A kiss wouldn’t be enough to fix the thrumming that’s taken root in your hands. 

“I miss you,” you tell him, watching him closely, lest it be the wrong thing to say. “Couldn’t stay away.” 

“I don't want you to stay away,” he says, matching your tone, something urgent in him then as he packs his things away and steers you down to the car, as he drives you home, as he sequesters you on the couch fully dressed.

He knows exactly how he wants you, and for once he isn’t shy, pulling you against him, all your plushness to his solid chest, the ironed collar of his shirt a bite in your cheek he soothes with his nose dragged lazily over your forehead. “Still miss me?” he asks under his breath. 

“No, I feel better.” 

“You do?” He breathes a sigh of relief. “I was a little worried… Mm, you smell nice, what is that? The body oil with the brown cap?” 

You wrap your arms behind his shoulders, sure to go numb. “Feel.” 

His hand slips under your shirt obligingly. He strokes over fine, dander hair and skin like silk to the middle of your back. “Beautiful,” he says under his breath. 

Simple as that. You’re praised in his arms. You don’t ever want to move. 

[within-your-eyes-if]

Personal Update

Hey everyone, I'm so sorry for the silence again. To get right into it: February sucked. Medical issues flared up. I'm not sick or dying, but my quality of life took a hit. I am getting help, but right now I'm still mentally and physically exhausted.

I feel a lot of guilt despite knowing life is unpredictable. I hate that something seems to happen every time I think things are getting better. I'd almost finished coding before this hit, and I'm slowly working my way back... again. I've been trying to figure out what to say, and honestly, this is all I really can say.

I'm still here, still trying, just finding my footing is still hell and varies by the day. I appreciate you all, and I promise I'm okay.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 16

˗ˏˋ choosing yourselfˎˊ˗

"You deserve better than a quickie in a musty bathroom stall, and Jungkook should know that, even when he sounds earnest and literally kisses your shoulder. But whatever, because it doesn't last long—he's back to being an asshole after Jason takes you both home. And then it's time you make a choice for yourself, because you can't allow to second-guess yourself like you've done multiple times in the past."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9k

content: self-recrimination on a mirror, jungkook being a horny fuck, shoulder kisses, jungkook being irrational and paranoid, jason being a gentleman, coffee date plans, fighting, gyno appointments, yoongi being weirdly supportive and feeling like finally making a choice for yourself.

✧ author's note ✧

HO-HU-HEY.

WELL. Here it is. Chapter 16. The girlies (and the girlies include me) took forever to reach the last goal, so naturally I gave in, lowered the bar, and got my cheeks clapped by the consequences because it took you all of five days. Five. Fucking. Days. I hate you all (affectionately). The bar is going BACK UP and this time I’m standing on business. Don’t test me. (You absolutely can. I’m weak.)

Anyway. Let’s talk about the chapter.

I loved writing this. Like genuinely. As much as I enjoy the pining and the tension and Jungkook being the absolute worst, this one hit different. There are so few stories that actually show characters doing normal life things—especially uterus-having characters dealing with the reality of taking control over their bodies. I wanted to write that. I needed to write that.

But more than the appointment itself, this was about Y/N. About her doing something for herself, on her terms. About taking back agency, making an uncomfortable but important decision because she knows if she walks away from it, she’ll never come back. She’ll spiral, overthink, talk herself out of it. So she does it now. Impulsively, but intentionally. And like... that’s growth, baby. That’s real.

Also?? Yoongi. My beautiful, quiet king. I didn’t know how to write him into this initially but I knew—I knew—he had to be the one who went with her. Because he’s not loud, he’s not overbearing, he doesn’t project his shit onto anyone else. He’s just present. He’s calm. He listens. He helps because he wants to, not because he needs to be thanked or seen for it. I loved deepening their bond this way, giving her a moment of safety that doesn’t come from the people we expect, but from the people who show up. He’s so important in that apartment and I feel like this chapter gave him the spotlight he deserves.

Anyway. I hope you enjoy it. I hope it makes you feel seen. I hope it makes you feel like your choices matter, and your body is yours, and it’s okay to be scared and still do the thing anyway.

Now go comment. I'm watching you. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

The thing about standing on business is that it’s a lot harder when Jungkook texts you like that.

Not that it matters. Because you are standing on business. You’re in the bathroom, alone, which is exactly where you should be after dealing with a full thirty-five minutes of Jason’s smooth eye contact, Jimin’s shit-eating grin, and Jungkook’s insufferable, cocky-ass messages.

And before anybody even thinks it—no, you’re not here because of Jungkook.

You’re here because you’re tired. That’s it. Because this damn building is too hot, and your eyes were practically sliding closed during that last poetry discussion. Because you just needed some cold water on your face, a minute to wake yourself up, to breathe.

Not because of his texts.

Not because the way he talks to you does anything.

And definitely not because your thighs were pressed so tight together under that table that even Jason’s deep, articulate voice wasn’t enough to drown out the low thrum that Jungkook might have been right about something.

You glare at your own reflection. Point a silent, accusing finger at yourself.

“Be so fucking for real right now.”

Your reflection does not respond.

You splash more water on your face. Cold, crisp, refreshing. But also kind of not refreshing, because all it does is make you hyper-aware of how warm your skin feels. How annoyingly wired your body is.

You don’t like his dirty talk. You don’t. It’s embarrassing. It’s cringe. It’s the kind of thing that should have you rolling your eyes and shutting your phone off instead of, you know, letting him keep going. Letting him pull you into it.

It’s not arousal, okay?

It’s secondhand embarrassment.

It’s your brain cringing so hard that it doesn’t know what to do with itself, so it misfires and sends weird signals to the rest of your body.

That’s all.

Because you’re not one of those people who fuck in gross library bathrooms. You’re not desperate. You have standards. You deserve better than some icky stall, no matter how kissable someone’s lips are. 

No matter how good their dick game is. 

Or their tongue.

Or mouth. 

Or hands.

You groan. Plant your hands on the edge of the sink and lean in. Stare at yourself, deadpan, through wet lashes.

“You deserve better,” you say flatly, like the universe needs the reminder as much as you do.

The thing is, you’ve always prided yourself on your self-control. On knowing exactly what you want and how to get it without messy entanglements. Feelings complicate things. Feelings lead to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to that pathetic, hollow ache you've made an art of sidestepping.

And yet.

And yet, there was something about the way Jungkook looked at you in that goddamn laundry room. Something almost… soft. Curious, even. Like he wasn’t seeing you as a sparring partner or a mild inconvenience but as—what? Someone worth watching? You’d laughed at something dumb, something fleeting, and for once, his response hadn’t been smug amusement or provocation. 

It had been real. Bubbly. Almost fond.

Which is, obviously, a problem.

Or at the very least, it’s becoming one.

Because these observations are unwelcome intrusions into what should be a straightforward arrangement. You don’t want to see Jungkook as a person with layers and complexities and actual human qualities. It was much easier when he was just ‘the sexy Pulse stranger with the great arms’ who happened to be excellent in bed. An object of convenient lust and equally convenient disdain.

And now he’s Jungkook. Jungkook, your insufferable roommate. Also Rogue. Also Griffin’s human, also the guy whose vinyl collection is a shrine to John Mayer, for reasons you refuse to unpack.

With each passing day, he trespasses further into familiarity.

And the knowing drapes itself across your sternum like Griffin at dusk—silent, insistent, impossible to ignore.

You exhale. Straighten. Shake it off.

Push the door open.

That’s it.

You’re done. Over it. Whatever.

The door swings open, and you step out, chin high, pulse steady. Or—well. Steady enough.

And then there he is.

Leaning against the wall next to the men’s bathroom like he has all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of those stupidly well-fitted jeans. The overhead light casts shadows along his jaw, sharpening the already unfair angles of his face, but the smirk softens them—lazy, knowing.

Roguish.

You almost roll your eyes so hard they might never recover.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “Finally gave in?”

You blink at him. Then, with all the dignity you can muster, you gesture back toward the bathroom door you just exited. 

“Yeah, totally. Gave in so hard I went to the women’s restroom instead of the men’s. I really let you have your way, huh?”

Jungkook chuckles, deep and quiet, like he’s indulging a particularly entertaining child. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muses, dark eyes sweeping over you. “Took a while in there. Thought maybe you needed a little extra… motivation.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Heat flares up your spine because you know exactly what he’s talking about—his texts, the ones you definitely didn’t let affect you, no sir.

And Jungkook knows you know. He always does. Which is exactly why his smirk widens when you scoff, brushing past him like he’s the least interesting thing in this godforsaken building.

He follows, of course. Falls into step beside you, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach tighten. “Bet you thought about it, though.”

Your breath stutters. Just barely. And his grin? That infuriating, cocky thing? It widens.

“You’re annoying,” you inform him, as if he doesn’t already know. 

As if he isn’t enjoying the way your steps falter for half a second, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like they’re itching to grab something—his wrist, his shirt, the stupid gold chain he’s wearing right now—

“Mm.” He makes a sound of mock consideration, eyes flicking down and up, lingering at the hem of your skirt before dragging back to your face. “And yet, here we are. You in my text messages. Me in your head.”

He doesn’t need to specify what part of your head. He’s an asshole, but not an idiot.

You exhale sharply through your nose. “God, you think you’re so slick.”

“I am so slick.”

“You’re the least slick person I know.”

“So how do you explain,” he hums, leaning in just enough for his breath to graze your cheek, “the fact that you keep coming back?”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Because—because technically, yes, but also, no, because this thing you have? It’s not about coming back. It’s about convenience. About stress relief. About what you both need, when you need it, nothing more.

So you school your face into something unimpressed, flick him a look, and say, “Your dick isn’t that good, Jungkook.”

And fuck.

He laughs.

He full-on, throaty chuckles, low and pleased and—fuck, the way it rolls through his chest, how it practically purrs out of him, like you just told him the funniest joke in the world.

His hand flexes in his pocket, like he’s restraining himself. His teeth catch his bottom lip for a second, his tongue flicking against it as his gaze devours you, and he exhales a slow, amused…

“God, the things you do to me, woman.”

And you shouldn’t feel that in your knees. You shouldn’t feel it in your stomach, in your throat, pooling low and warm and dangerous.

But you do.

And he knows it.

Which is why he takes another step closer, all effortless heat and bad decisions, and murmurs, “Say the word, Phoenix. I’ll take you right back in there. Won’t even lock the door.”

And goddamn it.

You hate him.

So you move. 

Not away from him, exactly, but toward the nearest bookshelf like you suddenly need a distraction. 

A book, a title, any excuse to look busy. 

To look unbothered.

Jungkook follows. Of course he does. He’s right there at your back, trailing you with a slow, measured step like a fucking german shepherd that already knows the outcome. He doesn’t cage you in with his arms, doesn’t press you into the shelves or block your escape.

Doesn’t need to.

Because he’s close. Just enough that when you reach for a random book, you sense him. The heat of him licks at your skin, his presence a weighted thing against your spine. 

You try to ignore it. 

The way he leans, just slightly, the way he tilts his head to let his voice skate over the shell of your ear.

“You’re so mean to me, Phoenix,” he murmurs, and it’s not fair how smooth his voice is. How it drops into something lazy and indulgent, like he’s stretching out the syllables just to see how they sound against your skin. “Act all tough, but I know you. Know what you like.”

Your fingers tighten around the spine of the book. 

Stupid. 

Reckless. 

Should’ve grabbed one with a title that could at least pretend to justify this whole act. Not Introduction to Microeconomics. 

Jungkook exhales a soft laugh, like he can see your poor choice, like he knows. 

“You’re funny,” he muses, and then—because he’s the worst—he dips his head, close enough that his nose nearly brushes the slope of your throat. “But I’m serious. Want you on my lips so bad right now.”

Your pulse slams against your ribs.

“Don’t even need to fuck you,” he goes on, like his own words are making him drunk, like he’s just thinking out loud. “Just wanna drop to my knees, put my mouth on you, make you all messy.”

You swallow. Hard.

“And you’d let me.” He whispers. “Wouldn’t you?”

Your jaw locks. Because fuck him. Because he’s right. 

Because you can already feel it, that slow, humiliating heat coiling low in your stomach, the weight of his words settling between your legs.

And Jungkook knows it. Knows your silence isn’t no. Knows the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers tighten around the stupid fucking book, the way you’re not moving away.

He shifts. Subtle, barely there, just enough for his chest to brush your shoulder. Enough to make your breath catch when his lips ghost over your pulse.

“Wouldn’t even rush it,” he continues, and he sounds wrecked by the idea, voice rough with it. “Would take my time. Make you fall apart real slow.”

You should tell him to shut up. You should shove him off, roll your eyes, something.

But you don’t. Because you hate him. And worse—you want him.

You want him.

It’s a humiliating truth, one that settles in the pit of your stomach like something molten, something that licks up your spine with every exhale he spills against your skin.

His breath hovers, a phantom thing, barely-there warmth that seeps through the fabric of your long sleeve. A cruel contrast—how your body ignites under something so light, how your nerves spark like kindling when he isn’t even touching you properly.

Not yet.

Then—his fingers. 

Slow, deliberate, reaching. Not for your wrist or your waist, not for your throat or your hip—no, that would be too easy. Too expected.

Instead, they find the fabric at your bicep. A simple touch. A barely-there tug.

And then another.

Torturous. Measured.

The sleeve slides down, inch by aching inch, and you know—you know—this is your moment. This is where you shove him off, where you huff and scoff and tell him to fuck off with his slow-burn seduction act.

Except you don’t.

You just stand there, staring at the shelf in front of you, trying not to melt out of the way the air feels against your bare skin. How exposed it is now, how Jungkook’s gaze lands heavy where the fabric used to be.

“Wanna taste you so bad right now, Nix.”

Your other hand finds the bookshelf. Not to grab a book. Not to turn the page on this whole situation.

For balance.

Because your body betrays you, trembles—just slightly, just enough that you can feel it.

And he sees it.

Feels it.

His breath dips lower. Warmer. Until his lips graze the bare curve of your shoulder.

And then he presses in.

A kiss. Featherlight. Barely there.

But devastating, because it cracks through you, sends goosebumps skittering down your arms, shivering at the nape of your neck..

“Ro—”

“I’d seriously drop to my knees right here,” he interrupts, voice quiet but wrecked. “Wouldn’t even think twice.”

Your fingers tighten against the bookshelf.

And then—

“Y/N?”

Jimin’s voice.

You move first. Swift. Normal. Like nothing just happened, like your knees weren’t about to fucking give out. Jungkook straightens, smooth, unhurried, expression lazy and unreadable.

When you turn, Jimin is there, brows furrowed, completely oblivious.

“Hey.” You clear your throat, tilt your head, something, anything to make yourself feel normal again. “What’s up?”

Jungkook stays quiet. But you can feel him. His warmth still lingers. His gaze still burns.

And it’s only when Jimin starts talking—some filler, something meaningless—that you realize your sleeve is still slipped down, fabric bunched at your elbow.

And Jungkook is still looking.

Jason appears before you fully process it, stepping into your periphery with that calm, inquisitive expression of his, eyes skimming over your face like he’s assessing something.

“You good?” His voice is gentle, curiosity laced in his tone.

You nod. “Yeah. Done for the day.”

His eyebrows quirk. Just a fraction. “Oh.”

Jimin, standing a little to the side, shifts his weight. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“Oh, no,” you answer smoothly, already toeing the conversation in a different direction. “I took the bus today.”

Jason hums. “I can take you home if you want.”

And then—movement.

Jungkook. 

Shifting. Sliding in, looping an arm over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His body radiates heat, casual in its weight, but you feel the deliberate nature of it. The timing. The message.

“Sure,” he drawls, voice all syrupy amusement. “Taking us home, Teach?”

You barely resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs, but you do shove his arm off with a sharp shrug, angling an elbow against his side—not forceful enough to hurt, but definitely not subtle.

Jason blinks. “You two live together?”

You don’t hesitate. “Roommates.”

Jason smiles, nodding, like the answer pleases him. “Well, in that case, I’d be glad to.”

You hear Jungkook chuckle behind you.

You flip him off.

But you both start walking.

Jason's car smells like expensive cologne and ambition.

You're sitting shotgun whilst Jungkook's sprawled across the back seat of Jason's immaculate SUV, taking up more space than seems physically possible, one arm slung across the headrest as he stares out the window with half-lidded interest.

The leather beneath you is that specific type of luxury that feels both comfortable and like you shouldn't be allowed to touch it at the same time—and Jason's got one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, and he's telling you about his dissertation—something about modernist literature and the fragmentation of self-identity in post-war narratives.

It sounds impressive. It probably is impressive. 

You're nodding along, asking questions in the right places, and generally pretending that you're not stupidly aware of Jungkook's reflection in the side mirror, watching.

"What about you, Jungkook?" Jason asks suddenly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Y/N mentioned you're studying film?"

Jungkook's reflection shifts, his posture straightening just slightly. 

“Yeah," he says, voice easy, unbothered. "Film and Media Studies."

"What year?"

"Dunno," he answers, and you can practically hear the shrug in his voice. "Taking classes from different years. Whatever looks interesting." 

Of course he is. God forbid he follow any sort of structured plan like a normal student.

"Planning to go into academia too, or straight to industry?" Jason continues, clearly trying to make polite conversation despite Jungkook's lackluster responses.

His response is a mere sound in the back of his throat, something between a chuckle and a scoff. Then:  "Industry. Theory's nice and all, but I'd rather be behind a camera than writing about one."

Jason nods thoughtfully. "Smart move. The academic route isn't for everyone. It takes a certain patience. Methodical thinking."

You immediately note how Jungkook's expression shifts—just for a second—into something sharper, more focused.

Then it's gone, replaced by that same lazy half-smile he always wears.

"Yeah," Jungkook drawls, leaning back. "Guess I'm just more of a hands-on learner."

The way he says "hands-on" shouldn't feel loaded. 

It doesn't, really.

Except that your mind immediately flashes to those same hands on your skin, and you have to resist the urge to shift in your seat.

Jason seems oblivious, continuing. "What kind of films are you into?"

"The good ones," Jungkook replies, and you can hear the smirk without even looking.

"That's... vague."

"I'm a visual guy. I like things I can see."

Jason laughs, a polite sound. "Fair enough. Any directors you admire?"

"Too many to list," Jungkook answers, and there's something in his voice now—a subtle tightness, like he's getting bored with the interrogation. "But hey, I'll give you one. Wong Kar-wai. His use of color and the way he frames longing? Unmatched."

You blink, a little surprised. Not by the answer itself—you know Jungkook's capable of actual intellectual thought, even if he pretends otherwise half the time—but by the genuine passion that briefly flares in his voice.

Jason nods, seeming genuinely impressed. "Interesting choice. 'In the Mood for Love' is a masterpiece."

"Yeah, it is." There's a beat, and then Jungkook adds, "What about you? You a film guy?"

"I appreciate it as an art form, but literature's my passion." Jason's hand moves from the gearshift to the steering wheel as he navigates a turn. "Though I teach a module on film adaptations of classic literature occasionally."

"Cool," Jungkook says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. Then, abruptly changing the subject: "How'd you end up TA-ing for Y/N's class?"

You shoot Jungkook a look through the mirror. 

What is he doing?

"I'm not actually Y/N's TA," Jason clarifies smoothly. "I just run study groups for students across different modules. Help where I can."

"Just out of the goodness of your heart, huh?" 

“Something like that. Plus, it looks good on the CV."

You jump in, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "Jason's been really helpful. I was drowning in all that Sylvia Plath symbolism before today."

"I'm sure he has," Jungkook murmurs, and when you catch his reflection again, his eyes are narrowed slightly, focused on the back of Jason's head.

Then the rest of the ride passes in a…strange, stilted rhythm—Jason asking questions, Jungkook giving just enough of an answer to seem polite before flipping the question back around. 

You filling the gaps with comments and questions of your own, trying to figure out why the air suddenly feels too… saturated?

By the time Jason pulls up to your apartment building, you're exhausted from the mental gymnastics of trying to parse what the fuck is happening.

"Here we are," Jason announces unnecessarily, putting the car in park. "Nice place."

Jungkook's door opens before the words are fully out of Jason's mouth. 

“Thanks for the ride, man," he says, climbing out with easy grace. But instead of heading straight for the building entrance, he pauses, one arm resting on the car roof, waiting.

For you.

Jason turns to you, one hand still on the wheel, the other now resting on the center console. "Listen, Y/N, I was wondering if you'd like to grab coffee sometime?”

He smiles, and you like the way the corner of his lip tugs upward genuinely, a dimple forming on it.

It’s cute.

It’s attractive.

Then he smiles. Gaze briefly flicks to Jungkook, then back to you, whispery. Adds: “Just the two of us, I mean."

Your stomach does a pleasant little flip because—wow. An attractive, intelligent guy who can discuss poetry without making dick jokes? Asking you for coffee? Like a date?

Is this real life?

"I'd like that," you say, smiling.

"How's Saturday? There's a café near campus that does incredible pour-overs."

Shit. Saturday. Jungkook's stupid surprise birthday dinner.

"I actually can't Saturday," you say, genuinely disappointed. "I have this... thing I can't get out of." No way are you telling him it's for Jungkook's birthday. "But maybe Sunday?"

"Sunday works." His hand moves then, fingers wrapping lightly around your wrist. "It's a date, then."

His touch is warm, brief, and makes your chest flutter. 

You nod, gathering your bag. "Thanks again for the ride. And the study help."

"Anytime."

Stepping out of the car, you see Jungkook still standing there, watching. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable as he pushes off from where he's been leaning against the car.

You walk over, and together, you head toward the building entrance. Jason's car idles behind you for a moment before pulling away, and only when the sound of his engine fades does Jungkook speak.

"I don't like him."

It's so abrupt, so matter-of-fact, that you almost laugh. 

"Okay? Did I ask?"

Jungkook doesn't respond right away. His lips press together, jaw tightening for a split second as you reach the elevator. He hits the up button with more force than necessary.

"He gives off vibes," he finally says, as the elevator doors slide open.

You step inside, hitting the button for your floor. 

“Vibes," you repeat flatly. "What are you, suddenly psychic or some shit?"

"Don't need to be psychic to see he's fucking weird."

The elevator begins its ascent, and you lean against the wall, eyeing him. 

“English major and almost a professor. Makes sense why you don't fuck with him, don't you think?"

Jungkook's head snaps toward you. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Just saying," you shrug, "you're clearly threatened by anyone with a vocabulary that extends beyond 'fuck' and 'vibes.'"

"Oh fuck off," he scoffs. "He's not that impressive."

"More impressive than you pretending to hate classic films to sound edgy."

His eyes narrow. "I never said I hated—"

"Whatever, Rogue. Keep your weird opinions to yourself. I'm going on a coffee date with him Sunday."

"Great," he says flatly. "Have fun with Professor Stick-Up-His-Ass."

The elevator dings. You push past him, digging in your bag for your keys.

"What is your problem?" you demand as you walk down the hallway. "He was perfectly nice. He gave us a ride home. He actually listens when people talk."

"I'm just saying I don't fuck with him."

"And what's that to me? Why do you think I care who you fuck with?"

"Nothing," Jungkook says, fumbling for his keys—so you stop rummaging through your bag. "I'm just stating my opinion. I'm allowed to not like people."

"Yeah, but you're telling me like I should care?" You follow him through the door. "Like your opinion matters to me somehow?"

"No?" He turns to face you. "I'm just fucking saying. That's it."

"Well, don't."

"Don't what? Talk?"

"Don't act like your shitty opinions on my social life matter."

The apartment feels too small suddenly. Like the walls are closing in. 

Why is it so hot in here? Did Yoongi crank the heat again? God, you're going to have another fight about the thermostat after this.

"Look," He sighs exasperatedly, and the sound makes you want to kick him on the shin. "I get it. He's all polished and proper and talks about dead poets with you. Fucking fantastic. I'm just telling you he seems like a fake-ass bitch."

"A fake-ass—what are you even talking about?" Your voice rises because what the actual fuck? "You're literally making shit up. He seems perfectly normal."

"Normal? Did you miss the way he kept cutting me off? Or that weird laugh thing he does?"

"Oh my god." You throw your bag onto the counter. "You're so full of shit. He was trying to keep the conversation going while you gave one-word answers like a sullen teenager."

"Yeah, because he kept asking me the same basic-ass questions like I'm in a job interview or some shit."

"It's called making conversation, dickhead. Something you clearly know nothing about."

Jungkook tosses his keys onto the counter with a clatter. "There's making conversation, and then there's whatever the fuck he was doing. Dude's weird. Period."

"He's weird? That's your whole argument? That's the hill you're choosing to die on?"

"You didn't catch it?" Jungkook looks at you like you're the dense one. "That whole thing about teaching 'occasionally?' The way he kept touching the gearshift? And the fucking wrist grab at the end? So fucking unnecessary.”

"Oh my god." You're actually laughing now, incredulous. "You sound completely unhinged. He barely touched me!"

"It's not about—" Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "It's the pattern, Nix. The whole vibe is off."

"The pattern? The vibe?" You mimic his voice. "Are you listening to yourself? You sound like a conspiracy theorist."

"Fine," he throws his hands up. "You're so fucking right, as always. Go hang out with Captain Control Freak. See if I give a shit."

"Captain Control—what are you even talking about?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Go on your little coffee date with Professor Perfect."

"Why are you being such a dick about this?" Your voice rises, frustration boiling over. "It's just coffee!"

"And I'm just saying he seems like an asshole!" Jungkook's voice matches yours now. "But sure, ignore me. What the fuck do I know, right?"

"Right! What the fuck DO you know? You met him for twenty minutes and suddenly you're an expert?"

"I know enough to spot a fucking red flag when I see one."

"A red flag? Are you kidding me?" You make an incredulous sound. "Because he has a nice car and uses big words? Those aren't red flags, those are called being an adult!"

"No, because he's putting on a whole act!" Jungkook's gesturing wildly now. "The scholarly bullshit, the fake interest, the—"

"Maybe he's actually interested in literature? Have you considered that possibility, genius?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's very interested in 'literature,'" Jungkook makes air quotes. "Along with controlling every fucking conversation and situation."

"You're being ridiculous." You give him a blank stare, accompanied by a chuckle. "Completely ridiculous."

"And you're being naive!" 

"No, I'm being NORMAL!" The word echoes off the kitchen walls. "You're the one having some weird meltdown over nothing!"

"It's not nothing! The dude's giving off major control freak energy and you're too busy swooning over his vocabulary to notice!"

"I am not swooning over anything!" 

"Whatever. You clearly can't see what's right in front of you."

"And you clearly can't handle not being the center of attention for five fucking minutes!"

Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up. "The center of—what? That's what you think this is about?"

"I don't know what it's about! That's my whole point!" You're making no sense!"

"I'm making perfect sense! You're just not listening!"

"Because you're not saying anything worth listening to!"

“Fine! Go ahead. Do whatever the fuck you want. It's your life."

"Yeah, it is my life. And you know what? I WILL do whatever the fuck I want."

"Great! Awesome! Have fun!"

"I will!"

"Good!"

"GOOD!"

You glare at each other, both breathing hard—and Griffin chooses that moment to saunter in, meowing loudly as if to say ‘what the fuck is all this noise about?’

"Your cat wants food," you snap, needing the last word.

"He's not just my cat, he lives here too," Jungkook fires back, because apparently he also needs the last word.

"Then maybe you should focus on feeding him instead of my social life."

"Maybe you should focus on not getting involved with pretentious assholes!"

"I live with one, so I think I can handle it!"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you too."

You turn away, stomping toward your room. "You're such a jerk."

"And you're a stubborn bitch."

You flip him off without looking back, slamming your door with enough force to rattle the walls. You hear him mutter something through the thin wood—probably another insult—before the sound of cabinets opening and closing tells you he's probably feeding Griffin.

Dropping onto your bed, you stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what just happened. 

What the hell was that about? Since when does Jungkook care who you hang out with? And what the fuck was all that ‘vibes’ and ‘energy’ bullshit?

It shouldn't matter. 

It doesn't matter.

Except now there's this annoying doubt in the back of your head. 

Not because Jungkook's right—he's definitely not—but because he seemed so sure. So genuinely worked up about it. 

Not jealous, just... concerned? 

Angry? 

Something.

God, you need to get a grip. This is exactly what happens when you live with people too long. Their crazy starts to sound almost reasonable.

Jason is fine. He's normal. 

Jungkook is the one being insufferable and childish because he can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes.

So honestly? 

Fuck him.

You deserve to go on a date with someone who actually listens to what you have to say.

So you will.

And if he wants to whine about it, well. That’s his problem. Not yours. 

Staring at the confirmation email on your phone should not be making your stomach turn like this.

It's just an appointment. A totally normal, adult thing to do that people handle every day without breaking a sweat. Just another checkbox on the grand list of things labeled ‘Taking Care of Your Body’ that you've been putting off for... well, forever.

But there it is: Appointment with Dr. Camila Rivera, Wednesday, 4:45 PM.

You'd done it yesterday night, after the fight with Jungkook, after slamming your bedroom door hard enough to rattle the walls. 

You'd sat on your bed, fuming, and somehow that anger had propelled you toward something productive for once. A quick Google search for ‘gynecologist near me,’ a few clicks, and suddenly you had an appointment.

Easy-peasy. Totally casual.

Except it wasn't. Not really.

Because the truth is, you've never been to a gynecologist before. Not once in your life.

And it's not like you're some kind of prude. You're not. Just ask Jungkook. Or, you know, don't—his ego is inflated enough as it is. But the point stands: you're sexually active. You know your way around a condom. You're not completely clueless.

You're just... inexperienced in certain areas. 

Official areas. 

Medical areas.

Because going to a gynecologist meant telling your parents you needed to go to a gynecologist. Which meant admitting you were having sex. Which meant watching your mother's face crumple into that specific blend of disappointment and judgment she'd perfected over the years. The one that said, ‘I raised you better than this’ without her having to speak a word.

It was easier to just... not go. Stick with condoms. Cross your fingers. Hope for the best.

But things are different now. You're living on your own. Making your own decisions. Sleeping with your insufferable roommate whenever the mood strikes. Planning coffee dates with hot TAs who might—if things go well—become another notch on your metaphorical bedpost.

The thought sends a little thrill through you. 

Jason. With his deep voice and thoughtful gaze and ability to analyze poetry without sounding like a pretentious asshole. Would he be different in bed than Jungkook? Less demanding, maybe. More measured. Or maybe he'd surprise you.

God, when did your brain become so fixated on sex? 

That's what freedom feels like, you tell yourself, stretching your legs out across your bed. It's natural. Healthy, even. You've spent years living under your parents' suffocating expectations—their carefully crafted vision of who you should be, the life you should lead, the choices you should make. Always excelling, always proper, always in control.

Well, fuck that. You're done being controlled.

Hence, the appointment. 

Because if you're going to be sexually liberated (the phrase makes you cringe a little, even though it's just in your head), you should probably be responsible about it. Birth control pills, or maybe an IUD—something more reliable than condoms alone. 

Something that puts you in control of your body, for once.

That's what this is really about, isn't it? Control. Wresting it back from the people who've held it for too long. 

Your parents. Their expectations. Their constant, stifling presence even when they're miles away.

You glance at the time on your phone: 3:32 PM. About an hour before you need to leave.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because while making the appointment had been an act of defiance, of independence—actually going feels different. More real. More intimidating.

You've done your research. Read all the ‘What to expect at your first gynecology appointment’ articles online. You know it will involve questions about your sexual history (complicated), your family medical history (boring), and a physical exam (terrifying).

The problem is, you'd planned to ask Yeji to go with you. She'd been to gynecologists before. She'd know what to expect, how to act, what was normal. But she texted this morning to say she'd caught some stomach bug and could barely make it to the bathroom, let alone across town to a doctor's office.

Which leaves you... alone. 

And you shouldn't need someone to hold your hand through this. You're an adult, for fuck's sake. People do this all the time.

But the anxiety bubbling in your stomach doesn't care about logic. It's there, persistent and nagging, making you wonder if you should just cancel and reschedule for when Yeji's feeling better.

No. That's the old you talking. The you that let other people's expectations dictate your life. You need to do this, and you need to do it today.

But maybe you don't have to do it alone.

Jimin is in class right now. Emma's too far away. 

And you and Jungkook are still not talking.

You glance at your bedroom wall, the one that separates your room from Yoongi's. He's home today—you heard him shuffling around earlier, the familiar sound of his bedroom door closing, his music faintly filtering through the walls.

Yoongi's different from Jungkook. Quieter. More observant. He doesn't waste words or gestures. He doesn't fill silences just to hear himself talk.

Would it be weird to ask him? Probably. But also... maybe not. 

Yoongi has this way of making the strangest things seem normal, simply by refusing to treat them as strange.

Before you can overthink it any further, you're on your feet, moving toward your bedroom door, then to Yoongi's. Your knuckles rap against the wood before your brain can catch up with your body and tell you what a ridiculous idea this is.

There's a pause. Then shuffling. Then Yoongi's voice, slightly muffled: "Yeah?"

You open the door tentatively. Yoongi's seated at his desk, headphones on, one ear now pulled back as he swivels in his chair to face you. His expression is neutral—not annoyed, exactly, but definitely interrupted. Behind him, his computer screen glows with what looks like a complex audio editing program, tracks upon tracks stacked neatly in multicolored rows.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," you start, hovering in the doorway. "I, uh, I was wondering..."

Yoongi blinks at you, his gaze tracking over your face for barely two seconds before his eyes narrow slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and just like that, you hesitate.

Is it that obvious? Do you have ‘first-time gynecologist panic’ stamped on your forehead in neon letters? God, this is embarrassing.

"Nothing's wrong," you say, too quickly. "I just—" You take a breath. "I have a doctor's appointment, and I was supposed to go with Yeji, but she's sick, and—"

"What kind of doctor?" Yoongi's already slipping his headphones off, setting them on his desk.

"Gynecologist," you admit, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. 

You brace for awkwardness, for judgment, for that subtle shift in his expression that says this conversation just got weird.

It doesn't come.

"When's the appointment?" he asks instead, like you just told him you're seeing a dentist.

"Four forty-five."

Yoongi glances at his computer screen, then back at you. A slight furrow appears between his brows—not judgmental, more like he's calculating something.

"Is it your first time?"

Your mouth opens, then closes. 

Is there a neon sign above your head that says ‘VIRGIN TO WOMEN'S HEALTHCARE’ blinking in hot pink? How does everyone just know these things about you?

"Yeah," you admit, heat creeping up your neck. "First time."

Yoongi nods like this confirms a theory. "I can take you."

You blink at him, confused by the easy offer. "You don't have to—"

"I've done it before," he says with a small shrug. "My sisters. Lost count of how many times I've sat in waiting rooms while they got checked out."

"Your sisters?" This is new information. Yoongi has barely mentioned his family in the few weeks you've lived together.

"Two of them," he says, shrugging. “Older and younger. They'd kill me if they knew I was calling them a pain in my ass, but..." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Pain in my ass."

"I didn't know you had sisters," you say, still hovering in the doorway, surprised by this glimpse into his life.

"East Village, you said?" He inquires, stretching his arms over his head. "On 14th?"

"Yeah, but—seriously, you don't have to. I can go alone. It's fine."

Yoongi looks at you, really looks at you, his gaze direct but not unkind. "But you don't want to. That's why you're here. Give me ten minutes to finish this section, and we'll go."

The simplicity of it knocks the air from your lungs. 

No questions about why you need to go, why you can't go alone. 

Just acceptance. 

Just help.

"Thanks," you manage, your voice smaller than intended.

Yoongi makes a sound—something between a grunt and a hum—that you interpret as 'you're welcome' before focusing back on his work. You linger for a moment, uncertain, before backing out of the room and gently closing the door.

Fifteen minutes later, you're sitting next to Yoongi in an Uber, your knee bouncing nervously as you watch the city blur past the window. 

You've barely spoken since leaving the apartment, the silence between you not uncomfortable but definitely... present.

"Have you been to this doctor before?" Yoongi asks suddenly, his voice quiet in the confines of the car.

You shake your head. "First time."

"First time ever?"

There's no judgment in his tone, just curiosity, but you still feel a flush creep up your neck. "Yeah. My parents were... strict."

Yoongi nods like this makes perfect sense. "Mine too. Different things, though."

"Like what?"

He shrugs, his shoulder lifting in a smooth, controlled motion. "Music. They wanted the classical route—Juilliard, orchestra, all that. Not producing. Definitely not hip hop."

"But you did it anyway."

A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "Eventually. Took a while."

There's more to it, you can tell. You recognize it because it mirrors your own experiences—the rebellion, the constant calculation of how much you can take without being taken from.

"Are your sisters musicians too?" you ask, curious about these siblings he's mentioned.

His eyebrows lift slightly, like he's surprised you're interested enough to ask. "Mina and Soonhee? Nah, they got different rules. Mina's older—she got to do dance, no questions asked. Soonhee's the baby—she's in med school now, but she did competitive cheerleading through high school. I was the only one who got the 'practical career' lectures."

"That's fucked up."

He huffs a laugh, soft and low. "Yeah. Parents, man."

"So how'd you end up being the gynecologist escort service?"

This time, the laugh is fuller, unexpected enough that the driver glances in the rearview mirror. "Soonhee. She was seventeen, terrified of going alone, and didn't want our mom knowing yet. So I took her." He shrugs again. "After that, it was just... normal. Picked her up from appointments sometimes when our parents were working. Drove Mina a few times too."

Something about this image—Yoongi, quiet and steady, sitting in a waiting room while his sisters get their reproductive health sorted—makes your chest warm.

"That's... really nice of you."

"It's not a big deal." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "That's what family does."

The car slows as you approach your destination, and suddenly the nerves are back, coiling tight in your stomach. 

This is happening. You're really doing this.

Yoongi must sense the shift because he looks at you, his gaze direct but gentle. "They'll ask a lot of questions. Some feel invasive, but they're just doing their job. If you don't know an answer, that's okay. If something feels wrong or hurts too much, speak up. Don't just endure it."

"Okay," you whisper, and for a moment, the two of you just look at each other—you, the girl who's spent her life trying to be perfect, and him, the boy who's learned to create his own definition of it.

The car stops. The driver announces your arrival. Yoongi nods once, decisive.

"Let's go."

The waiting room is exactly what you expected: too-bright lighting, uncomfortable chairs, ancient magazines, and the faint smell of disinfectant.

What you didn't expect is how much calmer you feel with Yoongi beside you, his presence steady as you fill out paperwork on a clipboard.

"Family medical history," you mutter, scanning the form. "Like I'm supposed to know if my great-aunt had ovarian cancer."

"Just write what you know," Yoongi says, not looking up from his phone where he's responding to what looks like a work email. "They mostly want the big stuff."

You nod, focusing back on the form.

Name, date of birth, insurance information (thank god your parents still have you on their plan, even if they'd probably have a collective aneurysm if they knew what you were using it for), medications (none), allergies (none), sexual history...

Your pen hovers over the ‘number of sexual partners’ field.

Two, technically. 

One in freshman year—David, your boyfriend for all of three months, who'd been sweet but forgettable—and now Jungkook, who is... neither of those things.

Not that anyone needs to know about that particular arrangement. 

Especially not Yoongi, who lives with both of you and would make things weird if he knew. 

It's bad enough that he might hear things through the walls sometimes—though you've been careful, for the most part. Extra careful.

Because what you and Rogue have isn't something that needs to be analyzed or discussed or turned into some big thing. It's just sex. Convenient, mind-blowing, occasionally wall-banging sex. No strings, no expectations, no complications.

And honestly, there's something almost thrilling about the secrecy of it all. The way you can brush past Jungkook in the kitchen while Yoongi's there, both of you acting like you didn't have your legs wrapped around his waist twelve hours earlier. 

The control of it. 

The power in knowing something no one else does.

Soon to be three partners, maybe, if things go well with Jason. 

The thought sends an unexpected twinge through you. Not guilt, exactly, but something adjacent to it.

"You know," Yoongi says suddenly, his voice low, "I never asked why you wanted to come here today."

You glance up, surprised. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Sure. But there are lots of reasons people go to gynecologists." His eyes remain on his phone, giving you the space to answer without the weight of his gaze. "Regular check-ups. STI testing. Birth control. Problems."

"All of the above?" you say, aiming for a joke but landing somewhere closer to honesty. "Mostly birth control, though. I've been... thinking about it for a while."

And it’s true, because condoms, while effective, aren't foolproof. 

Not that you're telling Yoongi that you're sleeping with anyone, let alone Jungkook, let alone possibly Jason soon.

Some things are better kept private. Safer that way. No one's business but your own.

Yoongi nods. "Smart."

That's it. No lecture about being careful, no brotherly concern about who you might be sleeping with, no judgment about your choices. Just: smart.

"Thanks," you say, and you mean it for more than just the compliment.

"Soonhee has an IUD," he offers casually. "Says it's been good for her. Less to remember."

You blink, caught off guard by how easily he's discussing this. "I was thinking about that. Or maybe the pill."

"Makes sense." He mumbles, typing into his phone now. "Mina did the implant thing—the arm one? She had mood swings at first, but they evened out."

You're about to ask another question when a nurse calls your name. 

Suddenly, your heart is in your throat again, the clipboard clutched in your sweaty hand.

"You'll be fine," Yoongi says, taking the clipboard from you with gentle fingers. "I'll be right here."

You stand, smoothing down your shirt with shaky hands. "This is weird, right? You barely know me."

Yoongi looks up at you, calm but thoughtful. "Not that weird. We live together. That counts for something."

Something about his words steadies you. 

You've lived with your parents for most of your life—but this is the first time it's felt like more than just sharing space. 

Like there's something about proximity that builds its own kind of trust, its own kind of care.

"Thanks, Yoongi," you say again, meaning it more with each repetition.

He nods once, then returns to his phone, the conversation complete.

As you follow the nurse down the hallway, you realize something surprising: you're glad it's Yoongi out there waiting. Not Yeji, not Jimin, not anyone else.

Just Yoongi—quiet, steady, unfazed by the messiness of being human.

And for the first time since moving in, you think maybe, just maybe, this apartment isn't just a place you live.

Maybe, in some small way, it's becoming home.

Your entire life, you’ve been told what to do with your body.

Stand up straight. Smile more. Don’t eat that. Wear this. Be modest. Be pretty. Be better. Smaller. Quieter. More.

It’s a strange feeling, sitting on the edge of an exam table in a paper gown that crinkles with every breath, realizing that for perhaps the first time, you’re making a decision entirely for yourself. 

About yourself. 

By yourself.

Dr. Rivera is nothing like you imagined. You’d pictured someone older, stern, clinical. Someone who would make you feel childish and naive. 

Instead, she’s maybe mid-thirties, with a warm smile and dark curls pulled back in a bun. She sits on a rolling stool, reviewing your forms, asking questions in a voice that somehow manages to feel both professional and conspiratorial—like you’re both in on something important together.

“So this is your first time seeing a gynecologist?” she asks, looking up from her tablet.

You nod, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest, to make yourself smaller under her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Any particular reason you decided to come in now?”

Do you tell her that you’ve been having casual sex with your roommate? That you’re hoping to add a handsome TA to the rotation? That after years of letting other people—parents, professors, partners—dictate what you should do, you’re finally deciding for yourself?

“I want to start birth control,” you say instead, aiming for casual confidence but hearing the slight waver in your voice. “Something reliable.”

She nods, no judgment in her expression. “Have you been thinking about any particular method?”

“I’ve been researching a few. The pill, IUDs…”

“IUDs are excellent long-term options,” she says, setting her tablet aside. “Both hormonal and non-hormonal varieties have their advantages. The hormonal ones can help with period symptoms—lighter bleeding, less cramping. The copper one doesn’t have hormones, so there are no hormonal side effects, but periods can be heavier, especially at first.”

You’ve read all of this online, but somehow hearing it from an actual doctor makes it feel more real. 

More possible.

“How long have you been sexually active?” 

“A few years,” you say, the vagueness intentional. “Not consistently.”

“Using condoms?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Remember that birth control protects against pregnancy, but condoms protect against STIs. It’s always good to use both unless you’re in a mutually monogamous relationship and have both been tested.”

You nod, like a good student receiving familiar information. But inside, something tightens. Because you haven’t been tested. Not really. Just the standard blood work at check-ups. 

Another thing to add to the list of adult responsibilities you’re finally catching up on.

“I’d like to do a pelvic exam and Pap smear today, if that’s okay with you,” Dr. Rivera continues. “It’s recommended for women your age, and it will help us make sure everything looks healthy before we proceed with birth control.”

The exam succeeds.

And in itself it is… well, not pleasant, exactly, but not as terrible as you’d feared. 

Dr. Rivera talks you through each step—the speculum (cold, but not painful), the swabs (quick, a little uncomfortable), the manual exam (weird pressure, but over quickly). 

It’s not dignified, but it’s not humiliating either. Just necessary. Clinical. Part of being a woman with a body that needs maintenance and care.

Afterward, as you sit back up, adjusting the paper gown around your knees, she asks, “So, were you thinking you’d like to start birth control today, or did you want some time to think about options?”

“Today,” you say, the word coming out more confident than you feel. Then, because honesty seems important here: “I’m afraid if I wait, I’ll talk myself out of it.”

Dr. Rivera’s smile is understanding. “That happens more often than you’d think. If you’re interested in an IUD, I could insert one today. We have both hormonal and copper options in stock.”

Your heart jumps a little. You hadn’t expected to actually do this today. You’d thought there would be more steps, more time, more chances to second-guess yourself.

“The copper one,” you say, a decision forming as the words leave your mouth. “I’ve been reading about it. I like that there are no hormones, and that it works right away.”

“The ParaGard,” she nods. “It’s effective for up to twelve years, though you can have it removed anytime. The insertion can be uncomfortable—some women experience cramping during and after the procedure. Are you on your period now?”

You shake your head.

“That’s fine. Some doctors prefer to insert during menstruation because the cervix is naturally a bit more open, but it’s not necessary. We can do it today if you’re sure.”

Are you?

Are you sure you want to make this decision, right now, without more time to think? 

Are you sure you’re ready for this level of control, this level of commitment to your own autonomy?

The voice in your head that prompts those questions sounds suspiciously like your mother’s—whispers that maybe you should wait. Think more. Ask someone else’s opinion. Perhaps this is too rushed, too impulsive.

But then another voice rises—your own voice, tired of being drowned out—saying that you’ve thought enough. 

That waiting is just another form of letting fear make your decisions for you.

That you know what you want. 

“I’m sure,” you say, and the words feel like a declaration of independence.

Dr. Rivera walks you through the procedure, what to expect, potential side effects, when to call if something feels wrong. She’s thorough without being patronizing, clear without being alarming. By the time she leaves to gather the necessary materials, your nervousness has dissipated, and all you’re left feeling is an odd sort of calm.

This is happening. You’re choosing this. For yourself. By yourself.

And then, the actual insertion.

Which, just like the exam, isn’t pleasant. 

There’s pain—sharp, sudden, deep—as the IUD passes through your cervix. A cramping that radiates outward, making you gasp and grip the edges of the exam table. But it’s over faster than you expected, though the cramping lingers.

“You did great,” Dr. Rivera says, stripping off her gloves. “The cramping should ease up in a day or two. Ibuprofen will help. And remember what we discussed about checking the strings, about when to call if something doesn’t feel right.”

You nod, absorbing the information through the haze of discomfort and, oddly enough, a strange sense of triumph. 

Because you did it. You came here, you made a choice, and you followed through. No one told you to. No one had to approve. Just you, deciding what happens to your body.

It’s a small thing, maybe. Basic healthcare that thousands of women access every day. But to you, in this moment, it feels monumental.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it deeply.

Dr. Rivera smiles, like she understands exactly what you’re thanking her for. 

“Take your time getting dressed. The nurse will bring you some information to take home, and I’ll see you for a follow-up in a few weeks to make sure everything’s settling in well.”

When she leaves, you sit there for a moment longer, one hand resting lightly on your lower abdomen. 

There’s something in there now, something you chose, something working for you without you having to think about it. 

Protection. Freedom. Agency.

It hurts, yes. 

But it’s a hurt with purpose. 

A discomfort you’re enduring for yourself, not for anyone else.

As you dress slowly, careful of the cramping that makes you wince, you think about all the times you’ve twisted yourself into shapes that pleased others. All the choices you’ve surrendered in the name of being good, being agreeable, being what everyone else wanted.

Not this time.

This time, you chose you.

Yoongi doesn’t ask questions when you emerge, moving slightly slower than before, your face a little paler. He just stands, tucks his phone into his pocket, and falls into step beside you as you make your way out of the clinic.

“Need anything?” he asks simply as you wait for the Uber outside.

You consider for a moment. “Ice cream, maybe.”

He nods, like this is the most reasonable request in the world. “There’s a good place three blocks from here. If you’re up for the walk.”

The cramping is uncomfortable but manageable—and your need for something sweet and creamy is too compelling to deny it.

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your course to fall in beside him. “I’m up for it.”

You can’t help but think how strange really life is.

How you’re walking through the East Village with Yoongi, a copper IUD safely nestled in your uterus, making decisions that have nothing to do with what anyone else thinks you should do.

It feels like freedom. 

It feels like growing up. 

It feels, for the first time in a long while, like your life is actually yours.

Maybe that’s worth a little discomfort.

goal: 300 notes and this time I am not lowering the bar

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[straows]

Gojo fucks you like he hates you when he’s drunk.

Poll result imagine

Gojo had been knocking back shots all night. Celebrating that you’d agreed to be his finance, and accepted his ring. Lord he was happy. Got the girl of his dreams, the girl he’d been plotting over since kindergarten. The girl he has been in love with since fifth grade but he’d always sworn he’d been in love since y’all had a play date when you were both three.

It was just you and him. He didn’t want to be around anyone else for now except you. Even tho he did want to eventually show you off to all his friends.

He wore a button up shirt, the buttons unbuttoned, along with a pair of slacks. The belt unbuckled and the button unbuttoned, leaving his fly slightly unzipped. His glasses had been discarded on the counter and his hair was a mess. A sexy mess albeit.

And as he’d tap his glass on the counter and tip his head back, downing the shot— his eyes would remain on yours.

You weren’t much better. Just as buzzed as he was, and just as happy to be his and he be yours. You just wore his shirt and a pair of panties.

Hair still wet from your shower. You gave him a goofy smile, pulling him closer by his shirt. “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

“You are so corny.” A lot coming from Gojo, especially as he’d always crack the corny jokes. Letting you pull him closer, his hands resting on your hips. His forehead came to rest on yours, his eyes lidded as he stared down at you.

“Yeah? You like it.” You grinned, your nails gently raking down his chest before slipping them under his shirt. The feeling of your cold hands on his abs had them tensing, a quiet hiss leaving him.

“Maybe just a bit. But you know what I really like?” Leaning down, he whispered against your ear as he reached behind you, squeezing your ass with a grin.

You giggled, letting him pull you close as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Yeah? You like me so much.”

“Oh absolutely.” Gojo pressed a kiss to your neck, following with a bite. Your breath hitched softly, nails squeezing slightly on his shoulders.

“My husband is so whipped.” You teased, your hand raising to tangle with the hair on his nape. Grown out from an old undercut as you tug it gently.

Gojo groaned into your neck, the title ‘husband’ had his body reacting way more strongly than it should’ve. Cock straining against his boxers, heart thudding against his chest. “Fuck, it sounds so good when you say it.”

You could smile before finally pulling his face from your neck and pressing your lips against his. His mouth tasted like Malibu, tequila, and rum with some shitty chaser. And it only made you more eager.

You trusted your fiancé, you’d spoken about drunk before, and you’d both decided that it was fine. You trusted one another and had a safe word already in place.

Plus. Being drunk made it more interesting.

Before you knew it, Gojo had you riding his face, thighs on either side of his head, his arms wrapped around them to keep you planted firmly on his mouth. His tongue putting in the work as he ate you out like a man starved.

He was groaning and moaning, his eyes rolling back each time you squeeze your thighs around his head. His hips pushed up into nothing, painfully throbbing cock pressing against his boxers.

Your hands ran through his hair and tugged, guiding him so his nose would bump against your clit and you could grind on his face. And Gojo was loving every fucking second.

“F-fuck— Toru!!” You’d squeal, the pleasure had your brain short circuiting. Your thought process already thrown out the window from being more than sloshed with an array of alcoholic beverages, but with how good Gojo was working you with his mouth, lord the only thing you could think about was him.

“You taste so fucking good, pretty girl.” He’d groan against your cunt before shaking his head a bit, grinning when you’d moan louder. He knew you were close, the way your clit was throbbing against his tongue and your hole was clenching around the fingers he’d shoved inside was a tell-tell sign.

“Mm!” You could only loan in response as you felt an orgasm hit you full force. Your thighs clenching and your cunt tightening like a vice around his fingers.

Gojo moved you to sit on his lap as he sat up. His face, nose down, absolutely covered in your arousal, he only grinned and licked his lips.

Brows furrowed, face completely fucked out, you breathlessly murmured, “you are fucking filthy.”

“Mhmm, you gonna ride my cock? Let me put a baby in my future wife?” Gojo wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, your spazzing cunt resting directly on top of his bulge.

“Mmhm.” Nodding your head, you let Gojo move positions. You let him lay you on your back, and move you so you had the back of your thighs pressed against his chest, your ass resting just belong his cock as he pulled it out, letting it slap against your aching cunt.

“So good for me, shit. Not gonna last long baby.” He grunted, eyes already fluttering closed as you pressed down on his dick so it’d be squished between the lips of your cunt.

“Fuck me already, husband. Want it so bad.” You could only whine, and press you hands flat against his v-line, urging him to press inside you.

“Don’t gotta ask me twice.” Gojo was quick to slowly slide in, however, he didn’t stop to let you adjust, no he slid in straight to the hilt. Stuttered moans slipped past his lips, his hips struggling not to slam against you with how wet you were.

“O-oh fuck, want your babies— please, please,” you babbled mindlessly, the feeling of that big stretch had your mind blank. The feeling of his dick in your guts enough to make you crave him more.

“You can’t just that,” Gojo groaned, before finally giving in and pulling out, just to slam back into you.

His hands were tight around the back of your thighs, nails digging into your soft skin as he pounded into you. His pelvis flush against your ass every time he fucked his cock into your tight cunt. Groaning and mumbling incoherent shit about how you were his wife and he’d make you pregnant as fast as fucking possible.

Your nails rake down the top of his thighs, leaving behind bright red trails that had him hissing in pain, but it only had his cock throbbing.

One hand moved off your hips, and he leaned forward so low that your knees touched your chest. One hand on the bed beside your head as he balanced and put all his weight into fucking you.

“Toru~!” You’d cry out constantly, eyes rolling back as he managed to get deeper inside you. You swore you could feel him in your guts. But then again that could just be the alcohol talking.”

“S-shit, I’m not gonna last baby.” Quickly, he moved a hand down between your thighs and only your click. Moving into tight, quick circles. “Cum with me, pretty girl. Wanna feel you cream around me as I fill you up.”

Gojo’s filthy words had you whining, but you only nodded. The extra stimulation had your back arching and your nails raking down his back inside of his thighs. It didn’t take long before you were cumming around him and he was filling your puss up to the brim with his seed.

It left you both panting breathlessly, seamlessly melting against one another as Gojo pulled around and plopped down beside you.

He immediately wrapped his arms around you, his face pressing into your chest, buried in your tits. Your thighs wrapped around his arms and your hands gently raked through his hair.

Thoroughly sated and exhausted. Your head spinning as you felt your eyes forcefully close themselves.

“I love you.” Gojo smiled and pressed a kiss to the engagement ring on your finger. Before allowing himself to pass out with you.

[viorhysealberia]

I’ve identified as varying degrees of non-cis for about 15 years (with feelings that I Know werent cis for a lot longer), though only started being open about that offline about a year ago and actually started HRT about six months back. To tell the truth, I don't have a big trans success story lined up for this post yet - I'm still really early on and I haven't seen all the changes I want to see reach where I want them to reach yet, and life's a bit too turbulent to say that I've got everything figured out right now.

But the feeling of loving myself, instead of just respecting myself? Of dressing how I like, of putting on colorful makeup, of looking out for ways I can style myself? Of wondering what things I can do with my hair, what cosmetics might work for me? Of being called ‘ma’am’ in public, of being complimented on my looks for the first time in my life? Of feeling emotions with so much more life and enthusiasm than I ever felt before?

The feeling of wanting to look at myself in a mirror, just so I can swoon at the beautiful woman looking back at me?

Ladies, it's worth everything. It'd be worth it on its own. Knowing it's only gonna get better just makes me more excited for what comes next, and it's a feeling I think everyone should get to experience.

If the only thing stopping you is your nerves - start HRT. The sheer joy of finally feeling like you're You is right around the corner, as long as you take those steps. And I promise you - if you push through that fear, it WILL be worth it.

Hi girls, let’s do something! Reblog to this post with a picture of yourself, or a transition timeline if you feel comfortable about it, and things that make you happy and comfortable about yourself! To spread a bit of positivity, and show the girls that are scared that there’s joy on the other side.

[twistedpink]

Hiya hiya it's me again! (And I hope you are having a good night/day) So where I was left off, house wardens taking care of your back because they left so many scratches after a spicy night 😳 but also maybe with different reactions and how they noticed the scratches??? I can't think of any scenarios 😭 but I would love to hear your opinion 👍

TYTY IM FREED

I just KNOW Riddle is an A+ scratcher. NOTHING is off limits. Your only saving grace is with how groomed his nails are, you’re practically mark free! Goes bright red and sighs a lot (GUILTY 🫵🤯) when the time comes to apply antiseptic, but is overall v thorough and gentle, 7/10. Usually notices if you sleep naked or he’s fixing your collar/hair!

Leona is the second worst, and not because he needs a lot of grounding, but his nails are LONG LONG for no reason,, God your poor legs,, 5/10. Prone to scraping you up during play fights, but isn’t very guilty about it unless you express a fear of infection or scarring.. Lowkey blames YOU for not cutting his nails, but only because he doesn’t want to hurt his pookie <3 (laughs at you for having thin skin. Secretly wants you to get him back x10.)

Refuses to have long nails. Being very much a “real men only have clear coats” guy, Azul doesn’t scratch, but it’s the hitting that’s bad,, He can’t help it, but that doesn’t make it BETTER!! No matter how gentle he goes about it, the little pinches and punches against your skin’ll bruise eventually, but he’s always open to massages! 6/10. V pathetic and cute about it. (Please don’t eat him)

VERY SWEET! VERY DEMURE! Kalim only scratches on purpose!! With all the oils and creams you’re slathered with it’s a challenge to get any real grip, but sometimes you’ve gotta scratch that mental itch with a physical one,, Straight up LATCHES so it’s just crescent moon after moon on your biceps and back, but he makes a point to kiss and soothe every. Single. One. So you can’t stay toooooo mad :D,, 9/10!!

Vil cares too much about the both of you to “mark you up” in that way- Of course he has moments of weakness where your hair and neck pay the price, but cat scratches just aren’t in the cards for you,, You KNOW that’ll mess up his manicure, and do you want to spend an hour getting patched up?? Okay maybe you do,, But that’s besides the point! He has things to do that don’t involve cleaning sweat and grossness from under his nails. 5/10 for cleanliness. Might as well bang in a hospital bed. There’s no advanced sloothing for how he finds them, just that your nightly back scratch turns into a horror movie pretty quick,,

One accurate word describes Idia and his gamer nails. Grooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssssss,, The ONLY way to trim them is to hold him down like a dog getting clipped, and even then he’s still whining about how they’ll break on their own time- He knows they’ll get all snaggy, but doesn’t he look cool? (Don’t encourage his delusion) Very much cultivating claws rather than human nails, but is emotionally attached to your mangled back. 4/10. Doesn’t have to “discover” them, knows EXACTLY what he’s doing.

The one true exfoliater to trump them all,, Malleus may not have experience or sex appeal on his side, but he has HOOKS in you, and that’s a sure way to keep you loyal!! He gasps like a murder witness whenever you get naked because “my word however could this happen??” while crying a little and trying to stop his lip from quivering :( Basically wraps you in bubble wrap and puts himself in a chastity belt, but not before having the worst phone call of your life and getting his dad to patch you up!! Lilia KNOWS what you’ve been up to and couldn’t be prouder! Just learn how to use a nail file for next time, alright? 8/10!! <3

@bju3c0re @kyokills

[azzibuckets]

letters from dallas part 1

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: in which i neglect all the other series and fics im supposed to be writing to send more angst ur way <3

lfd masterlist | main masterlist

May 1, 2025

Dear Azzi,

It fucking sucks here.

I know I’m supposed to be thankful for this opportunity. And I am, I swear. My teammates are nice. Arike’s been showing me around downtown. Nai and Lyss are funny. They’ve adopted me, called me their child. They remind me of us.

My therapist said it’s good to write down my feelings. Not sure how she’d say if it was letters, letters to you, but hey, something is better than nothing.

I saw a trailer for Frozen 3 last week and I thought of you. I hope you’re doing well. I called KK the other day. She was so excited - I felt bad. I haven’t been as good as I wanted to be with talking to our team - well, your team now - but it hurts too much knowing that they get to spend every day with you and I can’t. I asked her about you. She seemed hesitant to tell me. But I kept nagging her and she told me you’re good, spending a lot of time reading and stuff. Said they finally got you off Colleen Hoover. She wants me to move on, I can tell. It’s killing both of us, how I can’t let you go. But I guess writing these letters and stuffing them in my closet are how I’m trying to get my closure and deal with my feelings, so maybe this will help.

You’re on my fucking mind all the time, and I wish you weren’t. I miss you so bad sometimes it hurts to exist. If you saw the amount of melatonin I take every every night just to avoid you in my dreams, you’d probably yell at me.

Love,

Paige

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 7, 2025

Dear Azzi,

Have I mentioned that Drew hasn’t been talking to me? He blames me for our breakup, and he misses you like hell. I do too.

I played like shit in the game yesterday. I can’t believe we lost to the Sparks. It was nice seeing Cam again though. I don’t know if you remember, but it’s our anniversary. I saw that you were at the soccer game with the girls. You looked really good, really happy. I guess it doesn’t affect you like it affects me. And I know that should make me like, mad, or jealous. But I’m glad at least one of us is healing?

Honestly? it sucks having to see your face all over social media. It sucks even more whenever I go on my Instagram page and you’re all over it too. I could be salty and delete all of it, but that would start too much drama. Besides, that would mean deleting like half my posts

I wonder how Jose and Jon are doing. Jon unfollowed me the other day. That one hurt pretty bad. I miss my little brothers, and I miss your parents.

Love,

Paige

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 28, 2025

Dear Azzi,

Yesterday was a fucking shit show. Honestly, I didn’t expect you to even show up when I heard you guys were coming. It was weird, seeing you in the audience. It was everything I’d always imagined, you coming to my games, but it also made me feel sick, knowing this is what could’ve been. What should’ve been. I was nervous the last quarter thinking about what to say to you after the game, but god, Azzi, you couldn’t even look at me. I tried to talk to you after the group pic but you disappeared.

Maybe it’s a good time to tell you that Katie and Tim were at my game last week, against the Mystics. I’m gonna be honest, when I saw they were there, I avoided them, and I’m not proud of it. I ran to my car straight after the presser but somehow they found where I parked and were waiting next to it?? If this was a different circumstance I would’ve laughed.

All they told me was great game before I started crying. I don’t even know what came over me. But your mom hugged me and that made me cry even harder. They told me I was their daughter no matter what, and they loved me. I wrote it down as soon as I left because I didn’t ever wanna forget.

Azzi, we didn’t even marry each other like we promised, and I still feel like we left a broken family. I didn’t mean for this many people to get hurt, for this many relationships to shatter because ours did.

It makes forgetting you so much harder, and that’s what pisses me off. That I’ve injured my knee and gone through months of rehab and moved across the country to a brand new city, yet this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

From,

Paige

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 2nd, 2025

Dear Azzi,

I was calling KK again and I didn’t ask about you this time. I think I’m making some progress.

Arike keeps trying to get me with some of her friends, but it still doesn’t feel right. I think I need a little bit more time.

From,

Paige

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 20, 2025

Dear Azzi,

I turn 24 today. Damn I feel old. I’ve spent a third of my life now loving you.

From,

Paige

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 22nd, 2025

Dear Azzi,

I just got your present in the mail. You didn’t have to. I love it. Thank you.

- Paige

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November 11, 2025

Happy birthday big head. I think you probably received my gift by now. I debated on writing a card, but you didn’t write me one, and I’ve decided to leave the cards (haha) in your hand. So I’m just following your lead. I hope you enjoy 23.

- Paige

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 7, 2025

Azzi,

Hell of a game yesterday. Proud of you. National player of the year performance

- P

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 5, 2026

Az,

LET’S FUCKING GOOOO. Shit, man. Two peat natty champs??? Unbelievable. My hands are tweaking out, I can’t even read my own handwriting. I knew you could do it, Az. Thank you for not forcing me to wear irish merch..I never look good in green like you do

- P

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 13, 2026

Azzi,

Drafted to the Sky????

See you so fucking soon

Nice fit at the draft btw

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

May 16, 2026

Dear Azzi,

Fuck, the way you smiled at me after that game. Maybe I’ll have the courage to finally text you. I know it’s probably not the best idea but…I still regret everything. It’s been a little bit more than a year and it still hurts as bad as it did the first day. Is this normal?

Love,

Paige

[star-suh]

Boy Toy

Jung Sungchan x Male Reader

—

being an idol is though work, dealing with rehearsals, learning choreos, recording songs, being in front of a lot of people, etc. but there's one specific member that has one more problem to add to all that, sungchan, who has a massive cock paired with a high libido, he started to masturbate thinking that would be enough, that worked –but only for some months– then he move on to use toys, fleshlights, cock rings, a vibrating wand or one of those silicon fleshlights shape like an ass, surprisingly this worked for him but soon it got tired for him, he wanted to try the real thing, a warm tight hole to obliterate with his huge veiny cock. man was big everywhere –height and dick size–.

but all changed one day when sungchan went to a vacation resort with his member yn, they were there to record a vlog for their youtube channel. one night yn walked out of the bathroom looking for his underwear, using the towel to just cover his dick with one hand. he looked everywhere for it – even in the floor, but didn't find them, “maybe i still have them on my bag” when he turns around he realizes sungchan was there all the time, he watched how yn cheeks opened, showing his hole when he crouched to search on the floor, “oh my god sungchan !!” he jumped surprised. they both made eye contact for a time until sungchan stroked his big bulge, “would you help me?. i need it… please” the taller one said, letting the other guy know what he wanted. sungchan is a really handsome guy and by the looks he's packing too “w-why?” yn asks. “i had fuck every toy that exists but they end up breaking apart and they're not as warm as a real one.. please just this time” he was practically begging yn to let him use his ass, “okay, but just this time”..

“fuck you’re so big” yn struggled to go down sungchan’s hard rock dick, “yeah it’s a pain in the ass sometimes, my toys constantly break” he says while guiding yn’s hips with his hands, making him go down little by little. the tight hole engulfing each inch. “you’re gonna split me in half sungchan” yn cried when he finally bottomed out. leaning backwards made a bulge to form on yn’s stomach, a bulge that sungchan touched slightly and made yn’s body to spasm a little, “holy shh-” yn gulped, “it feels funny” he hissed. “it does. stay like that a little bit” –yn complied– sungchan started to do circular motions with his point finger on top of it, drawing little whimpers out of yn’s mouth. sungchan’s hips rocking slightly due to yn squeezing him every time the sensitive bulge is touched. “i think i’m ready. you can move now”.

it started with slow thrusts, sungchan pushing his massive dick up while yn held a steady squat position, his hole being stretched continuously by such a girthy dick, he had never seen one like that before. every vein filling every crevice on yn’s insides, they accommodate perfectly to sungchan’s length. then the thrusts started to get faster and faster. “you’re better than all those toys i bought” sungchan added, lowering yn with his hands gripping the other’s hips, “ride me” he asked and yn did as he was told. first he rocked his hips front to back with the top’s length still inside him, “phew, this feels better than i thought sungchan”, “yeah i know, nothing better than a tight warm hole to hug my big dick”. yn now went up and down, making sure to always go all the way up to the tip and then slamming himself back down, balls deep. sungchan, desperate for release and more satisfaction, started to meet yn’s thrusts, smacking and wet sounds reverberating throughout the whole room. yn, now laying on the bed face down, was moaning in ecstasy, feeling how deep sungchan was capable to reach with his dick, “fuck you make me feel so good yn” sungchan purred along with grunts and pants. “why don’t you become my toy” he cheerfully asked, his dick jabbing at yn’s obliterated hole constantly, “i won’t be able… to handle that fucking cock” yn uttered, drool coming out of his mouth.

“don’t worry, you just need to practice, we will have a lot of time for that”. yn’s ass bounced every time the other made a powerful thrust that even made the bed creak a little. sungchan being cocky about his big frame he lifted the bottom from behind, folding him in half in an attempt to go even deeper, “cum with my yn please” sungchand murmured on his ear, his hot breath tickling his neck. but yn wasn’t able to comply to sungchan’s request, shortly after he resumed his thrusts yn came hands free, he couldn’t hold anymore the constant abuse his sweet spot was suffering, “i-i’m so so..rry” yn pled, “i’ll make it up to you next time sung.. chann…”, sungchan feeling disappointed threw him towards the bed, “of course you have to, but as a punishment i would be using you all night”.

the whole night went by sungchan using his strength and big dick to whore yn out to his pleasure, something about yn having a way smaller frame than him but so capable of taking his whole length send sungchan into a frenzy, he was the perfect candidate to be his personal fleshlight, “finally a toy that won’t break so easily… yet” and almost evil smirk forming in his face. loads and loads of cum oozing out of yn, sungchan wasn’t only blessed with a big dick but also with huge balls that can apparently make a lot of cum, that’s what yn thinks. sungchan pulls out with a pop sound, his cock semi-hard leaking with the white liquid, “there’s nothing left” he whips out his dick trying to clean it of the liquid, then he uses his hand to clean the remains and made yn lick them, he licks them as if he was sucking sungchan’s dick, “good boy” he praised, “here, have a treat” he guided the head of his cock towards yn’s mouth, just suck the tip, you can suck the shaft later in another session”. yn sucked on it like a lollipop, making sure to make eye contact with sungchan, he looked majestic, his toned muscles glistening with sweat, his hands went up caressing every ab and pinching his nipples. sungchan grunted in pleasure, “shhhhit… so good”. at the end they both fell asleep with sungchan being the big spoon so yn could cockwarm him until they had to wake up and record the vacation vlog.

[ldydeath]

Feels Like I'll Die Without You Part 3 | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: You and Jiyong have to deal with the consequences of your actions.  Word count: 1.5k Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, angst, unrequited love Author’s Note: sorry friends, I don’t think we’re going to see happiness for a bit. This  is the third installment in this series, you can read previous chapters here. 

It had been weeks since Jiyong’s album release. Weeks since your life had completely derailed. When you’d left South Korea no pictures from the party had been posted yet, not really. Not that it mattered, you weren’t in any. By the time you’d gotten home that had changed. Not only had they been posted, you'd been in a lot of them. Harmless at first but there were two that incriminated you. One of you and Jiyong talking, him whispering in your ear and you looking like you could ravish him then and there. The other was him leading you to the bathroom, your hand in his. 

Your boyfriend had them pulled up on his phone, bags packed when you’d gotten home. You didn’t really have to explain anything, he knew and he wasn’t willing to forgive and forget. It was fair, you wouldn’t have forgiven him either. And now as if the world hadn’t frowned on you enough, you were sick. 

You laid in bed, scrolling your phone, wishing you could take back the events of the previous month. You didn’t have feelings for Jiyong, you don’t even know why you’d done it. The thrill of doing something for you, maybe? He was still Jiyong, you’d loved him once and maybe those feelings were just too strong to ignore when you were with him. You couldn’t be with him, though. There was no reality in which that worked out for either of you. 

Your phone rang, Jiyong’s name filling the screen and against your better judgement you answered.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” You leaned back on your bed, hoping you didn’t look as sick as you felt. 

“Just wanted to make sure you got home ok.” He paused, studying your face. “You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question. Of course he could tell you weren’t your best. 

“I’ve been home for almost a month, Ji. And yes. I’ve got the flu or something. I’ll be fine.” 

“Mhm. You could’ve at least texted and told me you made it in.” 

“Sorry I was a little busy being dumped when I got back.” You sighed. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.” 

The phone went black and Jiyong winced. There was a small part of him that thought you’d stay in Korea, get back together with him, and live happily ever after. That apparently wasn’t happening. You’d been home and single this whole time and hadn’t reached out. Maybe he should move in. No, he knew he should. But he couldn’t. 

There was nothing but silence for another week. Jiyong’s finger hovering over your name to call you at least twenty times, but he knew he shouldn’t. You’d call him when you were ready. Or at least that’s what he hoped. 

You sat in shock, staring at the test in your hand. Staring back at you were two pink lines, and a bunch of other tests that read similarly. You were pregnant. Fuck. One stupid decision had quite literally changed your life forever. And of course the father was Jiyong. Of course it was.  With a sigh, you picked up your phone and sent a text to Jiyong. You knew there was a better way to tell him this news, but you didn’t have the brain power to handle that right now. 

Tour rehearsals were in full force, with the tour starting in a little over a week, Jiyong had dedicated all his free time to make sure everything was perfect for his fans.. It helped to not think about you. As he was doing another fitting his phone buzzed, a smile spreading across his face when he saw your name appear on the screen. He opened the text quickly and almost dropped the phone.

I’m pregnant, yes it’s yours. 

“I gotta go.” He grabbed his security team and all but ran out of the studio. He didn’t even think as he called in the first class tickets, well aware that they only had the clothes on their backs. He’d figure it out when they got to you. He just needed to get to you. Eighteen hours later he was outside your house realizing the time. It was the middle of the night, but he didn’t care. He rang the bell hoping your stupid boyfriend hadn’t come to his senses and taken you back. He wasn’t ready to come face to face with another guy tonight. 

“What are you doing here?” You blinked as you took in the sight of him and his security team. 

“I got your text.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” You sighed as you stepped aside to let them in. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“You’re really pregnant?” Jiyong walked over to you, unsure of what to do with his hands and letting them fall to his side.

“Yes.” You shifted, aware of your audience and folded your arms tightly across your chest. 

“I’ll move here. Whatever it takes. I have to be in their life.”  Your eyes locked in his as he spoke and you shook your head. 

“Your life is in Korea, and your tour starts there in a few days.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me.” He smirked. 

“Jiyong.”

“Right, sorry. Not the time.” He shook his head. “I mean it though, I’ll move here. I can find a place during my breaks and we can figure this out. You know I’ve always wanted a family and now we can finally have it, together.” 

“Jiyong, we’re not going to be together. Your life is in Korea, mine is here. We can co-parent when the baby is old enough to travel that distance.” 

This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Jiyong had wished for a wife and a baby his whole life and now that he was finally having a baby he was being told he couldn’t be in their life. That despite everything you still didn’t want him. His heart was shattering in his chest. This was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, not his worst nightmare.

“We can figure it out later. Just let me be here for you. This is half my fault.” He was pleading. Your expression softened and you moved to place your hand in his arm. 

“We will figure it out, I promise you that. But you shouldn’t be here. You guys are welcome to stay here tonight but you need to go home.” 

Jiyong nodded, avoiding your face and signaled for his team to take the guest rooms before moving to the couch. You watched as he moved the cushions around and removed his hat before laying down. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Going to sleep.” Jiyong shrugged, folding his arms over his chest. 

“You’re not sleeping on the couch, come on.” You held out a hand for him, helping him off the couch.

It probably wasn’t the best idea, leading him to your room but the selfish side of you needed him close. You still weren’t feeling great and well, this news was going to change both of your lives forever. The least he could do was hold you while you tried to come to peace with that. 

You both slipped into bed and Jiyong moved to hold you against him. He knew this wouldn’t amount to anything, he couldn’t make you love him no matter how hard he tried to impress you. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to show you he wasn’t that guy you’d broken up with all those years ago anymore. 

You scooted into him, laying your head on his chest, instantly hating how much you two still fit together. You couldn’t think like this, not now. You two hadn’t worked back then, there was no reason to believe you’d work out now. You just needed to shut your brain off. You closed your eyes and let sleep take you away as you held onto the comfort of Jiyong. 

Morning came too quickly, Jiyong was sure he hadn’t slept at all. He’d watched you all night, not wanting to move while you slept. He didn’t know when he’d get another night like this, maybe never, and he wanted to hold onto for as long as possible. You had been right though, he needed to get back home and with flights booked there was no reason for him to stay. Unless of course you asked him too. 

He slid out from under your grip, placing a pillow where his body had been. You stirred but didn’t wake up, thankfully. He leaned down placing a kiss on your head and let out a sigh as he watched you sleep for a minute longer. 

“I love you.” He whispered before walking out of the room. 

It was easier this way, to leave while you were asleep. He didn’t know if he’d be able to fly back to Korea if you’d been awake. But if this is what you wanted, he was going to respect it no matter how hard it was. If all he got out of this life was the opportunity to co-parent with you, that was just going to have to be enough.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @loveesiren @tulentiy @sherrayyyyy @gdinthehouseee

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

Omg omg make "If she grew her hair long, act girlier, and stop looking so grumpy I think she would be more popular........ I'll kill you" a set of one shot scenarios for those bllk guys you mentioned😭😭😭✨

boyish - c. hyoma

fem!reader

“you know, chigiri, i feel like a lot of girls like you. like, a lot.”

chigiri stared up at the boy in front of him, one who had suddenly just sat down in front of him during lunch, who chigiri was also too apathetic to learn the name of. the crowded classroom was hot and far too packed for chigiri to go out of the room without bumping into at least ten people, so chigiri decided that he was simply too lazy to leave and just allowed the boy to sit in front of him and yap.

“uh huh.” chigiri mumbled, shoving a mouthful of rice through his lips. he wasn't interested in the least; he already had a girlfriend, and you were the best possible lover he could ever ask for. “i don't really care.”

sure, you were both off to a rough start with your cropped short hair and rather boyish traits as opposed to his long silky hair and more feminine traits, but all that mattered was that you both loved each other right now and will still love each other in the future. the boy laughed. “you got that apathetic rizz, huh? well, girls love it. i should try someday.” the boy hummed as his eyes darted to chigiri. “although i heard you've got a girlfriend.”

chigiri stiffened before his eyebrows knit together. he had a bad feeling about this; any mention of other girls and then suddenly his girl never meant something good. chigiri began cracking his knuckles underneath his desk, ready for a fight. he shoved his box of bento back into his lunchbox before glaring up at the boy who was talking.

“you know, she's alright, i guess, but wouldn't she look way better with longer hair and more makeup? maybe wear some nail polish too. i mean, her hair barely goes below her ear, and she doesn't really wear makeup, and her nails are always dir--”

“i'm going to kill you.” chigiri muttered, before kicking his leg directly into the shin of the boy. chigiri heard a crack before deciding to abandon his laziness and walk out of the room. the boy held his aching shin up to his chest, practcially screaming as tears flew to his eyes. “don't talk about her like that ever again. in fact, don't talk about her ever again.”

everyone surrounded the boy profusely, many hurrying out to call the nurse. meanwhile, chigiri walked down the hallway with long, slow strides. you had been in the teacher's lounge for a while to help the teacher with something, but you had ran down the hallway to see chigiri the moment you heard someone whispering about it when they entered the teacher's lounge. “hyoma? what happened? why-”

chigiri just shrugged, taking your hand to walk back to the classroom. “it's nothing. just gave him what he deserved.” your head cocked to the side, but chigiri remained silent. you could make your appearance anything, and as long as you were happy, chigiri wouldn't mind.

a/n: this is my first time ever officially writing for chigiri, so i hope this is accurate!

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Yeah, the whole "ask the autistic kid a pointed question to get a funny answer with which to demean them" thing was a real motif for me too, back when I was growing up. Actually, I think it's part of a wider trend with bullies. They're not clever, but they possess the low, animal cunning of rat, or maybe a ferret. They'll find the thing that seems trivial to the authority figures in your life but which matters SO SO MUCH to you, and that's what they'll use to get at you. I do think being the kid on the receiving end of that has one thing to be said for it: it gives you a really good sense of what humans are. I went through a lot of bullying - most of it baiting me to see how long it would take me to blow my top and go beserk, but quite a bit of physical abuse, too. I don't consider myself traumatised as per the original post, but I think I have a very fucking clear idea of what the human animal is when you peel off its mask of civility and sophistication. When people see you as a victim- as someone who can't defend themselves- they get very comfortable showing you who they really are. And more often than not, who they really are is a mean-spirited scumbag with the IQ of pond-slime. The good news? They're mean-spirited scumbags with the IQ of pond-slime, so sooner or later your life is going to be much richer, more interesting and more fulfilling than theirs, just because you're capable of joys and sorrows and passions that their invertebrate minds could never aspire to. Consider this the inspirational part of the blog post: you will love more fully than they will. You will live with less compromise. You will not be defined, as they are, by the miserable cycle of work, consumption and recouperation that capitalism has made of human existence, because you will have a developed and complex inner life denied to those insensitive blocks who seek to torment you. And, because you have seen what humans are really like, you will have an easier time identifying the people who aren't like that. One day, you will find your tribe in a way that they cannot, and belive me: you are mighty with your tribe. Yes, while you're going through bullying, it feels like they're predators and you're prey, but here's the thing: being predators is all they have. It's the only thing in their pointless, empty little lives and if they ever experience happiness, it's only because they're too dumb to realise how miserable they ought to be.

Now for the less inspirational bit. Yes, things do get better, but you've still got to get through the bullshit first. My advice? I don't have any, but I know what worked for me: violence. I think a lot of the reason I'm not wholly traumatised by my childhood and why I'm so much less bitter than I might otherwise be is that I defended myself in the most literal and primal sense at the time. That counts for more than we're willing to admit to in this neutred fucking age. Not every time (I was smart enough, even then, to realise that getting a reputation as a violent person could be a serious problem), but often enough that I can look back fondly on those rare, wonderful occasions when I just stopped taking it and lamped a cunt with the nearest blunt object instead. I can look myself in the eye (well, if there's a mirror handy, anyway) and say "I gave as good as I got and acquitted myself well". Doesn't do jack-shit in the short-term, because bullies are usually too fucking dumb to fear physical reprisal, but years later it helps keep the wolf from the door. I know that violence can backfire. I know that it can get folk institutionalised and that I was, in some ways, very lucky to grow up with a family who understood its uses and value on some level. I know that it can lead to escalation. But I also know that I've never regretted throwing a punch at someone who earned it and do regretted quite a few missed opportunities to throw one.

So yeah. Take that or leave it.

the thing that always gets me ESPECIALLY about autistic representation in media is that we are universally portrayed as happy-go-lucky, whimsical children, completely oblivious to the fact that the world constantly judges and scorns and HATES us.

We notice. I noticed. The reason I am as messed up as I am today is because i spent 20 LONG years in an environment where every day i was subjected to that. To noticing.

what an absolutely neurotypical view of us. Coddling themselves, getting to act like the way they treat us is fine because we don't understand that our peers dont respect us. Why would we? We're so subhuman to them, it's like asking if your cat notices you playfully insulting it.

Every autistic person I've ever met is on some level bitter and angry and TRAUMATIZED at their upbringing. Of having to go through school as the laughing stock, as the weirdo with no friends who no one wants to talk to, as the animal in the corner you can make do cheap tricks so they can experience some Simulacra of what genuine human connection is.

Now tell me, does it sound like I didn't notice?

[alllgator-blood]

I AM OPENING MY ASK BOX AGAIN

I have gotten more DM's in the past two weeks than the whole time I've been on here and I think it's cause my asks are closed, I still don't know how good I'm doing socially BUT I'm doing better than I thought I would, so maybe it's time?? I'm trying to feel okay with not putting 100% effort into every response or and not feeling like I have to draw something 100% of the time, cause I noticed even the mega-popular people in this fandom tend to just do sketches as responses to asks a lot of the time? Nobody was *making* me do it, I just kept thinking "I answered one ask this way and it's gonna seem unfair if I don't do the same for every single one in the future" and then suddenly I had 200+ asks lmao

Anyway idk what else to put so here's this drawing I literally don't remember making but exists on my pc anyway

[lunarxcity]

Why you? (Part IV to Why me?)

azriel x rhys' sister! reader

angst/eventual comfort (Now Azriel is in his healing era, don't worry he does suffer in this chapter so prepare for the azriel angst. You can't be in a healthy relationship when you are mentally at your worst and lashing out at everyone around you and Azriel is learning this the hard way.)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, and III if you missed them!

-

They say that misery breeds loneliness, or was it misery likes company, either way Azriel couldn't remember how it went but he knew he felt miserable and alone.

You were gone and Rhys had banned him from seeing Elain, even though it didn't matter. He couldn't even look at her without feeling crushing guilt. Guilt for considering killing your friend for the sole reason of him wanting to fight for his mate, which any honorable fae male would have done. Guilt for possibly driving you out from the Night Court. Guilt for dragging Elain into this and then ignoring her.

To say that Azriel has been a mess would be an understatement. After needing to sleep in your bed to calm himself down the night you left, he hasn't had a decent night's sleep. At this point, his dark circles had dark circles, he hadn't shaved, and he has basically been on autopilot for the past 3 months.

Him and Rhys hadn't been on good terms for the first month, but he came around and apologised for the way he spoke to him. They were civil, but Azriel didn't know how he could be close with him again after what he said. If you were there you would have played the peacekeeper, telling him what to say and scolding Rhys for his lack of sensitivity. He thinks about you more than he would care to admit, which is saying something because he's been admitting it a lot lately.

The first 2 weeks were so rough for Azriel that he threw himself into his work, not talking to anyone and even missing his training which he can't recall having ever done. He walked into the training ring and first thing Cassian did when he saw him for the first time since the night you left was laugh and say, "Oh brother, you look a bit rough for wear. You have obviously had better days."

Azriel didn't say anything. His face was set in the same straight-faced look that he had been wearing every day. He just walked up to Cassian and began fighting him. You would think that missing 2 weeks of training out of the hundreds of years wouldn't make a difference, but he had lost every single sparring match between him and Cassian. You would have loved to see it, you probably would have been on the sidelines laughing saying that Azriel needed to be humbled with his snowball fight record. His thoughts strayed to you and he was immediately snapped out of it by Cassian landing a blow on his right jaw sending Azriel to the ground."

"You seem distracted brother. I am always here if you want to talk." He holds his hand out as a truce, but Azriel doesn't take it. He was upset and in pain and feeling a flurry of emotions that he didn't know how to deal with. He picked himself up and told Cassian, "I appreciate it brother, but I don't need you or Nesta or Rhys trying to fix me." Granted he realised he was being a bit dramatic, but his adrenaline was high and didn't know how to deal with what he was feeling, let alone what he was feeling.

Azriel turns his back on Cassian, beginning to storm off from the training ring. "You think she would want you to suffer in Silence? To keep hurting everyone else because you're trying to outrun your problems? " Azriel stilled. "If she cared enough, she wouldn't have left. Why should I care about myself when she is so repulsed by me that she would prefer an enemy of the Night Court's company over mine?" His voice was ice that sending shivers down Cassians spine, this was the feared Spymaster of the Night Court speaking, not his brother.

"For someone who's job it is to collect information, you truly do not know anything." Cassian shook his head and took off into the sky before Azriel could say anything.

Great now that's two of his brother's that he's not on great terms with. Things with Cassian continued to be tense and since he was also on Rocky grounds with Rhys, things had become a bit awkward with Feyre and Nesta. Yes they were polite and would invite him to things and he would still have his weekly coffee with Nesta, but things were a lot more tense since they couldn't even bring up their mates.

No one in the inner circle would bring you up, not to Azriel at least. He knew they talked about you and Azriel, both in friendly hangouts he wasn't invited to and the family dinners that he had been dodging. He knew that they probably had a lot to say when the insomnia had gotten so bad that he needed to take residence in your room. He doesn't know the exact details because the shadows have been withholding information from him too. Just what he needed another person who had an issue with him, this one actually being part of him.

At this point he was on the best terms with Amren which actually started an unlikely friendship. He must have looked so pathetic for Amren to invite him over for tea. It started with talks of the prison, which then led to the inner circle, which then led to inner workings of the Night Court. Tea with Amren became a normal ordeal, she didn't treat him differently and was the same blunt Amren she's always been. It was a good distraction.

He wore the gloves you had gifted him regularly, even if his hands weren't bothering him, he liked the sense of comfort he felt when he wore them. He still felt a mix of emotions when he thinks about your departure, he's angry with you for leaving him here like this, sad because he feels like you have given up on him, and most of all feeling like he's an idiot because all he wants is for you to come home. To come back to him.

Rhys had assigned him on his first mission, a recon mission in the Dawn Court. Azriel had begged to go to the Autumn Court, to at least check on you and make sure you're okay, but Rhys immediately shut him down every time. It's a two week long mission and he was ready to go. The blade you gave him for Solstice had been left in your desk, since Azriel moved to your room. It was too special to him to risk damaging it, so he left it there but he feels like he wouldn't be doing your gift justice if he didn't wear it on his mission.

At this point it had been about 6 weeks without you. He took the blade from the sheath you had also had made for him and inspected it. The silver metal shone in the sunlight, and the blade was the thinnest and sharpest he had ever seen. Outside the silver edge of the blade there was a clear outlining that went all the way around the edges of the blade. He assumed this was the blood bind, so Azriel took the blade and sliced his left hand. The blood weld and the blade absorbed it, the clear lining turned red with blood and once it had decided that was enough blood spilled to activate the blood bond, the red turned into a shimmering black.

Azriel admired and then sheathed the blade. He turned and looked at himself in the mirror and almost jumped at the sight. He truly did look terrible, the beauty of the blade you had crafted for him a contrast over his current ragged state. Your blade. That you had made for him.

Azriel knew he hadn't been the greatest friend lately. He skipped the things you guys would usually do to try and get to know Elain better, his reasoning being you guys have already spent so much time together and would have so much more. He wishes he could go back in time and deck himself for even thinking that. He misses your coffee runs. He misses pranking Rhys with you. He misses laughing with you at Cassian being well Cassian. He misses your laugh.

He doesn't even need you there, he would take whatever small part of you he can and would happily thank the Mother for even allowing him that small respite. He's coming to realise that in the midst of his cruel and miserable existence, you had been the one ray of light in his life and that when the Mother decides that it's his time and he's nothing more than stardust scattered across the universe or the Mother decides to take her revenge for the sins he's committed in this life that it's the sound of your laugh that would carry him away. If the Mother was good she would allow him the luxury of scattering you with him, but ashes are plentiful and he only needs a single ember.

In the silence of your room, haunted by the ghost of your absence Azriel breaks. Tears stream down his face for the second time in this very spot and realizes that something needs to change, that he needs to change.

When Azriel returns from his mission, he knocks on Cassian's door. Cassian opens the door, his face is straight and devoid of his usual smile. "Are you finally ready to talk or am I going to have to kick your ass again and watch you storm off and brood some more." Azriel begins to feel shy, it is not a feeling that is common to him nor one he likes. This was already very hard for him, but he also forgot that Cassian was Cassian and he wouldn't allow him to walk in like nothing happened. Azriel knods and looks at Cassian with determination in his eyes, "I'm ready." Cassian matches his seriousness and then breaks down in laughter and brings Azriel into a bone-crushing hug. "I'VE MISSED YOU BROTHER." Azriel normally would have tried to get out of it, but he needed this.

Azriel sat down and told Cassian his problems. All of them. They started mid-day and didn't end until passed out after sunrise. He told him about feeling worthless and left out. He told him about you and how he doesn't know what he did or how to fix it but does know he's going insane like this. He talked about Rhys and how that whole situation had really affected him, Cassian had no idea and was so upset that he left for an hour or two and came back bloodied. 15 minutes later Nesta came in and brought him bandages and ice while telling him good job for putting Rhys in his place.

This became regular for Azriel. Him and Cassian would talk out all his problems one by one and he would actually try to do something to fix them. Cassian talked with Madja, and Azriel was now seeing her regularly as she claimed that "illnesses of the mind must be given the same level of attention as illnesses of the body." He started showing up to family dinners again. He apologised to Elain and told her that he couldn't go on with what they were doing because he wasn't in a place for anything right now and could barely deal with himself. She understood and was happy he was finally getting the help he needed. He told her not to wait for him and that it would be better for them to remain friends and she agreed.

Azriel began doing things for himself. He went to your guys' favourite bakery on the regular. He started reading all the books you had left on your shelf. He even started playing piano again, a hobby he had long forgotten, but only remembered because found his old compositions stuffed in a book on your shelf. He had no clue how you got them, he thought they were all thrown away, but nonetheless he was glad to have them.

Things were looking up for Azriel. The only thing bothering him was that he still didn't have you here or know why you left. No one would tell him anything and they would all shut down around him when you were brought up. Conversations would quiet, and topics would be changed. This confirmed the suspicion he had from the beginning, the reason you left was directly concerned with him.

While he was getting better, Azriel did have his ups and downs. His biggest down was the realisation that you had been writing to every single person except for him and Elain. The shadows had finally decided to start talking to him again and the first thing they had told him is that they caught your scent in the house. He flew like a madman from the other side of Velaris, getting there in record time. He searched for your scent, desperate to see you, when he found a handful of envelopes, all with your name and scrawl. The ink was a dark red and the lines were too thin to be from any of your writing tools. You must be using Eris' then.

This bothered Azriel so much he almost forgot the reason why he was holding these letters. He looked at who they were addressed to and saw every single Inner Circle member had received a letter but him and Elain. He put the letters back on the desk and waited to see if anyone would bring them up. Nothing. His shadows began to update him of their arrivals. You had been regularly corresponding with them and not him. Azriel was crushed.

Nevertheless, he continued with his routine. He saw Madja regularly, became close with his family again, and began to actually do things for himself. The process was difficult and so incredibly hard, especially for someone who had been bottling things up for as long as he had.

He's even been visiting his estate lately to see his mother, as she lives on his property. He avoids her when he isn't doing well, she's been exposed to many cruelties over the span of her long life she doesn't need to deal with more. Talking with his mother has really helped. Her warm smile could brighten any day. He's missed her lately. He has a bad habit of putting the ones that he cares the most about on the back burner, but he's working on it.

It's been 3 months since you left and Azriel is finally feeling better. He was at his weekly session with Madja. It was going really well actually, well it was going really well until she causally says, "And how do you feel about a certain princess' return to the Night Court?" She asked almost sounding like a child teasing their friend in front of their crush. Azriel didn't even pick up on it. His shadows stilled and his eyes went wide. You were coming back? Back to the Night Court? Back to him?

Madja looks at him confused. She tilts her head, "You didn't know?" He shakes his head no. He lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding and goes, "No I had no idea. I'm still the only one she hasn't spoken to." His tone bitter, but he caught himself and asked, "When is she getting back?" He hopes she'll just forget about his mini outburst just a second ago.

Madja looks surprised and Azriel is even more surprised at her confusion. She has sat here for the past few weeks hearing about him complain about your lack of communication with him, shouldn't she know that he knows nothing of this?

Madja goes, "You do know you have little shadow spies that listen in to all of your conversations?" Good to see that age hasn't dulled her sense of humour. How did he forget about that? Azriel shakes his head and goes,"Fair enough Madja."

She gives him a pitying look and sighs, "She'll come back. As far as your relationship goes, I would recommend talking it out in person. You both obviously have a lot on your minds, your relationship won't be able to move progress until you address this." Madja leans forward, like she's about to tell him a secret. "Now knowing both of you for so long, I can assure you that you guys will be fine. You're fond of each other and your biggest fear is losing each other, it's going to take a lot more than this to ruin you relationship."

Azriel looks at her agape. While this was fairly common knowledge, no one had actually sat him down and told him this. He assumed that you guys were fond of each other in the way he was fond of each of the inner circle members. Now that the dynamics of the inner circle shifted, they were all pairing up and finding their person. While you had always been close to Rhys, Azriel was the one you had usually ended up pairing up with in the end. Azriel had never come to this realisation, his entire life, he had been yearning for someone to pick him, only to drive away the one person who did.

Madja looks at him and he swears she can read his mind. She shakes her head and starts, "You were ready to die for her Azriel, when she was going to be clipped. You put yourself under the mercy of the old high lord for hundreds of years to ensure her safety and you're going to let your relationship fall apart because of what? A misunderstanding?"

Azriel stills, the conversation had escalated very quickly, leaving him speechless. He can't jump to conclusions before he even knew your side. He would talk to you and everything would be okay. It was just one big misunderstanding. It had to be.

He takes a deep breath and revels in his new found peace and clarity. The Azriel of a weeks ago would have angrily stormed off, lashing out at whatever unfortunate victim would check on him to make sure he's okay, but he's getting better now. He isn't anywhere near perfect, he is the same Azriel, but he hopes that when you get back he will be someone that is deserving to have you in their life without taking you for granted.

He takes a deep breath in and out. "Okay. When is the soonest I can speak with her?"

-

note: Azriel self-help arc time! Yes he did suffer for a bit and yes he will suffer a lot more so don't you worry, but I do think he deserves a little respite. He's coming to his senses... slowly. Thank you all for the support on this series I know we've hit a bit of a slow point in the storyline but there will be the reunion in the next episode which will be explosive one way or another so keep an eye out for that. Until next time loves!

note note: I probably will stop putting out chapters at this speed because I want to actually be able to edit them and the next parts are really important to the story and I do want to get it right :)

taglist: @alimarie1105 @chaosabroad @bbontenswhhore @tele86 @ashblooddragons @circe143 @i-am-infinite @princesssunderworld @thestartitaness @tiffany-xx @cpfantasybooks @lucia-valentinaa @jennigsonl @ivy-34 @firefly-forest @k-homosapien @coeurdeveea @cherryjain17 @bckynatt @becstersworld @rcarbo1 @gojospearlycim @atluky

[nerdcrawfish]

Ouch because yeah.

Really long rant.

It gets very frustrating because having healthy relationships with food tends to be a luxury and people don't get it. And honestly, I am very bad about this but I will be a bit mocking towards like well off people that don't try foods and also are racist and find cultural foods gross just because they're not white people food... But also I think it's because previous food insecurity of being poor means that it fucking irritates my ass to see people who don't know what it's like to be hungry and mocked for it because you're fat being that way. Of enjoying eating shit like cookies and not being mocked with "But aren't you supposed to be poor?" or "Shouldn't you lay off the cookies, porkie?" Like fuck you dude.

And like, food insecurity and obesity are highly correlated. Part of that is because your relationship with food is entirely fucked. You gorge when you have food available--and that's what we're designed to do. Store energy in fat for when there isn't any food. It's natural and instinctive reaction to food insecurity. But the other part is just what we are forced to eat.

Pantry stable foods for the most part now, cheap foods, are heavy in ingredients that are not good for you at all. And they're high in carbs, crappy oils, and sugar. And the main culprits here is that sugar and carbs combo. Look at any processed food and it has sugar in it. And that's also going to trigger a response in your body that will start collecting fat. And remember, when you're food insecure and you're dependent on shelf stable food? That's all you're eating. And it will trigger lipogenesis because you've hit high levels of this type of energy and your body is DESIGNED to store fat when these high levels get hit. It's like with bears--store excess energy by eating a lot and you can survive the winter. And it's normal as shit. We all have it. The issue is that food insecure folks can't offset their carbs and sugars with nice stuff like fruits and veggies. That's expensive. It's not shelf stable. It's not full of cheap preservative.

And like, a lot of your meats are preserved with ingredients like nitrites and nitrates which have long been correlated with cancers and actually found in colon cancers and such. This shit is also killing us. But it's the only food that will fill your stomach and you can afford.

Oh and the other thing is, you should look at nutrient deficiency in people. They'll be round and fat but are dying because they aren't eating food that has proper nutrients in it. It really fucks up kids too... Like having food does not equal having a good diet. Having food does not equal being healthy. And any impoverished person knows that intimately. And often times in the US, obesity is a sign of being impoverished than it is of excess. And yes, you are going to still be hungry. Because you're just eating cheap shit that doesn't have nutrients. And honestly. intuitive eating comes more when your nutrients are properly balanced and met. Because your body is really good at knowing what foods have what nutrients. And like... Even if your pasta only has a trace amount of such and such mineral--it will crave it because your body KNOWS that you can get that mineral from that food. Well, that's how it is for my family at least. So maybe disregard that... But seeing how craving work, that for me holds very true.

Since I'm now able to eat a diverse diet, I eat way less and feel immensely better. I can easily eat snacks and feel fine because yes--I know they'll be there when they come back is a huge part. But also because they're mentally classed as a treat and I'm actually satiated. I have meals that meet my body's needs and I don't need to scrounge around with what I have to accumulate the levels I need to operate. That's a huge hunger driver. it's part of why despite eating so much--you still are so fucking hungry. So fucking hungry...

Oh and driving into another thing... Right now I'm finding out that oh I had a gluten allergy this entire time. What do you think food insecure pantries look like? What do free and reduced lunches look like? LOTS of pastas, pizzas, and breads etc. They're also relatively shelf stable and also convenient for working families (because luxury of time to cook is not a thing for parents have when you're fucking poor. You work and work and work just to survive and the state gets mad you're not spending enough time with your kids and then forces you to work at shit like McDonalds for "wages that are for kids so they don't need to be raised!" and then the state tries to take your kids because you can't afford a house...)

And kids are smart. They feed off of parents' anxieties--so when your parents are anxious about paying bills and it leaks over to food? You're going to be anxious around food. I still to this day compare prices and I don't need to so much. Like, a 15 cent difference is not that much. But I grew up freaking out about that shit. I grew up watching my parents freak out about that shit and then have the looming threat of a state trying to snatch you from your family. You start looking at that 15 cents and it triggers this fear that is ingrained--of when times were not okay. And like.. 15 cents can fucking make or break a fucking ability to make a payment. Like... When I was jobless, I had a slight mental error paying a car payment and the fucking thing TOOK my 2 dollar payment--bounced my account--and then didn't go through with the preceding $500 payment that I had made and then because I got hit with an overdraft fee--I now couldn't make my $500 fucking payment. Because I accidentally made a $2 dollar payment when I meant $1. Freaking out and slippery finger cost me $30 dollars I'll never get back and a hit to my fucking credit and THEN I also got fucking late fees on my car payment. So yeah. Fucking "pithily" amounts like that mean EVERYTHING when you're impoverished. And tiny mistakes... God they're never fucking tiny. They hurt so fucking much and sometimes? You wonder why you're even fucking trying.

(And I can't lie. I look at our economy and you can tell a recession is going to happen and all I can think about is 2008 and all of it. When my family was left out to dry like so many and thankfully my suicidal mom just keep going on for us--her kids. Jesus.)

So yes, you look at food differently as fuck when you're insecure. And like... Thankfully at some point we got on food stamps. And I will CUT motherfuckers who fucking diss on food stamps.

Like, you are ENTIRELY fucked up if you honestly believe that someone on food stamps shouldn't be allowed to have lobster for Christmas. Like fuck you. It takes strategy to make it happen, and it's fucking CHRISTMAS YOU FUCKS. But it's an off fucking shoot of "If you're poor WE get to tell you how to eat. And that's pasta and bread and shit full of chemicals. NOT fresh fruits and veggies and NOT a Christmas fucking meal with lobsters of all fucking things!"

Oh and what kills me is that EVEN if I was diagnosed with having a gluten issues during that time? We'd just have to keep on going on like we did. Because what the fuck are you going to do? Nothing. You can't do shit. So I just wonder how many people are just dealing with the same shit in poverty man. And like they said above--genetically? Some people are predisposed to be obese. I emphasis this IMMENSELY because certain group just are. Especially hunter gather cultures man--which tend to be non-white. Because Europeans had the best fucking climate and water and soil for growing crops geographically wise. That's not the case for the rest of the world. And I hope you've looked at history enough to see the large swaths of cultures that were hunter-gatherer. And I also HOPE you realize it's not a disparaging thing at ALL. They're not lesser for living that fucking way. Wanna know why the Dust Bowl happened? It's fucking because dumbass white Europeans thought the Plains Native Americans were uncivilized for not farming. No bitch, the plains aren't a good fucking place to fucking farm--much less for water-intensive crops LIKE WHEAT.

God and I can talk about how native crops--like carbs like amaranth and corn--were fucking vilified and amaranth specifically was so persecuted that the Spanish would cut off the hands of indigenous folks who had the seeds of amaranth... And I feel like my gluten allergy is derived from my native ancestors. We didn't fucking eat wheat--we had corn on my Aztec side. Corn doesn't have gluten. And that's your farming culture carb right there. Because farming culture will have a carb like that. Asia has rice. Europe: wheat. Americas corn and amaranth. Africa sorghum. And so forth for those areas that could farm. Crops that can be made shelf stable (to survive when the crops can't grow) and have a good amount of energy output relatively. All of these dry VERY well and store VERY well... And...

Food insecurity is a tool of oppression. And oppression comes with dehumanization. Oppression is wanted because it's all about control Control. Control. CONTROL. So... That entire shtick of talking shit and bullying obese people and impoverished about their food and choices? It's because the ruling class believes it's their right to control them. This is why poor folks are so fucking dehumanized. And fatphobia is an offshoot of this poverty dehumanization. And it's because morality is fucking tied to your body and your fucking income in this god forsaken country. And it's all tied to shit like divine right. God made you poor to serve us rich folks. And we can talk about shit like Calvinism and it's effects on modern US law and shit... But I'm all over the place already...

And at the end of the day? Yeah, no wonder we all have disorders and fucking trauma. This shit is made to oppress us and oppression fucking hurts. It fucking kills. It fucking goes against our nature to survive and thrive in a world where there really aren't rules about where and what you can eat. Birds don't have rules about what other birds can eat--just don't eat the food they're trying to fucking eat.

And sorry. Like... We were talking about the trauma associated with it and like... I have to do history and political science in addition. I don't mean it to disparage how it affect people individually--and that is all valid. It is. My addition it to not subtract at all. My addition is just to show that this suffering... It's so fucking cruel.

Because the idea that this shit isn't nefarious and engineered? That the cruelty isn't the point and is just some unforeseen byproduct? Yeah. That's bogus as fuck. The cruelty is the point.

It always is.

"Oh so we should just eat anything we want??"

Well actually YES but also:

Restricting food Does Stuff To Your Brain. "Restricting" doesn't mean stopping when you're full. I feel like this is what gets misunderstood a lot. It means placing rules and limits on food that supercede what your body is signalling that it wants. Let's use cookies as an example. Restricting would be:

- I can only have cookies when I deserve them.

- I can only have cookies when I'm alone.

- I can only have two cookies.

- I can only have low-calorie cookies.

- I can only have cookies on set days, or so-called cheat days.

- I can't have cookies.

- I can't have cookies in the house.

- I'm bad when I eat cookies.

- Cookies are a bad food and I must compensate for having eaten them.

Whether or not you stick to the restrictions you set, your brain is learning to be an anxious mess around cookies. It might want to avoid anywhere that has cookies. It might feel shame for wanting or eating cookies. It might get exhausted from suppressing the craving and decide to binge. It might go into binge mode every time you eat cookies because you've taught your body that This Will Not Be Available Whenever. It might feel ridiculously important to eat all the cookies while you can.

I know we're all so used to constantly talking about food, diets, weight and bodies, and it's completely normalised to look at absolutely everything you eat and assign it the level of guilt you're gonna feel for eating it, and to brag about not eating this and that, and to announce that you know it's a Naughty Indulgence when you eat anything sweet.

But oh my god, it's such a huge weight off your shoulders to just let yourself eat cookies because you wanted cookies and stop when you feel satiated and know that the cookies will be available next time you want cookies because you don't need to earn them in any way. Because a brain that knows it can have cookies whenever it wants cookies, doesn't crave cookies all the time. Nor does it feel any self-loathing when it does crave cookies.

And I just wish everyone a very chill brain and some cookies