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mariasont · 17 hours ago

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DEAD FROM THE WAIST DOWN

you learned to seduce your way into being loved. hotch wants to teach you that you don't have to earn love at all.

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader warnings: oh hey where does one start! mentions of past emotional abuse, conditioned sexual behavior, sex as a coping mechanism (discussed), hypersexuality, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft!hotch, happy-ish ending wc: 2.8k

How many times can a man be caught off guard by the same kiss before it stops qualifying as a surprise and becomes a cherished inevitability? You would think Aaron would know by now.

But no, every time your mouth finds his, it feels like the first time all over again.

He isn’t a romantic, he refuses to classify it in such cheesy terms. (You would passionately disagree).

Instead, he experiences it as pure revelation — how did I forget it could feel like this? Always velveteen and warm with whatever chapstick you’ve been nursing that day. Coconut. Mint. Honeyed vanilla.

Honeyed vanilla is your favorite. His too. It stains his mouth and hours later, he can still taste it.

He knows where you keep it now. Back left pocket. You’re predictable that way. Only that way. Discovered by accident, though nothing with you ever feels accidental, the first time he came home after a week-long case and you collided into him at the door as though you had been counting seconds rather than days.

His hand, settling on your ass like the gentlemen he is, had landed on it, the cylindrical outline concealed beneath skin-tight denim. Denim that, even in memory alone, manages to be both curse and benediction, fabric and flesh conspiring to remind him that distance was your shared adversary. One that was conquered with every bruising reunion of lips.

These particular kisses always arrive roughly as if anything less fervent wouldn’t be proof enough of his return. Always full-bodied. Always looking for more.

For a while, he reasoned it away. Novelty, perhaps. The combustible early-stage infatuation, still volatile, still prone to overcorrection. He assumed it would fade, mellow out with familiarity. Rossi called it the honeymoon phase. Said it every time Aaron showed up to work looking distinctly worse for wear in a manner wholly unrelated to the strain of work. Grinning like a bastard. And Aaron thought he wasn’t wrong.

But time failed to temper your hunger. If anything, it grew teeth.

You meet him at the end of each day with hands that demand, with a body that knows exactly how to ask and what to take. And he lets you. Of course he lets you. He would be out of his mind not to.

You are generous with your affection, in and out of the bedroom. You love him without filter, without edits. Love him even in the versions he hides. There are days he doesn’t know how to hold it. Doesn’t know where to put the parts of himself that still flinch under kindness.

He is a grateful man. He is a lucky man. But he is not yet certain he is a worthy one.

Your thumbs trace his jaw, and he knows, without needing to ask, that you can feel the strain habitually tucked beneath skin and bone.

Your mouth deepens the kiss before he’s ready to accommodate it, breath merging with breath in a single, faithful puff.

Mint today, he decides. The one with the cheap twist-top and that little green label peeling at the corner.

When oxygen reasserts itself as a necessity, he pulls back, lips ghosting yours, “Missed me, did you?”

“Don’t mock me,” you scold, taking advantage of the fractional distance to catch his lower lip between your teeth. “I really did. I think I started missing you before the door even closed.”

Your hands are moving to his belt, fingers tugging, pulling —

Christ.

His hands snap down to catch your wrists.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, "not tonight. I just — I can barely keep my eyes open."

You recoil so fast it disorients him, and before he can think, his hands are reaching out, fingers flexing toward the empty space.

“Oh, of course,” you say, eyes flitting away. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You must be exhausted.”

Your apology tastes bitter in his mouth. He’s never wanted you to equate exhaustion with rejection, least of all his. He opens his mouth to reassure you, to banish the needless guilt clouding your eyes, but you hurry forward, words tumbling as nervously as your fluttering hands toward the kitchen.

“I made dinner. It’s in the fridge. I mean, I wasn’t sure when you would be home, but it’s ready. I can heat it up right now. Unless you want to just go to bed — I could bring it to you —”

“Hey.” It’s more a plea than command. You freeze, a microsecond of stillness before your hand begins its descent toward the scrunched cotton of your long sleeve tee. He intercepts it, thumb charting the map of your skin from the blue-lit vein to bone to the center point where your hand opens. “That’s really sweet, honey. Thank you.”

"You're welcome."

“But all I want right now,” Aaron continues, pulling your hand into the center of his chest, a chaste kiss sticking itself to your knuckles, “is for you to come to bed with me.” Then, because he knows you, he adds, “I’ll take what you made for lunch tomorrow. I don’t want it to waste.”

You nod and offer a smile.

Usually, he loves that seeing that smile of yours, might even call it his favorite pastime, if he were prone to sentimentality.

It’s something he never tires of watching. The way it starts slow, then takes your whole face with it. It shows up in your crow’s feet first — creases he adores, even if you claim to hate them — and then folds into your cheeks until your skin swells too full to contain.

He especially loves your smile that appears when you’re trying not to show how good it feels when he calls you pretty girl. You always hide it behind his shirt, like fabric’s going to keep him from noticing how you preen under the praise.

This one isn’t that.

It flickers at the corners of your mouth but never quite lands in your eyes. It’s a smile made for strangers. He knows better than to pretend it’s the same.

You’re already walking toward the bathroom before he can say anything, before he can figure out whether he even should. He watches as you go through the motions with the same grace you always have, but he notices the absence more than anything else.

The things you don’t do.

Normally, you hover. You lean into him as you tug your shirt over your head, brush a kiss against the slope of his shoulder with that casual intimacy you wield like second nature. Sometimes you complain — half a yawn, half a grumble — about the late hour. And pout. And push for a kiss only to pretend you’re not pleased when he gives in.

Normally, you make noise through the quiet. You ask if he locked the front door, remind him the laundry’s still in the dryer. You hum while brushing your teeth. Curse when toothpaste hits your shirt.

Normally, you’re all subtle magnetism, clinging in that sweetly unrepentant way of yours. When he sits to unbutton his shirt, you’re usually behind him, knees pressing into the mattress, chin of his shoulder, arms looping lazily around his waist. There’s always touch. A palm to the center of his back as you pass, a hand on his arm as you squeeze by.

Normally, you're unapologetic about needing him. Tonight, you move like a guest in your own home.

It’s intolerable. And when you’re both settled into bed for the night, Aaron reaches for you before he thinks better of it, palm flattening against your waist. He feels the shape of you through pajamas and pulls. He doesn’t stop until your chest curves into his chest, until the edge of your calves nudges his.

"Come here." Aaron threads careful fingers through your hair, pausing at the tender juncture where your neck meets the base of your skull. "Baby,” he whispers, “tell me what’s wrong.”

His eyes don’t leave yours, watching the brief flickers of vulnerability, the sparks of emotion you try to extinguish before they catch fire.

He notices the hesitant parting of your lips, opening as if to spin a half-hearted lie, only to close again once the truth gets too close to your teeth.

"I just... I wanted to be close to you."

Aaron’s brow knits, confusion and concern braided together in the crease above his eyes, arms tightening despite the fact that you’re already pressed against him like a second skin.

"You are close to me, sweetheart."

But even as he says it, he feels the flaw in his words. The way they miss the mark. He senses it in the way you chew at the inside of your cheek, how your shoulders stiffen beneath his fingertips.

Then softer, "Not like that."

"What —,"

But you're already shaking your head. "No, I — , it's not a big deal."

“Anything that involves you is a big deal to me.”

Your thumb moves, tracing circles into the fabric, slow rotations that quickly speed into tighter spirals, as if spinning faster might somehow organize your thoughts. You’ve always done this, reaching for some small, manageable action when the larger ones feel impossible to name.

“It’s just… easier that way sometimes. To be close like that. Then I don’t have to wonder if we’re okay.”

The realization trickles into his consciousness slowly at first, then rushes in like water breaking through a dam.

He should’ve noticed sooner, how could he not have?

Because this isn’t new. It’s not just a one-off need or tonight’s tension talking. You’ve always needed him like this. Skin on skin. Mouth on mouth. Your body pressed against his like you’re starving for confirmation. The way you undress him in the doorway. The way you straddle his lap and roll your hips like closeness could fix everything that feels unsteady. You depend on that closeness.

You come to him with your whole body. After long days. After fights. After even the smallest moments of silence that stretches too long. You find him like a blam, like if you don’t touch him, don’t take him, you’ll come apart at the seams. Kisses are never where you stop. You want all of him. Pinned beneath you. Deep inside you. As if that's the only way to believe he loves you.

He thought, for a long time, that it was just your appetite. A high sex drive. A natural tendency. He chalked it up to love language, to hormones, to heat. And he liked it, loved it, more than he was willing to admit at first.

But this wasn’t just want.

This was fear, bleeding out beneath your need, disguised as pleasure.

He’s supposed to be good at this, at reading people, parsing motive from movement. But somehow, he missed this.

Because somewhere along the line, someone taught you that love was transactional. That affection had to be purchased in pieces of yourself, repaid in skin and surrender. That if you didn’t offer yourself fully, you weren’t worth holding onto. And now here you are, still paying for what someone else stole from you.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, he feels sick.

His fists curl before he knows it, nails digging into his palms. His jaw locks tight. Because if the person who planted such a belief were here — if he could see the face of whoever made you believe you had to fuck your way into being loved — he wouldn’t blink. It wouldn’t matter what badge he wore. What oaths he swore. He would make sure they never touched anyone again.

“Is that what it feels like when I say no?” He doesn’t ask it accusingly. “Like we’re not okay?”

“I know it sounds dumb. I just —”

“Hey. It’s not dumb.” He pauses, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It makes more sense.”

“It does?”

“Of course it does. You want something that confirms what words sometimes don’t. I get that. I do.” He swallows hard. “But I don’t want you to feel like we’re only okay when we’re in bed.”

“I know. I just… I don’t know how to stop.”

There’s something else sitting in your mouth, he can see it. A confession, maybe. Or just a few loose scraps of thought you haven’t stitched together yet.

“It’s okay.” He offers up an open door.

Your eyes flick down, then up again, and finally you nod in concession. He can’t tell if you believe him. That it’s okay to be honest with him.

“I spent a long time thinking touch was the only thing I had to offer. That if I wasn’t beautiful or willing or available I didn’t have value.” You say it slowly, like you’re afraid of saying it aloud. “It’s not something I think about. Not consciously. I just… feel the silence, or the tiredness, or I can’t read you… and suddenly I’m scrambling. Trying to stop it. Trying to keep from being… dismissed, I guess. And I know you’re not… him. I know that. But sometimes my body forgets.”

You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“So I kiss you. I touch you. I try to make myself irresistible so I don’t have to ask if I’m still wanted. Because I don’t know how to ask without feeling pathetic.”

He watches as you hold back the tears fighting to stake claim on your lower lash line.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you love me,” you add. “It’s that I don’t know how to feel safe unless I can see it. And I hate that. I hate that I’m still wired for panic every time you flinch or look away or —”

Your voice catches. Whatever you were about to say fractures somewhere in your throat and never quite makes it to sound.

He doesn’t reach for you despite every neuron firing in his brain that begs for the opposite. It feels wrong, somehow, to respond with touch when you just confessed how often it’s been your only way of being heard.

So he stays still, watches the curve of your shoulder rise and fall under the slow drag of breath. Watches your gaze veer just left of his face, like you’re already bracing for disbelief, or worse, kindness that feels like pity.

You exhale instead then close your eyes. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to fix this. I’m not trying to unload it on you. I just… I want you to know why I act like I do sometimes. It’s not mistrust. It’s old wiring. And I’m trying.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Not because he doesn’t have something to say. He does. A thousand things, actually. Some sharp, some soft.

But you’ve just peeled your chest open with surgical precision, laid the whole bloody, tender mess of it in his lap, and the last thing he’s going to do is rush to stitch it shut with half-baked reassurance.

You shift, maybe reflexively, but you still don’t meet his eyes. So he softens. Adjusts. Meets you halfway.

“I don’t think it’s pathetic. I don’t think you’re broken. I think your nervous system is doing exactly what it was trained to do, sound the alarm at the first sign of disconnection. Fight to restore the bond before it can disappear.” His breath hitches, just enough to break through the formality of it. “But you don’t have to do that with me. You don’t have to fill the silence. You don’t have to seduce me into staying. If I pull away, I need you to know I’m not punishing you. I’m not… evaluating you. Sometimes I’m tired. Or quiet. Or somewhere else in my own head. But I’m not leaving. I’m not rescinding anything.”

Finally, his hand brushes gently — gently — over your arm.

“You don’t have to perform love here. Not with me. You get to just… have it. As it is. As you are.” He studies you. “I know you can’t unlearn it overnight. I don’t expect you to. But I’d rather you come to me scared and uncertain than go silent and spiral. Let me be the one who doesn’t make you pay for needing reassurance.”

And then, only then, his voice drops, hoarser.

“I don’t want to be another place you have to earn safety. I want to be the proof you don’t.”

He doesn’t know if the words land. Not fully. He thinks you heard him. Thinks you wanted to believe them. But that’s different from knowing. So he doesn’t say anything else, just lets you throw his arms around neck and press your cheek into his shirt.

He feels the heat of tears soaking into his shirt. He kisses your forehead first, then your hair, whispers something that neither of you really needs to understand.

And even though he’s running on fumes, he stays awake until your breathing slows. Until he’s sure you’re asleep.

Because if you’re going to believe him, really believe him, it won’t be because of what of what he says, but what he does.

It hits him between your third or fourth breath against his chest that this was the first time you didn’t try to apologize with your body after a difficult conversation. Just warmth. Trust. Skin on skin because you want to be held, not because you’re trying to keep him from vanishing. It’s small. But to him, it’s the most profound shift in the world.

And in the weeks that follow, he sees it again. The way you kiss him and then stop as if you trust he’ll kiss you back.

It doesn’t happen all at once. You still hesitate when he says no. Still freeze up on the bad nights.

But you don’t crumble anymore. You pause.

You pause and sometimes your hands shake, but you reach for him anyway.

And every time, he meets you halfway.

a/n: this sat half-finished in my drafts for soooo long because i wasn't sure i could land it, emotionally or otherwise. and i felt like it's one of those things that feels like it says more about me than i probably mean it to. if u see urself in this as well, hi. i hope it makes u feel a little less weird for the things u need, or the ways you've learned to ask for love that doesn't always make sense out loud

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#🌺 maria writes #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner hurt/comfort #aaron hotchner x self insert #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner #hotchner #hotch #criminal minds angst #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner x you #hotchner angsts #criminal minds x reader

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lixies-favorite-cookie · 16 hours ago

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𝐒𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘, 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐖・h.j.

🎸 — you don't think jisung cares about you enough to tell your fans you're dating, fucking. he proves you wrong when he pulls you in on stage, and kisses you in front of everyone.

♟️ — paring・hanji x reader // genres・suggestive, band members with benefits, han writing hold my hand for the reader // words・1.5k // warnings・illusions to sex, kissing on stage, cursing and general crude language, han is kind of an asshole in the beginning, but he makes up for it, kinda silly kinda sexy, a little bit of my weird awkward writing style.

a/n・ ngl it was kinda crazy rewriting this. i wrote this near the very, very beginning of my old blog and i found it rotting in my drafts bc i never got to re-upload it...then i re-read it and remembered why... (why did i never use proper punctuation holy shit) but yeah i had fun writing them on stage ngl also what do we think of the new layout/theme?? (guys im still @lixies-favorite-cookie :))

"So you're okay with fucking me before the show, but telling people we're together—that's where you draw the line?" you spit, narrowing your eyes at a frustrated Han, stress-sweating as he wrestles with his guitar strap, huffing when it gets caught on a tuft of his hair.

He's flustered, cheeks flushed and red as he cards his fingers through his hair, untangling the rogue strand from the slider. It's a Han Jisung staple: rushing right before a performance because, before he can actually get ready, he has to hear the setlist 143 times, chat with the sound tech about his new gaming system, and—his personal favorite—drag you into the bathroom to screw the daylights out of you.

He calls it: jisung's good luck fuck™

You haven't decided if you love it or hate it.

He huffs, giving you an agitated look, "We really don't have time for this, the show starts in 5 minutes." He continues tuning his guitar, testing a few strings.

"You seemed to have plenty of time when your dick was inside of me!"

He buffers, his ears flushing red as he fumbles a loud, off-tune string.

The crew freezes.

"Jesus, just put your damn bass on, y/n." He mutters, his entire face painted dark red.

You clench your jaw, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes. The crowd roars from behind the velvet curtain, anticipating, your now, very soon arrival. He's right, you do need to get ready. Though, that knowledge doesn't make the crack inside your ribs any less painful.

It was futile arguing with him—if he wanted to, he would.

There's no wound getting on stage couldn't fix.

It's already an hour into the concert and the adrenaline still hasn't worn off, thrumming hot through your veins. Han's guitar explodes, threading its way into your last string fluidly. You whisper into the mic, your voice low and seductive, rolling over his riff like whiskey and wine.

The crowd goes wild, stomping so loud it makes the platform shake. Han eats it up, running across the stage and high-fiving a throng of women right before the final riff.

You finish the song with a dark, crisp chord that vibrates through the stadium with a bitter hiss. You're both gasping into the mics when everything's said and done, exchanging exhausted looks. You look over, watching as sweat drips down his forehead, making his hair stick to the back of his neck. The same thing is happening to you.

It's scorching up here, but it's worth it.

Han pants, scrunching his brows as the camera zooms in, tearing his IEM's out. You're both smiling, wobbly and slightly off center, but smiling nonetheless.

Then, he looks at you.

He's looking at you like he's plotting something, like he's in love with you, and like he's about to do something monumentally stupid all at the same time.

Whatever he was thinking, you were down.

Suddenly, the next song erupts from the speakers and he turns to you with a smile.

Han wrote the lyrics to this song after, finally, putting a label on the whole bandmates-with-benefits thing you two had going on.

It was three in the morning when you found him slumped over the bathroom sink, steam slipping out of the glass shower panels. He was butt-naked, a white towel slung over his neck, catching beads of water trickling from his wet hair. It was clear that he was troubled, a tight knit forming on his eyebrows as he stared at the single sentence written on his notebook.

First, you laughed at him for not putting clothes on before grabbing his notebook. Then, you spent the next three hours working him through his writer's block.

It was then, with your hair disheveled and mascara smudged underneath your eyes, he realized he was completely, irrevocably in love with you.

And in a typical Han Jisung fashion, he wrote a song about it

And, also, in typical Han Jisung fashion, he hid that song and his stupid feelings away from you, until, well, now.

You give him a 'what the fuck are you doing?' look before, right as he practiced, he slides towards you, plucking the first dramatic chord. You anxiously flick your eyes over his face, then the crowd, then back to him again.

"Numerous trials and errors and fights,"

A thousand eyes are watching him, and yet, he's only worried about yours. You stand there, looking both very awkward and very pissed, not knowing what to do with the bass hanging off your shoulder. He just smiles.

"Every time I see you cry

I feel like drowning in the dark

You said it's fine, but no, I'm not 'Cause all I want is you, not your tears

눈물이 마를 때까지

I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear"

His gaze never falters as he takes the final step forward, dropping his guitar and pushing away his mic. You were a mess—hair caked to your forehead by sweat, eyeliner streaming down your face from your tears, but, to him, you were as beautiful as you have always been.

It was just you and him in that stadium, when he cups your cheeks, and whispers—

"So baby, hold my hand now"

Then, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard, with so much passion it makes your knees go weak, melting into his arms. Confetti cannons explode around you.

There was no mistaking who he belonged to now.

When he pulls away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen and he just can't keep his shit-eating grin off his face. Tiny, colorful paper flutters around you, falling onto his shoulders and in his hair. It was magical, all of it was utterly magical.

It takes you a solid fifteen seconds to realize that there are other people in the room.

Forty four thousand to be exact.

He turns to the crowd, throwing his hands up into the air and finishing the song like nothing happened.

Han has been studying music for about as long as he has been alive, and in all of his 24 years of living, he has figured out three things.

One, music was the language of the heart. Two, music can only be created through passion. And three, his heart never stayed silent when he was with you.

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olderthannetfic · 2 days ago

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I feel like such an asshole for feeling this way but I genuinely do hate tags used to warn people in fiction. Maybe it’s because I read so many books going in blind growing up and things like warnings just didn’t exist but the constant need to prepare people for processing fictional scenarios is so mind numbingly stupid to me I can’t get passed it.

Past it.

I dislike long lists of itemized warnings too, but I'm willing to bet that you have never once read a book where you were truly going in blind.

Any book that goes through mainstream publishing has a thousand gatekeepers keeping the form and content within somewhat common parameters. It is then put out by a particular imprint that is for literary fiction or romance or whatever. The cover art is selected to attract a particular audience. The back blurb implies a lot about the tone.

It's true that if you're terrible at reading back blurbs, you might not realize it's an Anyone Can Die book, but the implications will be there. Sometimes, the marketing is really off base, and the art/blurb/etc. are hinting at things the book doesn't deliver, but in general, they do a decent job of conveying the big picture warnings.

In the context of fanfic, in ye olde times, the biggest warning people wanted was for death of either half of their ship. This is right in line with romance novels, where if it does not have a happy ending where the leads are together and not dead it is not a romance novel.

Harlequin and the like are very clear. If you don't want to write that ending, you aren't writing their genre, and you can fuck off with your "Ooh, I write it a different way" nonsense.

Fanfic and some of the very recent selfpub are different: When I've done Wattpad research, I've found works where I honestly cannot tell if it's even supposed to be fic. Hell, I can't tell if it's supposed to be fiction. It's so short and incoherent that I have no idea what I'm looking at. Most fic is a little more obvious in what it's trying to do, but it has no gatekeepers forcing it into a basically novel-shaped package. Leads could be killed off half way through the plot even if it makes no sense and doesn't fit the genre. Genres and tones can swing wildly at any point. Structure can be avant-garde or deeply incoherent.

Tags and very literal labels handle the I suck at summaries! R&R! problem.

Packaging art in a way that implies without spoiling takes skill and probably revision. Some fic is packaged this way, with only bare bones tags and a solid summary, but that's never going to be most fic. The volume will also always be far vaster than for professionally published novels where one company can only put out so much per year, and each work is long and more worth marketing time. There's far more to sort through and far less pressure to market well. Clear tags so people can find things are useful.

It really, really was not better in the old days when shit was barely labeled even if some of the modern stuff feels extremely over-warned to me.

(TBH, hand-hold-y over-warning is its own warning for the author writing The Bad Thing in an unsatisfying and wimpy way.)

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party-gilmore · 1 day ago

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also don't get me wrong in very happy that some transmascs get to HAVE that relief.

Very, VERY happy.

And YES it's so phenomenal to see people break away from the bullshit standards of feminity force fed to us from before we can even speak.

But masculinity in this society comes with it's OWN bullshit fucking standards.

And do y

do y'all understand

that for others of us

the goddamn PRESSURE just fucking INCREASES???

I had a HARD enough time trying to feel attractive as Woman (tm) when I had at least the "correct" basis for the impression I was going to make!!! I knew that men who like women also tend to like boobs, and hips, and cunt, and hey at least I had those! Just had to figure out how to make the rest of me somehow appealing against all the other fuck off beauty standards too!

But NOW???? NOW????????

Not only do I still feel the general struggle of the same aesthetic "flaws" I've always seen in myself but ALSO the constant undercutting of I don't even have (what I feel like) gay men WANT.

Like HELL Im still just trying to succeed in feeling like Not An Imposter in gay, male spaces. Let alone ATTRACTIVE in them.

And some folks are out here thinking that's a PRIVILEGE?!?! That its somehow a BONUS to be faced with a whole aspect of your physical image that you're having to create from SCRATCH??!? That you know you're going to have to go above and beyond to make absolutely PERFECT just to be ACCEPTED in these spaces as anything other than a Butch Lesbian at best or straight girl faghag at worst, let alone DESIRED in them????

And that's just the GENDER ACCEPTANCE part of the attractiveness!!!! Trying to be a Basic Attractive Man while built with the "wrong" parts to pull it off! That's not even getting INTO gay male beauty standards!!!

Have you SEEN the emphasis on BODY??? The Big Three of Bear Hunk Twink? Have y'all noticed the sort of... lack of anything in between?

Oh there's all sorts of fun "In Between" labels, sure, otter, twunk, whatever... But they are are just literally combos OF those three body types. Bear with Twink traits. Hunk with Bear traits. Shut up shut up shut UP ABOUT THEM.

And if you're on the more femme side of gay? The cosmetics and beat face standards are no different than what I faced as a woman. HELL, i'd even say the expectations are WORSE, because at least as woman I was still SEEN as a woman, just one who'd "given up" 🙄 but going out to the gay bar nowadays, the IMPECCABLY beat face for "femmes" is not just STANDARD but seems almost a CULTURAL indicator of even BEING "really" gay in the first place!!! Because gays are so GOOD and m at fashion and style and strutting, you know? If you don't know this YouTuber or that MUA tiktokker, what are you even DOING, my dear little baby gay??? Honey come back when you've at least learned the culture 😘

BABY g-

Bitch I've been gay for men longer than you've been ALIVE, fuck OOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

and then that person in the post OP mentions had the fucking GALL to look at someone who's managed to break away from AT LEAST the pressure they had to face as women to feel attractive, MAYBE even some of the new pressures they would have to face of they wanted to feel attractive now or find a partner as a man, depending on if that is or isn't a priority/concern for them, and say... how lucky for you to be so privileged over me

...WHAT?? WHAT!!?? M

Still thinking about that post claiming that transmascs expressing relief that they don't have worry if they're attractive anymore is an example of them experiencing male privilege.

A person who has been taught it was their duty to be attractive to straight men: Wow, it feels so good to be able to overcome this and let myself just exist

A person so engrossed in online discourse they lost contact with reality: I hope you understand how much privilege it gives you over me!

Those transmasc people were 'able to' stop worring about their attractiveness *because they managed to overcome the brainwashing they were subjected to* not because the patriarchy gave them a dispense! They are still punished for 'uglifying' themselves! They let THEMSELVES abandon misogynistic beauty standards but the patriarchy still holds them up to it!

Nobody calling themselves a feminist would accuse a woman who broke free from misogynistic beauty standards of being privileged over those who haven't. Yet when it's a transmasc person who broke free, they are called privileged over women.

#sorry this turned into such a personal rant on your post #that initial post you started off talking about just struck such a sharp nerve in me i couldn't let it go #like... do they REALLY think masculinity doesn't have its own fucking standards #that transmascs have to still bend over backwards for it's own kind of acceptance???

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everrinsly · 2 days ago

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a/n; thank you, everyone, for reading and the sweet comments! i don't have a vision for this series haha, just whatever comes up in my life that could also fit with the boys' too (and to practice 'crack' level writing that makes me giggle after a long day). this one reminds me of miss kiyoko (mrs. tanaka) heheh

a momager and her silly olympic team vibes.

missing shoes, olympics version. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more olympic team shenanigans | part 1 | part 2 | part 3

more reads!

~~~~~

The court gleamed under the intense, crystalline lights of the stadium—polished floors practically reflective. Poland’s flag fluttered proudly in one section of the stands while Japan’s dominated the other side, both held high by unwavering pride. As cameras flashed, announcers murmured into headsets, and fans filled every seat clad in national colors, the air buzzed with electric anticipation.

It was also the kind of anticipation that made the team focused as they stretched and bounced in their warmups.

Sakusa was bending his ultra-flexible wrists with ease. Suna was twisting his torso so far to the left that it nearly gave Iwaizumi a heart attack. And Ushijima led by example, doing his routine stretches with slow but methodical precision.

Everything was perfect. No pre-game stress—

“I LOST MY SHOES!”

Silence. Everyone turned to look at Hinata, who was frozen mid-panic-squat with just socks on and visibly vibrating with stress.

“I had them! Shit, I swear! I put them next to my bag and now they’re gone!”

He was rummaging through his duffle, pulling all sorts of random things out—protein bars, milk packets, electrolytes, a container of nicely peeled oranges (from you, by the way), and... a banana. Just the peel, no banana.

Suna stared blankly at him like he was witnessing a live disaster, one that he desperately wanted to post online (just to cause more chaos for Japan's PR team). His hands were already darting out toward his duffle to grab his phone.

Atsumu and Bokuto looked like they were ready to explode from laughter.

"Bro. What? How do you lose your shoes at the Olympics?"

"Shit—I don't know!"

"Are you sure you put them next to your bag?"

“I don't know!” Hinata was full-on wailing now. “Maybe someone took them?!”

"I mean... Poland's middle blocker is looking kinda suspicious over there."

"Look at his size compared to this stupid shrimp, Bo."

"Also, why would anyone want his crusty-ass shoes—?"

"CRUSTY-ASS—?!"

“OR MAYBE,” Atsumu called from the bench, cutting off Hinata's yell, “ya just forgot them. Again. Like when ya were startin' out with us in MSBY. Meian made ya do, like, twenty laps."

"You know, he also lost his shoes during Nationals," Kageyama quipped while doing a butterfly stretch. "I remember this trauma.”

"It was MISPLACED, smartass—"

Komori covered a snort with his towel. Bokuto looked absolutely thrilled. “Well, this is just like Nationals then!”

“No, it’s not!” Sakusa hissed. “That was just a metropolitan gym. This is the Olympics!”

Ushijima blinked, now sucking on a yogurt packet. “Did you not pack a spare?”

“WHO THE FUCK PACKS SPARE SHOES?”

(Ushijima did. He didn't just pack one extra pair, no. He packed two. Both pairs were even nicely labeled in permanent marker. But, of course, you couldn't tell that to Hinata, or he'd combust).

And who else?

You. You did.

You were standing at the bench, already halfway through the team’s emergency supply bag—breath held and heart pounding because of course Hinata would lose his shoes again, and of course you’d be ready.

Because even now, especially now, you knew him.

To the world, he was a 5'8 glory of a man—tan, muscular, kind, and indefinitely loyal... also proficient in Portuguese.

But to you, he was Hinata—your (man-child) sunshine. The boy who forgot to eat lunch if you didn't nag him a little. The boy who was terrible at written English even though he could use the language. The boy who needed a little extra comfort after a particularly intensive drill from Iwaizumi or a harsh scolding from Coach.

“There we go,” you whispered, yanking out a clean, pristine pair of new volleyball shoes. “I knew you’d do this again.”

Same color, same accent. White with red, bright and fiery.

Hinata gasped, turning to you like sunflower to sun.

“YOU’RE MY HERO, SWEETS!”

You nearly collided into him as he ran toward you, arms stretched wide. You held the shoes out. “Here, put these on. Quick. Don’t pull the laces too tight.”

You quickly glanced down at your watch before looking up again and locking eyes with Iwaizumi. "Ten more minutes until game time, so you'd better hurry, Sho."

He blinked at the shoes, then at you, then back again—smile soft and a little wobbly.

“You… you had them ready?”

You flushed under the bright lights. “Well—yeah. I mean. I remembered that time in Tokyo, and you looked so sad, and—”

“I LOVE YOU,” he declared dramatically, clutching the shoes to his chest.

Immediately, from the bench area—

Sakusa groaned.

Komori sighed.

Kageyama glared.

Suna muttered, “Wow.”

Atsumu was nearly on the verge of tears. “Why does he get all the love for a mistake HE made?! Can I fake a shoeless crisis? Will you cradle my career-saving feet too?”

Bokuto practically bounced. “What if I lose my jersey? Will you tackle me with a new one? Please?!”

You didn’t get a chance to answer, because Hinata had already plopped onto the bench beside you, tugging the shoes on like his life depended on it.

“Did I ruin everything?” he asked, voice quieter, sheepish now.

You knelt beside him, fixing the tongue of his left shoe, smoothing his sock into place. “You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve worked too hard to let one silly thing shake you.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes. “I believe in you, Sunshine.”

From behind the bench, Iwaizumi—clipboard in hand, eyes narrowed—muttered, “Okay. That’s the third time she’s called him sunshine this week. I’m keeping track now.”

Ushijima nodded solemnly. “He receives more sunlight than the rest of us.”

“You all get sunlight,” you giggled, rising with a blush. “He just loses his shoes more often.”

Komori deadpanned, “We’ll start misplacing things immediately.”

Suna casually unzipped his Team Japan jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Oops. Lost it. Help me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, biting back a smile.

“And yet,” he smirked, “you like us ridiculous.”

Atsumu leaned over the bench, grinning stupidly in your face. “When do I get the special ‘I believe in you’ treatment, huh?”

Bokuto chimed in, wide-eyed glassy and lips pouty. “Can you at least pretend I’m your favorite once? Just for morale?”

You laughed and indulged in Bo just this once, hands leaning up to fix the tips of his droopy hair that had lost all their spike and spunk. "I did a three-way video call with you and Akaashi. I think that counts—"

Iwaizumi stepped in, blowing the whistle. “Warm-ups. Now. Five minutes. Everyone who’s not Hinata, stop acting like you're in middle school. Everyone who is Hinata—tie your damn laces.”

"IWA—we were having a moment!" Bokuto cried out.

"Next moment's mine, right?" Atsumu whispered in your ear, slinging his arms around you.

You laughed and pulled him off with a soft pat to his back. "Maybe if you get six aces."

Atsumu smirked, all dangerous and flirty. "Watch me, sweetheart."

You shook your head, a hint of a smile twitching on your lips, and they scattered back onto the court like overgrown toddlers. Except one—Hinata lingered by your side, tugging gently at your sleeve.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Really.”

His hand found yours, intertwining your pinkies for just a second—like he'd done many times in high school. Only this time, it felt special—like a shared secret between the two of you.

You smiled, heart full and fluttering. “Just win, yeah?”

He nodded, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of your head. “For you, always.”

On the court, eight jealous men all glared in perfect sync.

"God—what kind of flirting did he learn in Brazil?"

"You wanna learn too?"

"Sure do."

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concretejunglefm · 2 days ago

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bestfriend!noah thot that has been brewing in my head for soso long

reader telling noah she’s never had sex even tho she has preached to him every which way about how her ex bf would fuck her any chance he got and noah being respectful thanks her for her honesty despite her lying withholding information (bc that’s a big thing to admit yknow)

she tells noah that she had always wanted him to be her first so that’s why she made up the lie in the first place but noah’s her best friend how could she just say that!!

then noah offers to be her first and…….. sigh yeah

hi bb I went for a real soft approach on this one, I hope you don't mind and you like it 💕

CW: smut including unprotected sex (p in v), first time, virgin!reader, soft and fluffy vibes/talk, light fingering (f receiving), confessions of love, best friends to lovers vibes.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

“I was wondering… would you like to go to prom together?”

Noah had been contemplating asking you for nearly two weeks, ever since the posters advertising the school prom began coating the corridor walls, but your pause—between his question and your answer—caused him to hastily clarify something far from the truth, something that didn’t reflect how he really wanted to go with you.

“As friends.”

He didn’t get the chance to go with you—not even as friends.

Lately, you’ve been having these conversations more often. Gentle topics, approached lightly, but Noah knows the inevitable is coming—the kind of discussions you’ve both danced around, avoiding with careful footwork. A practiced tango where neither of you misses a beat.

And it’s in this rhythm that Noah’s confession finally slips free.

“When I asked if you wanted to go to prom together, I meant it as more than friends.”

Saying it aloud now sounds almost ridiculous. To admit the fear he felt in your delayed response, how that silence twisted in his chest, forcing him to blurt out ‘as friends’, like it didn’t splinter something deep inside him. No, you weren’t anything more than friends by label, but the way you look at each other—God, it tells a different story.

Back then, part of Noah had dreamed of walking hand-in-hand with you. Dancing together beneath whatever dollar-store decorations the gym had that year. That version of prom never happened, not as friends, and not as anything more.

But now, he’s determined to make it right.

It’s been less than a week since Noah brought it up. You honestly expect that he may have forgotten—but in truth, what he needs is time to prepare.

When you arrive at his, he banishes you to his bedroom with firm instructions: change into what he’s left for you, and don’t come out until he knocks. You attempt to peek over his broad shoulders as he directs you, stealing a glance past his larger frame to the multitude of bags spread out across the living room.

“What do you have planned?” you ask, brow arched.

His answer is firm—an instruction, giving you nothing. “Upstairs. Now.”

Stepping into his bedroom, you softly close the door behind you. Before you can even snoop around for a hint of what he has planned, your eyes catch on a large box laid out on the bed, finished with a ribbon and a card tucked beneath it.

You trace your fingers along the ribbon before slipping them beneath and retrieving the card. Tentatively, you open it, reading the soft inscription: No prom date is complete without a dress.

Tears press at your waterline, and you do your best to blink them away, but it’s opening the box that truly steals your breath.

Resting atop a folded dress is a white and red corsage made of delicate carnations. A soft sob catches in your throat as you reach in and gently lift it, stroking the petals before your eyes fall to the red dress beneath it.

You unfold it and hold it up against yourself, marveling at the sight. It’s a near-perfect match to the one you wore back then, but how Noah knew, you have no idea. He’d dropped out of school before prom came around, focusing on his band while you had your date—your first official boyfriend. Things only grew further apart from there, until recently, when your breakup seemed to pull you and Noah back together.

When you step in front of the mirror after slipping the dress on, you blink back tears long enough to really look at yourself. You’re not seventeen anymore—you don’t feel like a girl playing dress-up in something fancy, but the way your heart pounds in your chest, the butterflies swirling in your stomach, it makes you feel it more than ever.

You honor Noah’s request and wait. You don’t leave the room until you hear his knock, and when you do—he’s changed, too.

His suit is slick, charcoal grey—the only one he owns, but it fits. A white and red carnation, matching your corsage, is pinned to his lapel. You’re not the only one losing your breath, because the second the door opens and he lays eyes on you, his is gone too.

“You look… wow. Wow. Oh, wow…”

A heat blooms in your cheeks and you drop your head, shying away, but he reaches out, his hand gently finding your cheek, guiding you to look back at him. His eyes lock onto yours, and he can’t stop smiling, he doesn’t think he ever will.

You look like you belong in a movie—like the kind of sight people write songs about, and maybe he will write one about tonight.

“Can I?” he gestures toward the corsage in your hand, taking it before you have the chance to answer. He slips it onto your wrist, and the brush of his fingers against your skin makes your heart skip a beat. You almost dare to believe you’re dreaming—until his fingers slip between your own, guiding you down the hallway and stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs awaits your first cheesy prom tradition: photos. The backdrop is a constellation sheet he found at Goodwill, which hangs a little crooked, but the effort makes it perfect.

“Say cheese,” he instructs, slipping behind you and falling into generic poses as Bryan takes a few snapshots. It takes until now to realize you’re not entirely alone—you can hear faint chatter coming from another part of the house, the living room, which has been blocked from your view. You imagine it’s the rest of Noah’s friends, and when he leads you into the main room—the now-transformed living room—you see them all hanging around, dressed in suits or their own versions of prom attire.

His living room has become a starry dream—more middle school dance than high school prom, maybe, but it’s magical anyway. Fairy lights sparkle, tinsel glimmers from every corner, and glow-in-the-dark stars blanket the ceiling and walls. Noah’s stuck them anywhere he could reach, and he’ll be finding them for weeks—but it’ll all be worth it for this.

“A night under the stars,” he says, grinning nervously. “It’s cheesy, right? You think it’s cheesy.” He panics before you even get the chance to speak, but the look on your face silences every fear.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a question.

You take his hand, and he pulls you close, your body melting against his. Over his shoulder, you spot Matt—semi-dressed-up with an open shirt over a Lord of the Rings T-shirt—controlling the music. He switches it to something slower and softer.

Georgia, wrap me up in all your… I want ya in my arms Oh, let me hold ya…

Your hand finds Noah’s chest, palm flat over his heart. You can feel it—strong, steady, racing. You move effortlessly with him, a soft, swaying rhythm that matches the hum of the music, the lyrics washing over you both like waves.

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes and slip down your cheeks before you realize they’ve fallen. Noah pulls back just enough to see you, and the sight of you makes his breath catch—like the world has narrowed to just this moment.

This is the memory he had wished for a thousand times before: dancing with the love of his life at eighteen. The chance you never had back then, but here, now—it doesn’t matter anymore.

He holds you like you’re everything, and he’s never loved you more.

I would never fall in love again until I found her I said, I would never fall unless it’s you I fall into I was lost within the darkness, but then I found her I found you.

This is everything your prom should have been—and so much more.

When Noah leans down and dares to kiss you, it’s everything he could have ever imagined and yet somehow more. Your lips are soft and warm, and you make a gentle hum in response, as though you’re lingering in it the way he is. His heartbeat, thrumming in his chest, matches the rhythm of your pulse racing beneath his hand as he cups the side of your neck, holding you close in the embrace.

For a moment, you linger. You don’t say a word, just sway to the music, his forehead resting against yours. Neither of you dares to break away too soon, to fall back into reality.

It’s you who breaks the spell first, a soft confession slipping from between your lips.

“I always wanted you to be my first, you know. After prom… I thought that…”

You don’t finish the sentence, you know he can draw the conclusion of what you had anticipated. Even if Noah had suggested going as friends, you held onto the hope that it meant more—that prom night would change your friendship forever into something better.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t be.”

You hear it, there’s a faint hint of something in his voice, as though there’s genuine sorrow over not having been that person for you, and while you would have chosen to hold onto your words longer, you can’t stop them from tumbling out in one breath.

“You still can be.”

Noah pauses, pulling back to gaze down at you. His face twists, and for a moment, you think he’s going to be upset with you, but as quickly as the thought comes, his shoulders relax, his features softening—as though he understands without you needing to explain about why you lied—or rather, why you never corrected any assumptions he’d made about you and your previous relationship.

“Do you really mean that?”

You can’t quite pinpoint it, but it looks like relief that washes over him. Like he’s happy to know your ex never had you in the way he clearly always wanted to, and while he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s exactly what he’s thinking.

You nod—slow, but sure and he meets your mouth with another kiss, whispering softly, “We’ll take it at your pace.”

That’s all you need—his assurance, the tenderness in his words that allows you to fall into him even further.

Everything is at your pace. It’s you who takes Noah’s hands and guides him out of the ‘prom’ and up the stairs to his bedroom. You who starts pushing the suit jacket from his shoulders, your fingers tentatively trailing along the buttons of his shirt. When his mouth meets yours again, it’s soft and warm, and it sets off fireworks behind your eyes. This kiss is more intense, more devouring, more devoted than the one you shared downstairs.

It’s you who can’t hide your hunger for him anymore—no longer shying away from how you feel. You’ve held back for too long.

Piece by piece, you strip off your clothes until you’re falling back onto the bed together, Noah slotted between your thighs, both of your chests heaving with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his fingers delicately gliding across your skin, following the curve of your hips before they tickle along your stomach—making your body arch instinctively toward him.

“Yes…” you breathe, your fingers threading into his hair as you guide him back down to meet you. Your mouth finds his in a slow, gentle kiss, and the moment his hand slips between your thighs, a moan escapes into his mouth. His fingers circle your clit, teasing over the sensitive nub, and your hips rise instinctively, pushing closer to him.

“Noah…” you whimper, tugging at his hair. He smirks against your lips before trailing kisses along your chin, down your throat, pressing soft, reverent ones to the front of it. You’re sure he’s about to say something teasing about patience, but instead, he covers your skin in kisses, whispering the sweetest nothings—words that have your toes curling before he’s even inside you.

Beneath him, you raise your hips, trying to coax him closer, your skin tingling from the heat of his body and the way his throbbing erection presses against your thigh.

“Please…” you whisper, breathless, your nails dragging down his back. Then you hear the soft rustle of foil. You reach for his hand, stopping him. “No, please—I want to feel you. I need to feel you inside me, Noah. Please… please, baby.”

The way you say ‘baby’ sends a surge of heat through him, pulling a trembling groan from his throat. Your pet names sound sinful and sweet when they fall from your lips like that, especially when you’re in this state—desperate, vulnerable, utterly his.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throat, then trailing back up to yours. You answer with a soft, affirming sound, your eyes full of need.

The condom he’d been fumbling with is tossed aside, forgotten, as he slips a hand beneath you, cradling the back of your thigh, while the other wraps around his cock, guiding himself to you.

The press of his tip against your slit draws out a soft, needy sound from your lips. Your hips buck against him, your body craving him, aching to be filled. Slowly, he begins to sink into you, and a deep groan escapes his throat as your head falls back with a sharp gasp, followed by a moan that fills the space between you.

“How does that feel?” he whispers.

You clench around him in response, pulling him deeper, and he twitches inside you with a shudder.

“So good,” you whimper—and it does feel good. Incredible, in fact. It’s overwhelming and perfect all at once, like he’s sliding home to where he truly belongs and it’s a sentiment Noah shares, because nothing has ever felt so fittingly right as being wrapped in you, like this.

“I’ll start slow, okay?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours, grounding you with a hand at your waist, cradling you close. “Okay?” he presses again, waiting for your answer, needing it—any sign that you’re okay.

A faint “yes” falls from your lips as your fingers tangle back into his hair, urging him on. You hold him close, your body trembling beneath him, unraveling with pleasure.

Every slow drag of him through your soft, velvet walls sends a shiver down his spine, right to the base of his cock and you feel it, too—the slow build in your stomach, a warmth that tightens with every movement, something you can’t quite name but know you never want to end.

“Feels…” you gasp, another moan tumbling out. “So good.”

Your legs wrap around him, desperate to pull him closer, and it’s enough to make him sink even deeper. Your bodies are completely pressed together as his hips move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You’re wrapped in each other—lost in the pleasure, the affection, the shared breaths and whispered truths that make this more than just sex. It’s love, pure and soft and all-consuming.

Noah’s confessions come in panted breaths against your skin. “I’ve always loved you. I don’t think there’s been a time I didn’t. And I’ve always thought about this… about you, about being with you.”

You clench around him, and he throbs inside you, perfectly in sync. Your bodies respond to each other instinctively, like they’ve always belonged together. The slow buildup of your climaxes comes with soft declarations of love, yours whispered against his jawline, teeth brushing the scruff that grazes your cheek with every movement.

And when you fall apart, it’s together—loud and messy, with moans and soft cries, praises and confessions tumbling out between gasps. You give yourselves over completely to what you’ve both fantasised about for so long: two best friends, deeply in love, finally and completely each other’s.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-you-blood @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconictaurus @flowery-mess

#alex 💕#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #bad omens smut #noah sebastian fluff #bad omens fluff #noah sebastian fic #bad omens fic #noah sebastian x reader #bestfriend!noah #concretejunglefm fics

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nathaniacolver · 6 months ago

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arcane ships be like

i love a show that teaches equality (😭😭😭)

#guys i don't actually ship jayvik but it was necessary for the reference #sorry for the quality btw i threw this together #timebomb #jayvik #caitvi #arcane #arcane spoilers #arcane season 2 #EDIT: multiple people have pointed out that the labels i've used aren't the characters' real sexualities. and they're right #there's actually NO labels in runeterra so i shoulda said m/f m/m and f/f relationships #but you guys already gave this 13k notes so whatever bro #just know!!! they are more than whatever nathaniacolver post labels them as! :)#EDIT AGAIN AFTER THE FINALE: I DO INDEED NOW SHIP JAYVIK. DAFUQ #DOOM IS DOOM #edit number 3 or something idk man people keep asking stuff:#i made this after act 1 and before acts 2 & 3 so this is an ACT 1 MEME #and yes timebomb are whatever the frick you want them to be. *sighs*. i should've said f/m relationship so bad

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latenightwithpizza · 1 day ago

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oh goodness, i don't even know WHERE to start. im just so happy you kept going with this absolutely fantastic piece!! so heartbreaking raw and angsty, i want to strangle mattheo and kiss him and give him a hug and then shove him off a cliff, i feel dizzy from all the emotional whiplash you have given me! but i love it sm!!!! the way reader is struggling so much with their situation but is still being selfish by leading rowan on because she can't fully have mattheo god they're both so fucked up in their own ways, AND I DONT EVEN KNOW WHY yet for her!! so beautiful leo, you always kill it, your writing is one of my favs to devour and i truly wanted to highlight every line in this whole piece!!! 😭🤍🤍🤍

Also just love this timeline of this fic, of it being set when they go back to a rebuilt Hogwarts for the 8th year!!!

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief.

FUCKING BEAUTIFUL the not being able to differentiate between grief and relief. Sure he hated his dad but that's all he’d ever known in a way, god that must be so hard to have that taken away, the familiarity and to be left completely alone now even tho now hes free. 😭😭😭😭 The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. OMG this breaks my heart so much to see mattheo reduced to this walking zombie of a boy FUCKKKK

It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts. 💔💔💔 UGHHHH god i want them to have love so badly!!! The months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under. No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

THE METAPHORES SCREAMINGGG they always hit so good!!! 🙌🙌🙌

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain.

God i feel so much for the reader, not her trying to convince herself that she needed this as well. That it was really a business transaction, a mutual need and nothing else!! poor baby i love the way you've explained how she can't escape the memories and moments with him no matter how much she might wish to forget and move on 😭 The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him. SOBBING OMG

There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

OMG i love this line so much the ‘knowing that your heart still works’ the fact that i yet have no idea what has happened to the reader for her to crave this kind of attention and love has me dying to know more. Like something must have happened in her life for her to connect with mattheo in that same level as him!! The storytelling leo is so beautiful, im absorbed!!

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

PLEASE LMFAO yeah fucks like a what A FUCKING WHORE

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual. Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

READER using rowan is so mean, the fact she knows he'd be so good to her yet she craves that wild and rougher side with mattheo fucking hell and to know she'll use rowan anyway because she can't get these sweet moments with mattheo, its all so twisted and complicated and mean but i kind of love it

You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back.

YOUR BREAKING ME LEO !!!!! </3 him not looking at you NO why is he not yearning for her!!

And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

AGAIN LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH !! 😭😭😭 EEEH so excited this is far as the preview sneak i got and the way i was NOT PREPARED in the slightest for what came next !!

also the fact she only has the courage to approach in drunk </3 Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance. i want to cry for her but also so true, having that intoxicated confidence is like no other

gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist. // You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight.

LOVE this whole section SO FRICKEN MUCH, like pansy is suffocating her with that whole 'told you so'. and reader knows everything pansy is saying is right but still chooses to be a dumbass and ignore the warning signs, literally shes hanging on by that tiny thread that theres something there with mattheo so badly she's willing to hurt herself in the process

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

OBSESSED, i love the way the jealousy is described and that watch being a metaphor for so much eeeh!! Not him ignoring you and you just watching him kiss her neck THIS FUCKING BITCH MATTHEO. I can feel her embarassment dripping off the page, its like when reader does something cringe and i just wanna look away like GIRLIE STOP ABORT ABORT

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

WHAT mattheo!?!? You’re actually jealous and wanna go on dates with usss Lowkey kicking my feet at this, like yes baby boy you've been spying on us enough to know we're kind of seeing someone twiring my hair 🤭🤭🤭

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

OKAY I TAKE IT BACK, EXCUSE ME 😤🤬didn't have to call us out like that lmfao the way id die if someone humilated me like this; "Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir.”

STOP WHY IS HE SO INFURATING BUT SO HOT IM SCREAMING His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper. He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

BITCHCHHHCHC WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING HOTTTT ‼️‼️‼️

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

UM UMUMUMUM IM WET

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.” PURRRRRING “Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice. // “Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock. Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on.

im sorry the whole blowjob scene chefs fucking kiss!!! He’s so fucking maddening right now but i relate to the reader sm much right now fucccck

THE SPITTING !!!! “That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.” YES DADDY 😫😫😫

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul. HES GOING TO THINK THESE MF THOUGHTS AND THEN act like there aint something going on i swear this man

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing. // “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

BRUHHHHH

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore. // This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

why does this make me want to cry, like come on matty its okay come here lemme give u a hug 🫂

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

Not him shedding a tear whaaat im so conflicted!! 😫

YOU SHOULD GO WHAT the FUCK MATTHEO U CANT BE SERIOUS 😭😤😖

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

WHILE HES CARESSING OUR BACK GTFO 🤺🤺🤺

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

THE ENDING LINE LEO BRUH NOOOO WHAAAT, the way i cant wait to skip over to part two. God the way you threw me around there, diagloue, descriptions, emotions never fail bb you truly have a talent and once again so proud of u for continuing to pour your heart into this!!!! 🤍🩵 I’m so hooked, like this could go so many ways but I’m praying for a happyish ending 🙏

WICKED GAME. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader. part one. → part two.

summary ; after the war, nothing feels real except him—you’re not together, not really, but that’s never stopped you from crawling back to him when it burns too much to feel nothing at all. it’s cruel and addictive, and things change when your hypocrisy begins to bleed through. words ; 9.5k warnings ; sexual content, angst, toxic situationship, fingering, unprotected p in v, mattheo’s rough, creampie, oral m! & f!receiving, throatfucking, overstimulation, f!masterbation, voyeurism (?), swearing, hair pulling, orgasm denial, dirty talk, degradation, spitting, choking, pussy slapping, spanking, dp (fingers + cock), squirting

navigation. masterlist.

His back is to you when you open your eyes.

You watch as he slides on his jeans—the same blue denim he was wearing last night when he showed up at your door. Listen as his shoes tap against the wood floor. There’s a certain rhythm to it, almost mechanical, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Muscle memory.

He bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, his movements slow, careful. You can almost hear the thoughts running through his head, though you know better than to ask. He’s good at keeping things to himself, as good as you’ve learned to be.

His muscles flex as he reaches up to slide the shirt over his head, and your eyes catch on the scars littering his back, the faint red lines and the faded, angry stains left upon his spine, holding memories of the days that brought him to this point of roboticism, and despite your best efforts not to think too hard about it, your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

He glances over at you, and for the briefest second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft, something different, though you can’t quite place it. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that familiar mask.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, his voice low, but there’s nothing in it. No affection. No real meaning. Just words.

You nod, eyes following his every move as he heads for the door, but you don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?

He leaves, and the silence that follows feels heavier than it should. You stay there for a few moments longer, listening to the sound of the door clicking shut, before you finally let out the breath you’d been holding.

Last night still lingers—on your skin, in your throat, between your legs. You feel it in the ache of your limbs and the hollow in your chest. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It never is.

The first time you saw him outside of Hogwarts was in a Muggle pub just off Diagon Alley. It had been a couple months since the end of the battle, right around the time you’d returned to a rebuilt version of Hogwarts for an eighth year. You hadn’t expected to see him at all, let alone there—half-drunk in a booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes darker than you remembered. He looked up when you walked past. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just lifted his glass in a sort of salute, like you were two survivors nodding across the wreckage.

You weren’t close, back then. Not really. Before the world went to ashes, you ran in the same circles—shared friends, shared classes, shared the occasional smirk across the room—but that was it. He was always a little too reckless for you to trust. And you were a little too careful, too quiet, for him to notice.

But war changes things.

The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. He still walks like he owns the ground beneath his feet, but there’s something broken behind his eyes now. Something lonely. You recognized it the moment you saw him again.

How could you not? It’s the same hollow feeling you can’t escape even in your wildest dreams.

That night in the pub, it was you who approached first, who spoke first. What started with small talk about mutual friends—about who made it out, who didn’t—turned into two drinks, then three, and then suddenly you were closer.

You can’t remember who leaned in first—only the bitter taste of whiskey on his lips and the way his hands slid under your shirt, all rough and desperate, as if he was trying to claw his way back into something real. It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts.

He took you back to his dorm that night, and all you can remember was the way he had you pressed up against the wall, his mouth on your neck and his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt like he hadn't touched another person in years.

And then it happened again, two weeks later. And again, and again, until it became a pattern, the months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under.

No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

He doesn’t stay the night. Except when he does.

And you don’t care. Except you do.

You pull the silk sheets tighter around your bare chest, the scent of him burning your flesh. It’s riddled with vodka and musk and that cheap ass cologne you pretend not to love. Your eyes flutter shut, drifting back to last night, or more accurately, to every fucking night you’ve ever shared with him, honing in on every time he touched you with a certain gentleness that he usually never possessed.

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain. The moments when his fingertips glided softly along the ridges of your spine, when you’d moan a certain way and he’d ease the hold he had on your hair, when he positioned you facing him instead of away.

It was pathetic, really. The arrangement was what it was, and there was no underlying meaning to any of the unspoken rules the two of you set. It wasn’t serious, it wasn’t exclusive, and it never would be, but it seemed the walls around your heart were far too fragile, far too decrepit, to ever stand a chance.

You told yourself you could do it. That it was fine. That you really were just helping each other cope and it was only about satisfying a mutual need. The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him.

You glance to your side, sitting up with the covers pulled just below your arms. His expensive watch is on the nightstand, forgotten again. He always forgets something, and you’ve started to wonder if it’s intentional.

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed, wincing at the sensation of your bare feet hitting the cold floor. The clock’s only just ticked past six—feels too early to get up now for a 9AM class, but you decide you need a shower. To wash away the smell of drinks and smoke and the grease in your hair, but mostly, to wash away last night’s activities. To wash him off your skin.

This cycle, it’s never ending, like a wound that scabs but never heals. Maybe a sane person who actually fucking cared about theirself would have called it off by now, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because no matter how much it stings, no matter how bad the fire burns you, it’s still reassuring. There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

Your body feels unfamiliar as you pad quietly to the bathroom, like it doesn’t quite belong to you anymore, your limbs heavy with leftover sleep. You let the door click shut behind you before turning the water on hotter than you should, letting the steam rise and drown out the thoughts bouncing around your skull.

You step under the spray without waiting, eyes shut, letting the heat burn away whatever’s left of last night. It doesn’t work—but you stay there anyway.

By the time you drag yourself out, the mirror is too fogged to show your face, and your fingers are wrinkled from how long you stayed under. You dry off without thinking, dress even faster, and force yourself out of the dorm before your mind can drag you back.

The Great Hall is already buzzing with chatter when you arrive for breakfast but making conversation is the last thing you want to do.

Unfortunately for you though, things never work out in your favor. That’s made clear enough by the sight of a handsome boy in blue robes waving you over. Groaning internally, you give in and trudge over to him and his friends—not that you have much of a choice.

“Hi Rowan,” you offer, flashing him a half-arsed smile as you took the seat next to him, fighting the urge to drop your tired head into your hands.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily.

Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

“Fine. Well, actually, I slept well.”

“I’m glad.”

Rowan was sweet. You’d been seeing him for a few weeks now. Nothing serious, but just a bit of fun. Dates, kisses, late-night study sessions that turned into something more. It was easier with him. He smiled at you in the hallways, held your hand under the table, asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. And he wasn’t bad to look at either—or to kiss. But when you did kiss him, when his hands were on your waist, your mind wandered. You couldn't help wishing his hands were rougher, warmer, different.

He pours you a glass of pumpkin juice without asking, like it’s an ingrained habit now. You thank him with a small smile and start picking at a piece of toast.

Rowan leans a little closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “You look tired. Was it the Arithmancy essay?”

You nod vaguely, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “Yeah, something like that.”

He chuckles softly. “Knew I should’ve stayed to help. I would’ve, you know—if you’d asked.”

You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’re sweet.”

There’s a brief silence as you sip your drink, and then:

“I was thinking,” he starts, hesitant. “Maybe this weekend, you and me could take a trip to Hogsmeade? Just the two of us. I feel like I never get you all to myself anymore.”

You nearly choke on your toast.

“I— yeah. Sure,” you say too quickly, blinking down at your plate. “That sounds nice.”

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual.

Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

Your eyes flick toward the doors of the Great Hall every few seconds, scanning the entrance like your body’s acting on instinct, searching for him even when your mind insists not to.

Rowan’s voice pulls you back.

“Do you have class after this?” he asks, brushing a crumb off your cheek with his thumb. “I could walk you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Defense. With Slughorn.”

He laughs. “Isn’t he Potions?”

You blink again. Shit. “Right. Sorry. I meant… I meant Potions.”

You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even notice. That might be the worst part.

The weekend arrives with a sickening speed, each day bleeding into the next like ink soaking through thin pages. You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back. You don’t get the butterflies, the stupid fluttering warmth a younger, more naive version of you might have felt if he’d met your eyes across the room. Mattheo doesn’t give you that satisfaction, and it eats at you because all you want to know was if it was on purpose—if he was fighting the same fucking battle as you or if he honestly just didn’t care.

Too much to dwell on, you think. Too much to dwell on and too little in return.

Your hands tremble as they gently scoop up Mattheo’s watch from the cozy spot in your nightstand drawer that you’d tucked it into, between freshly washed socks and bras. It felt too intimate, storing something that belongs to him in such a personal space, but you told yourself that that wasn’t your intention, that you were just safekeeping it for him.

Of course, safekeeping would’ve meant more if you’d returned it to him days ago, during one of the countless times you’d crossed paths in classrooms and hallways, and of course you'd thought about it, but you backed down before you even began.

Speaking to him when you weren’t drunk was a risk you didn’t want to gamble.

True, it would give you an advantage; you wouldn’t spew the same utter bullshit and nonsense you usually did when intoxicated. And true, chances were he’d just take the watch and you’d both move along with your days, but fuck, there was also the chance that either he’d ask you something you didn’t want to answer or you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance.

So instead you wait.

You wait and wait until Saturday night rolls around, his watch crammed into your jacket pocket as you stumble down the steps of the dormitories to the common room, where music is blasting so loud it could hardly be considered anything but noise. The air reeks of alcohol and weed, tendrils of secondhand smoke snaking through your nostrils to leave your head throbbing in record time. You haven’t even made it halfway across the room and your skull already feels like it’s cracking open.

The second Pansy spots you—your oversized jacket swallowing your frame, concealing the bare skin shown off by your tiny skirt —she’s practically lunging. Her arm hooks around yours, too tight and too fast, and her breath smells like firewhiskey when she leans in.

“Oh, look at you,” she drawls, eyes glassy, voice syrup-thick. “Looking all dangerous tonight. Who are you trying to kill with that skirt?”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable. “No one, Pans,” you mutter. “I’m wearing the jacket for a reason.” Your free hand fidgets with the hem hidden beneath the leather, fingers twitching like they’ve got something to hide. “The skirt was the only clean thing I had.”

Pansy’s smirk doesn’t budge. If anything, it grows smugger. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with a glint that makes your skin prickle. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain someone you’re hoping to accidentally bump into? Saving the view for him?”

God.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Because she’s right. And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

“Fucking hell, Pansy, give it a rest. Aren’t you the one preaching every day and night about how women don’t dress for men?”

She blanches, her brows furrowing. “Yes. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell when my best friend’s trying to get a certain boy’s attention.” Her voice is softer than before, like she’s trying to ease you into being honest with her, but she’s still slurring her speech and frankly, the words ‘best friend’ give you the urge to pull away. It only takes a couple beats without a response from you for her to rub at her reddened eyes with a fist and speak up again.

“You know he’s fucked up, right?”

Right. That again.

Like it’s news. Like it’s something you haven’t played on repeat in your brain until the record scratched.

“I’m well aware.”

“He’s not built for relationships.”

You smile, sharp as broken glass. “Good thing we’re not in one then.”

She sways slightly, like the ground feels just a little softer than usual, and gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

Eyes flicking to the floor, you bounce up and down on the heels of your feet, running your tongue over your teeth. “I came here to loosen up, not be lectured.”

You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight. Her fingers linger for half a second before falling away, and you don’t wait for her to say anything else—you’re already moving. Head low, feet light, weaving through the maze of limbs and smoke and pulsing bodies.

The makeshift bar is a disaster. Half-empty bottles, sticky counters, solo cups stacked like some drunken monument to poor decisions. You grab the first clean-ish one you can find and pour whatever’s within reach—firewhiskey, you think, but it burns sharper than usual when it hits your tongue. You wince. Swallow anyway.

Your eyes skim the room. Just surveying. Being observant. Gathering intel like you’re not standing there in a fucking skirt short enough to haunt a Catholic grandmother.

Swallow again. The burn licks up the back of your throat, makes your eyes sting, but it shuts your brain up for a second. So you pour another.

You don’t even like the taste. You never have, but it gives your hands something to do, and something about the numbness creeping in behind your ribs feels... safe.

You glance around, like you’re doing it casually. Like you’re not scanning the room for a face you know too well.

Your fingers tighten around the cup.

You’re not drinking just to get brave enough to talk to him. That’s not what this is.

This is you having fun. Being normal. Loosening up, like you said.

Right?

You take another sip.

He’s not even your boyfriend. You’re not his. There’s no label, no promises, no rules. Just... blurred lines and late nights and moments that mean too much and not enough all at once.

Your mouth tastes like sugar and regret. You chase it with more alcohol.

But then you catch a glimpse of him. He’s got a short brunette in a little black dress pressed up against the wall with his hands on her hips, the top button of her shirt undone, and worst of all, his mouth on her neck.

Jealousy slowly bubbles into rage, and you don’t know what pushes you to do it. Be it the alcohol, or bravery, or just pure fucking stupidity, you stomp over, effortlessly pushing through the countless bodies in your way, the hurt giving you power enough to do so.

“Mattheo,” you croak out when you’re closer to him, fingers twitching with a lethal mixture of fury and anxiety. He doesn’t budge, lips still firmly attached to her neck, leaving a trail of red splotches and saliva.

Heat floods your entire body, up your ears and cheeks and neck, leaving you embarrassed for having called to him in front of all these people only to be ignored. Either he didn’t hear you because he’s completely entranced by this girl, or he disregarded you on purpose. Either way, it burns.

“Mattheo,” you call, louder this time.

His eyes snap up, searching his surroundings before landing on yours, hooded, glazed, like he’s not really there. But the second he sees you, something in his expression shifts. Brief and barely visible, but there.

“…What?” he mutters, voice low and rough. He doesn’t move away from her. Doesn’t drop his hands from her hips. The girl turns slightly, confused, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. His gaze is still locked on you, half-dazed, half-aware, like he’s trying to decide whether to fight or flee.

Stomping over, you fish the watch out of your pocket, eyes never leaving his as you get closer. “You fucking forgot this,” you snarl, shoving the dumb thing against his solid chest, hard enough to make him stumble and to make the girl yelp. Without wasting a single second, you turn the fuck back around and walk away.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath, his hand clasping over the watch as to not let it fall before completely disregarding the girl to follow you through the crowd.

You pray that he’ll lose you in the swarm of people, but of course, he doesn’t. He catches up just as you hit the corridor past the main room and grabs your arm—not hard, just enough to stop you, to turn you around—and the look on his face is equal parts confusion and condescension and anger. Like you just ruined his night.

“Are you fucking serious?” he growls into your face, the watch still clutched in his fist. “You come storming in, start throwing shit like a lunatic—”

You yank your arm out of his grip. “Oh, I’m the lunatic?” You laugh, short and humorless. “Sorry, didn’t realize interrupting you sucking face with some random slag made me the irrational one.”

He scoffs. “She’s not random.”

“Yeah? What’s her name then?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. Shrugs like he can’t be bothered to come up with a proper answer. “Does it matter?”

You glare at him, lip curled. “No. Of course not. Why would it? You’ve got a whole fucking lineup, don’t you?”

“You’re one to talk,” he sneers. “You playing house with Rowan fucking Rivers now? Letting him leave his shit behind too? Or do you just shove it under your bed like a good little whore and keep rotating us in?”

The slap would’ve landed if he hadn’t caught your wrist.

“You don’t get to fucking talk about him,” you seethe, struggling against his grip. “You don’t get to say anything.”

“You don’t know anything,” you snap, shoving him. He barely moves, just smirks wider, crueler.

You take a step back, voice shaking. “I kept it because I thought you’d come back for it, you prick.”

The silence that follows is blistering. It’s a truth you’ve only just admitted to yourself for the first time.

“You left it in my room on purpose, Mattheo.” Your voice is trembling now, shaking with everything you won’t say. “Don’t act like I imagined that.”

His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.” He lets it drop to the floor between you, doesn’t even flinch when it hits with a metallic clink.

You feel something splinter in your chest. It’s quiet for a while; you can’t even think of what to say anymore.

“I know enough about you,” he says again, and the venom in his voice feels like a slap all on its own. “I know you like it when I fuck the good girl out of you and you still act like I’m the one who should feel dirty.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, to make you sound like such a needy, sex-depraved little girl, but you know he’s not wrong. Being with him makes you feel alive—that’s how you ended up in this position to begin with. Because you made each other feel real.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

You shove him. Hard.

He lets you.

But then he grabs your arm, pulls you into a corner, out of view, and slams his hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in like a goddamn threat.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he says low, voice almost shaking now. “Don’t act like you came to this party looking like that for anyone else.”

Your mouth opens to argue, maybe, or scream, or slap him again, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Because suddenly his mouth is on yours—hard, bruising, possessive—like he’s trying to prove a point, or make you forget every name that isn’t his. And you let him. You bite back. You kiss like you’re angry, because you are, and he tastes like smoke and firewhiskey and everything you can’t have but take anyway.

He’s already dragging you up the stairs to his dorm before you can even blink.

He slams the door shut behind you and you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, his mouth hot and desperate, hands roaming like he needs to memorize the shape of your body all over again just to spite himself. Your back hits the wall with a thud, and he swarms into you, one hand fisting your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he growls against your mouth, biting at your bottom lip until you gasp. “Walking around with that innocent look, like you don’t fuck like you want to ruin me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging him closer, refusing to let him think he’s the only one holding the reins. “You ruined yourself,” you spit. “Don’t put that on me.”

He laughs, low and cruel and breathless. “Still acting like you’re better than this,” he whispers, pressing his body flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is, how much he wants. “Better than me.”

You don’t answer. You kiss him instead, messy and open-mouthed, biting down on his tongue just enough to make him hiss. He grabs your throat, not to squeeze, just to hold you there, thumb stroking along your jaw with a gentleness that contrasts his actions.

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

Your breath catches, humiliation and arousal burning through you simultaneously. He sees it, the way your body betrays you, and it only makes his grin sharper, hungrier.

��Knew it,” he mutters. “Knew that mouth wasn’t just for smart little comments and pretending you’re not fucking dying to be used.”

He tugs you deeper into the room, pulling off your jacket and revealing the skirt you wore underneath. His eyes narrow; the implication is clear. So is the command in his voice when he says, “On your knees.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, mostly because you’re too proud to hesitate. The carpet bites at your knees as you kneel in front of him, evading his gaze because he’s watching you with a look that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Take it out,” he says, voice low and sharp. “Since you came all this way.”

You glare up at him, but your fingers are already working his belt loose, pushing fabric aside, your hands far steadier than you feel. He’s hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You swallow hard, shame heating the back of your throat, and he fucking sees it.

He’s thick and hard, and when he hits the back of your throat, you gag, but don’t pull away. He holds there a second too long. Then pulls back. Then thrusts again—harder this time, hand fisted in your hair.

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.”

You whimper around him, hands curling against his thighs for balance, spit slicking your chin as he thrusts deep, over and over. It’s brutal and filthy and not even a little bit gentle.

“You pretend you’re too good for this,” he breathes, cock dragging against your tongue. “Pretend you like him so much, but you never gag on his cock like this, do you?”

Your eyes water. Your throat clenches. You want to hit him, bite him, shove him back and scream, but you don’t. You just moan, low and broken, like you're agreeing with him.

Because part of you is.

“You like when I use you like this,” Mattheo hisses, slamming in again, making you choke. “When I fuck the lies right out of your pretty little mouth.”

He doesn’t stop until your mascara’s smudged, your mouth swollen, and you’re gasping through your nose with tears running down your cheeks.

Only then does he pull out, cock wet and twitching, your saliva glistening down his length.

He watches you pant for breath on your knees, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed.

“Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice.

You glare up at him, breathing hard, heart thudding so violently you swear it might crack your ribs open.

“Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock.

Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on.

His hands find the hand of your head, wrapping strands of hair around his fingers and moving your head back and forth on his own to meet the thrust of his hips. He’s too strong for you to stop him, not that you even want him to, so you let him fuck your face like a damn fleshlight.

“Cumming,” he groans. “Get ready to swallow every fucking drop— I’m gonna check.”

And after a moment, you feel ropes of warm, salty liquid shoot down your throat, coughing a little as he finally lets you come up for air but still doing your best to swallow. His thumb and forefinger harshly grab your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Open.”

Oh. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d check.

Your lips part slowly, tongue out, breath still hitching from the aftershocks. Your throat is sore, your eyes glossy, but you hold his gaze steady even as your jaw trembles from the effort.

He leans in, one hand still gripping your chin, eyes dark as sin. His thumb drags your bottom lip down further, admiring the mess he’s made. His cum still glistens faintly on your tongue.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

The praise hits something dangerous inside you and you swear your body betrays you all over again. You don’t move, don’t speak, just keep holding your mouth open like he told you to, letting him see every bit of you wrecked and obedient. “Keep it open.”

You blink up at him, confused for only a second—until you see him curl his lip, tilt his head slightly, and then—he spits.

It lands right on your tongue, warm and wet and humiliating.

And your whole body clenches with how fucking turned on you are.

“That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.”

You do. You swallow every drop—his cum, his spit, all of it—and then open your mouth again without being told, just to show him.

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul.

You barely have time to brace before he’s yanking you up from the floor by the hair, your knees scraping the rug as you scramble upright, unbalanced. Your face is hot and slick and wrecked, your mouth still tingling from how thoroughly he used it, and your body stings with humiliation and heat and something even worse: want.

He spins you around and shoves you toward the full-length mirror propped up against the wall. You catch yourself just in time, palms flat against the wood paneling on either side of the mirror’s frame. Your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and flushed, mascara streaking down your cheeks, lips red and swollen and shiny with spit.

Mattheo crowds in behind you, pressing his chest against your back, trapping you with his body. His mouth hovers just above your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick. “Fucking look.”

Your throat is raw. Your heart pounds. You look.

“Mouth wrecked. Face ruined. Drool all down your chin.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, unblinking. “And your thighs have been pressed together since the second you knelt down. What, sucking my cock got you wet?”

You don’t respond. He laughs, low and cruel, and his hands trail down, slow and mocking, sliding over your waist, the curve of your ass, gripping the hem of your skirt and hiking it up just enough to reveal the way your legs are trembling.

“This what Rivers gets?” he sneers. “This pretty little mess? Or do you clean yourself up for him, act sweet and shy and fuckin’ pure like you don’t choke on my cock every chance you get? Think he’d still hold your hand if he knew what you looked like with your mouth stuffed full of someone else’s cock?”

You blink, furious and humiliated, and maybe just a little aroused by the heat in his voice, the roughness of his grip, the fact that his cock’s already starting to harden again against your hip. Swallowing hard, you still refuse to speak, but your silence damns you more than any answer.

He smirks.

“Take your clothes off,” he says simply, stepping back and folding his arms. “Slow.”

Your breathing falters, but your hands move.

First your shirt, inch by inch, over your head and off your arms. Then your skirt, unbuttoning at your hip, sliding down your thighs and pooling at your feet, then your panties. You don’t rush, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s something humiliating about doing it this way. Slowly, while he watches, while you watch in the mirror. You’re down to just your bra, skin flushed, legs bare.

Mattheo’s eyes drag over you like fire.

He walks you back toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sit automatically, and he moves behind you, knees bracketing yours as he settles on the edge and tugs you back against his chest.

His breath is hot at your ear as his hands drift up.

One finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it with a single practiced flick. The straps slide down your shoulders, and you make a move to shrug it off, but he stops you, his hand coming around to cup your breast through the lace before it falls away completely.

You suck in a breath.

“You know, every part of you is prettier when it’s ruined,” he says, his hand squeezing once before letting the bra fall away altogether. “Even this.”

Your head tilts back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for just a second, but then his other hand slides under your thigh, hooks beneath your knee, and yanks your leg up, holding it back so wide you can see the slick mess between your thighs in the mirror. He does the same to your other leg, locking them open from behind, his arms under your knees, your cunt completely exposed.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he mutters. “Not done with you yet.”

You blink at your reflection, the slow creep of vulnerability tightening your chest. You’re fully bare now, curled against Mattheo like some kind of obscene doll, his hands splayed possessively over your body like he owns it, like he owns you.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs, voice rough against your temple. “So do it.”

You hesitate again and his palm tightens under your knee, jerking your leg higher, further apart, until your muscles strain with the angle.

“Do it,” he says again, quieter this time. More dangerous.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

You press your fingers against your clit, drawing slow, tentative circles, but it’s not enough—he makes it feel dirty, degrading, like something shameful when he’s not the one doing it to you. But his eyes are fixed on your hand now, on the way your legs twitch under his hold, on the stutter in your breath.

His palm slides up to your chest again, this time tweaking your nipple between two fingers with a twist that makes your hips buck—and then he’s gone again, gripping both legs now, holding them wide, making sure you stay open as you push a finger inside. You don’t even realize you’re whining, begging under your breath—please, please, please—until you hear him laugh softly, right in your ear.

“Pathetic little slut,” he breathes. “You’re going to cum just from your own fingers? From being watched?”

You nod without meaning to, the pressure mounting too fast, too sharp. You’re close, so fucking close, and your body’s about to give in.

But then, his hand lashes out and grabs your wrist, yanking it away from your cunt just seconds before you tip over the edge.

You choke on a sob, hips rocking up into nothing, your cunt clenching around emptiness as the orgasm dies, suffocates, fizzles out in your gut like ash.

“No,” he growls into your neck, dragging your hand up and away. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You whimper, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon, still trembling in his arms. His grip on your legs doesn’t loosen. You’re still spread open, still flushed and dripping and unsatisfied, your cunt throbbing from the denied release.

He brings your hand up to your mouth, still wet from between your thighs.

“Open,” he says again, voice a whipcrack.

You do and he shoves your fingers between your own lips, slow and punishing, until your taste coats your tongue.

“Now be a good girl,” he says, breathing ragged against your ear, “and fucking hold it in.”

Your fingers are still in your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue, when he finally lets go of your legs and shoves you forward onto the bed. You land on your elbows, breath catching, and before you can adjust, he’s dragging you back by the hips, forcing you flat on your back, knees bent and spread wide as he looms over you.

“Fucking mess,” he mutters, looking down at your slick cunt, still flushed and leaking from earlier. “And this is what you’re trying to give to someone else?”

His thumb drags along your inner thigh, deceptively slow, just skimming the edge of where you need him most, but not quite touching. You squirm under his gaze, shame prickling hot over your skin.

“You think Rivers could ever make you look like this?” he sneers. “Think he could make you drip like this, just from talking down to you?”

You don’t answer because you know he’s not waiting for one.

Instead, he grabs your thighs and spits—a sharp, wet sound—and the slick hit of it lands right on your cunt, warm and filthy. You jolt, moaning despite yourself, and his grin turns sharp and mean.

He licks a slow stripe through your folds, tongue flat and dragging, and your hips buck immediately. You can’t help it; you’ve been denied, teased, ruined already, and the wet heat of his mouth is unbearable. Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

He doesn’t start soft, doesn’t build up. He dives in with a filthy kind of hunger, tongue working in tight circles over your clit, then flattening to lick deep into you like he’s trying to clean out every trace of anyone else.

His hands push down on your thighs, holding them wide, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. You’re panting already, arching into his mouth, and he moans against you like he likes how desperate you are.

“Fucking taste of you,” he growls, voice muffled against your cunt. “Could eat this for hours. Make you forget every single thing but me.”

You whimper, fingers knotting in the sheets.

He pulls back just enough to spit on you again—louder this time, wetter—his saliva mixing with your slick and spreading as he drags his tongue through the mess. The sound alone makes your stomach twist.

You try to squirm away, overstimulated from earlier, nerves already frayed—but it’s useless. His mouth chases you with unrelenting hunger, tongue circling your clit, then sucking on it hard enough to make your legs jerk.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls, and when you don’t, he lifts one hand—crack. Slaps your pussy once, hard.

You cry out, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He slaps you again. And then again. Three times in total, each one harder than the last, until your whole cunt is aching and wet and flushed.

You blink through the haze of pain and pleasure, cunt throbbing where he hit you, but you don’t dare close your legs. His mouth is back on you in seconds, licking over the sting, soft for one moment before he starts sucking your clit again like he’s trying to draw every last sound out of you. His nails dig into your thighs. He growls something you can’t even understand because your mind is fucking splitting—

And still, he doesn’t let up.

Not yet.

His mouth is relentless, tongue lashing over your clit like he’s angry at it, like if he sucks hard enough it’ll undo the fact that you ever even thought about being with someone else.

When he pushes two fingers inside you, it feels like too much. They’re thick and rough and he doesn’t give you time to adjust; just starts fucking them into you, curling them with practiced precision until your back arches off the bed and your scream rips through the room.

“Yeah?” he pants, barely coming up for air. “You gonna cum? Gonna soak my fucking face like the little slut you are?”

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, but he only groans louder, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“I said fucking cum,” he growls, fingers driving in even faster. “Now.”

And you do.

It slams into you like a wave, knocking all the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head, your entire body tensing as pleasure crests so violently it almost hurts. You cry out, raw, broken, and fucked-out, and your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, gushing as your orgasm tears through you.

You thrash, moaning his name like it’s a curse, trying to twist away from the overstimulation, but he’s got you pinned. One arm locked around your thigh, the other keeping his fingers buried in your cunt, his whole body pressed between your legs to keep you spread open for him.

“Fucking look at that,” he growls against you, his voice thick with pride and something almost reverent. “You fucking squirted, baby. All over me. Shit.”

Your body convulses again when he spits on your pussy, again, mixing it with your slick as he keeps working his fingers in and out of you.

“I’m not stopping,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he can’t stop. “Not until you’re shaking. Not until you forget every name but mine.”

Your legs tremble around his hands, your breath coming in broken gasps, your vision blurring with tears from how good it feels, how fucking much it is.

And through it all, Mattheo doesn’t ease up.

He just keeps devouring you.

Like he’s trying to crawl inside your body.

Like he wants to tear every trace of anyone else out of you—until there’s only him left.

Your second orgasm hits fast, brutal, not even a minute later. It crashes into you mid-sob, a breathless, splintered sound that makes Mattheo groan like you just fucking fed him. Your nails rake down his scalp, your legs spasm around him, and it doesn’t matter how much you squirm or whimper or cry out—he keeps going.

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore.

This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud.

He finally lifts his mouth from your cunt, lips swollen and glistening, and you gasp at the sudden cold air hitting your slick skin, but there’s no relief because his fingers are still moving inside you, slower now, deeper, like he’s exploring. Learning you all over again. Your hips twitch when he curls them just right and your voice breaks completely.

“Mattheo, I— fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts you off, low and rough. His voice is almost affectionate now. Almost. “You will.”

His other hand strokes your thigh, deceptively gentle, before landing another sharp slap to your overstimulated pussy. You jolt, a pathetic little noise escaping your throat.

“So sensitive now,” he murmurs, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Could cum just from my fingers, couldn’t you? Just from this.”

He adds a third finger.

You cry out, legs flying open wider on instinct, your walls fluttering as your body betrays you again, greedy, eager, desperate even when you’re already spent.

“You feel that?” he breathes, pressing against the spot that makes your whole body seize. “That little flutter? You’re so fucking close again, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my hand this time, too?”

Your answer is a strangled sob and a frantic nod.

But just as your stomach starts to coil, he pulls his fingers out.

You whine, hips lifting off the bed in desperate protest, but he presses a firm hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second before.”

Your body trembles under the weight of it, your thighs twitching, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and for a moment, it’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.

Mattheo sits back between your legs, hand dragging slowly down your stomach, through the mess between your thighs. His fingers are wet with you. You. He stares at them like they’re proof—proof of how much you want him, how much you’ll always come back, no matter how many names you let slip from your mouth in the dark.

He drags his hand up, smearing slick across your hip, your ribs, up to your throat, gripping it again, just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Then he leans in, nose brushing yours, voice low and gutted.

“You let him touch you?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, mind still trying to catch up. “What?”

He squeezes your throat once, firm, unforgiving.

“Rivers,” he spits. “Did you let him see this pussy?”

“No,” you gasp, voice thin. “No, I— Mattheo, I didn’t—”

“Did he taste you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes, and it’s not just fear or arousal or shame—it’s the ache underneath it all. The ache that says this still matters to you. That some part of you wants it to matter to him, too.

His grip on your throat softens for a second.

Then he shoves your legs open and flips you over onto your stomach.

You cry out in surprise, hands scrambling against the sheets, but he doesn’t give you time to think. He pulls you up onto your knees, dragging your hips back until you’re arched, exposed—humiliated in the most obscene way. Your face is half-buried in the blanket, flushed and wet, and you can just barely make out your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You look wrecked.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Lips red and bitten. Hair wild from where he’s been fisting it all night.

And your thighs are trembling, still parted, slick with arousal.

“Look at yourself,” he snaps, fisting a hand in your hair to make you lift your head. “So fucking beautiful.”

You do look. It’s unbearable.

“You see that?” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “See what I’ve done to you?”

You shudder as he presses in just a little, enough to stretch you open around the tip, but not enough to satisfy the ache. Not yet.

“You used to act like you were better than this,” he whispers, and his voice is low, hoarse, almost reverent. “All those books. All that fucking perfect posture in class. Just fooling everyone else.”

He shoves forward, burying himself in you in one brutal thrust.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your body clenches around him, raw and slick and too sensitive, but fuck, you’re full. So full it almost hurts. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just starts to move, deep and rough, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Your eyes flick up again, dazed, catching your own reflection, and the look on your face is almost unrecognizable. Pleasure, pain, possession, and everything in between.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pulling your upper body back against his chest. Your spine arches, your tits bouncing with each harsh thrust, and he watches all of it, obsessed, with his eyes locked on the mirror.

"Say it," he snarls, hand tightening at your throat. "Say who you fucking belong to."

You gasp, pulse hammering against his grip, and he spanks you hard when you hesitate. The sting ripples through your thighs and up your spine.

“Try to run and I’ll fuck you into the floor,” he warns, lips brushing your jaw. “Now say it.”

Your chest rises and falls in stuttering gasps, throat working around the pressure of his grip. His cock pounds into you from behind, fast and unforgiving, and the obscene slap of skin against skin drowns out every last rational thought in your head.

“I— I belong to you,” you choke out.

He growls low in your ear. “Louder.”

“I belong to you, Mattheo.”

The hand on your throat tightens, but you see his eyes flash with something deeper. Something you’ve never seen before.

“Fucking right you do.”

He shoves your thighs farther apart, hand sliding from your throat to your mouth, stuffing two fingers between your lips until you're choking again, but on him this time, gagging softly as your tongue flicks against the calloused pads.

His other hand smacks your ass again, harder, the sting blooming bright across your skin. “Can’t even keep your legs closed,” he spits, hips slamming into yours. “So fucking desperate for it— this is what you need, isn't it?”

You nod, moaning around his fingers, mouth drooling, legs trembling beneath you. Every muscle is strung tight, a storm of overstimulation building beneath your skin, burning you alive from the inside out.

Then he pulls his fingers from your mouth and drags them down between your legs, slipping them in alongside his cock, stretching you, fingering you hard while still fucking you deep.

You scream.

He clamps a hand over your mouth this time, muffling the sound, and still doesn’t stop. The rhythm of his hips falters just long enough for him to pant in your ear, “Gonna make you squirt all over me. Gonna ruin this bed, this carpet— fucking everything.”

Your orgasm builds fast and brutal, a hot knot in your gut pulled tighter and tighter with every brutal thrust, every curl of his fingers inside you. You cum with a sharp, guttural cry, convulsing around him, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Your thighs tremble, your vision whites out, and then you feel it.

Liquid gushes out of you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his thighs.

He groans like he’s been punched in the gut. “Fuck yes. Just like that. Look at yourself, baby. Look at the mess you made for me. So perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror: eyes wild and glassy, mouth open, chest heaving. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

But Mattheo does and he’s fucking obsessed.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

His hips keep snapping forward, unforgiving, his cock slick with your release, his hand back at your throat now—not tight, not angry, but there. Holding. Anchoring.

“Mine,” he breathes, voice cracked and wrecked against your shoulder as he finally cums, spilling deep inside of you. “You’re mine, you understand me?”

You can’t even speak. Just nod frantically, tears running down your cheeks. And then you feel a little splash on your bare shoulder, so faint you almost think you’re imagining it, but you look up to see his face in the mirror, small tears evidently falling down.

It’s unclear whether the fluttering in your chest is from heartache or hope or pleasure, but it’s there, and it reassures you that he must be feeling something. At least a fucking sliver of the suffering you’ve been dealing with, at least a fraction of the feelings you’re harboring for him.

But you can’t. Not now. Not with your body still trembling beneath his, still so raw, so exposed. He’s still inside you, still holding you in place as he leans into you, his face resting against your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice hoarse and barely there. His chest presses against your back, his grip on your throat loosening, fingers brushing softly over the delicate skin. “I hate this.”

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, feeling the weight of his confession. You want to tell him that you hate it too, but it’s a lie. Part of you thrives in this chaos, this connection that burns and stings, even when it destroys you both.

His breath is still shallow, and for a moment, you both just stay there, silent, eyes locked on the mirror. He shifts slightly behind you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost... genuine.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “I didn’t...”

But his words fizzle out, swallowed by the distance that still stands between you two, even in the most intimate of moments. The words hang in the air, unspoken, a fragile thread that snaps the second you try to hold onto it.

It’s not a command, not really. It’s just the unspoken truth of what you are. What you always have been in this twisted dance; temporary. A passing fucking storm.

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror one last time. The rawness of his expression still burns in your chest, and for a fleeting second, you almost feel like he might say something else. Something more.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets go of you completely, pulls away, and it’s like the warmth he’d offered you was never there to begin with.

”I should go?”

“… Yeah.”

Hm. Okay.

With shaky legs, you stand, slipping out from his grip and collecting your clothes. You force yourself to dress, your hands trembling, but your heart still pounding in your chest.

Before you leave, you glance at him one more time, his eyes averted, his jaw set, the wall around him already back up. You don’t say anything; you don’t need to.

You walk out of the room, the door clicking softly behind you.

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

part two

#mattheo riddleᯓ★#Mattheo riddle #Mattheo riddle imagine #Mattheo riddle angst #Mattheo riddle x reader #Mattheo riddle x you #slytherin boys #this reblog is so long and took me too long lmfao #pizzas reqs ꨄ

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unicornoftheday · 2 months ago

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I really don't get big companies making limited editions. Just make more?

#everything is limited edition in the grand scheme of things #one day they're going to discontinue a generic figurine or plushie or whatever and you'll have #resellers listing them for disgustingly high prices because they are supposedly rare now #dont let that shiny “only a 1000 made!” label coax you into buying something you don't truly want #not unicorn of the day

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matteoberrettini · 7 days ago

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genuinely hilarious btw how people on twt want soo bad to make matteo a villain in jannik's story or some shit like it's a disney movie. less than a month ago he said they'd talked recently and he's never had anything but good things to say about jannik but to some people it'll never be enough because he made a decision for his career that i understand is hard to digest but it has nothing to do with his relationship with jannik, jannik himself said it doesn't bother him, they both have never indicated they weren't on good terms. like yeah we can't ever really know the truth behind what they say in public, but i think we should stick with what we can see and read, yeah? because making wild assumptions based on nothing doesn't lead to anything good, it's just speculation and i don't see what anyone gains from it?? i think maybe some people need to grow up and accept that they don't know these people. they don't know jannik and what he thinks or feels or who he talks to or who avoids him or whatever. we know what he shows and tells us and that has to be enough because otherwise we go down dangerous paths

#these people don't even write fanfiction they don't even speculate for the fun purpose of writing gay sex #they don't have fun at all they just enjoy making their own blood boil #(jokes aside obviously we shouldn't go too far even if it's done for fun or fanfiction or whatever #there are always lines not to be crossed)#anyway if i can be perfectly honest i think some people just have something against matteo and have for some time #and they JUMPED at the chance of having a “good reason” to say shit about him #now i'm not saying everyone has to like him. and the same thing i said about jannik goes for matteo. i don't KNOW him #but again. i see what he shows of himself and he's quite an open person #and nothing i've seen of him has ever made me think he doesn't give a shit about his teammates and his friends #is jannik his friend? idk man only they can put a label on their relationship if they even want to #but clearly they're on good terms and like each other - from what they've always said as both players and people #and if people want to believe all his words about jannik are empty and meaningless then fine. i personally don't see it that way #because i have no reason to from - again - what matteo has showed of himself over all these years #anyway i rambled but this bothers me a bit #i'm not even looking at this from a ship perspective idc that's just for fun #i'm just bothered by the way people try to skew reality to prove their own theories because they don't like someone #and act like they're some kind of protectors of jannik or something (as if jannik needs it. he's a grown man with people around him who #actually care about and know him)#and then these same people don't even give a crap about people on the tour who are actually bad people. in the most objective sense #petty speculation about who's a friend and who isn't and not even a minute spent talking about the domestic abusers who are THE problem #in this sport. i'm not comparing the two things to be clear i'm just saying it frustrates me that this is how people want to do justice or #whatever the fuck when they could shine light on things that matter. i know i know they're different things #and we all talk about things that don't truly matter all the time #i just think. if you're taking things seriously #take things that ACTUALLY matter seriously. not fucking. matteo's one who didn't send jannik a text because he hates him #like WHY are you wasting time with these baseless speculations and you're being FOR REAL #i understand a bit of like. fun speculation ooooohh who was he talking about 🤭#but there's people in italian tennis spaces online who are actually like serious about this matteo and jannik have fought shit #and they're under every fucking tweet going ON about it. PUT THAT ENERGY SOMEWHERE THAT FUCKING MATTERS !!!!#whatever. whatever

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incesthemes · 1 year ago

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"their relationship is romantic" "their relationship is familial" "their relationship is platonic" you're thinking too narrow. their relationship goes beyond labels. the family is inherently queer. their platonic love is romantic. the erotic is familial. each one is the other and the other is them

#.txt #i've gotten to the point of relationship anarchy where i no longer understand the obsession with labeling relationships #there's a post floating around like 'it doesn't matter if you view them as romantic or platonic the point is that they love each other'#and i get the message. however may i propose that distinctions such as that don't even have to matter. consider #bold claim probably. but whatever i didn't have the choice to think about love in a normative way and as a consequence i have thoughts #of course i am thinking about wincest but it applies everywhere. jopzier even #jopson views crozier as a surrogate parent but in an inherently queer way. does that mean he want to fuck his mom? probably not #but the fixation and need for redemption turns the traditionally familial relationship into something far more #do you understand #once you leave the normative behind labels become useless #do sam and dean love each other romantically or platonically or familially? consider: it doesn't matter. there are no words to describe it #their love is queer in the sense that it extends beyond normativity. society holds no sway over them. they are ungovernable #i find it ultimately unhelpful to discuss fiction in normative terms when the characters themselves exist outside of normative society #shows like supernatural and the terror are perfect examples. sam and dean were never normal and franklin crew left normal behind #the arctic doesn't care if you fuck your mom. the impala doesn't care if you kiss your brother #this isn't really about anything i just saw that post the other day and i was like. why doesn't this Hit for me. well this is why #however it IS helpful to discuss fiction set within normative society in relation to normativity. it's relevant!#most stories are not however set within the bounds of normativity. that's kinda the whole point of a lot of fiction #baby i explore relationship anarchy in ways that you couldn't even imagine #<-tldr #i have a tendency to write essays in the notes every time i post something. sorry about that. it feels safer here and i am skittish

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bongwatershots · 1 month ago

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From a purely observational standpoint I think the word "bisexual" isn't "revolutionary" enough for some people and that's what leads them to adopt labels like fagdyke boylesbiangirlfaggot ect ect ect or whatever in an attempt to be more counterculture even though what they are describing is in essence just bisexuality lol

#emil.txt #throw whatever labels you want on yourself but i have some vauge distain for people like this because it more often stems from deep #need to be more unique and different than anyone else #and i don't really care about it and often it seems more of an excuse to be abrasive and push other queer peoples boundaries than anything #else #im having sake and sushi with my fav lesbian tonight i will get into it with her bc i want her opinion #but tbh this is a pretty chronically online thing #most people who behave like this don't interact with the outside world much less their local community

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momentomori24 · 10 months ago

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Long-ass fandom rant because I need to scream into the void to find a reason to live let's gooooo

[For context I wrote most of this last friday which I thought was good to mention so the timeline makes a bit more sense. I really held off on this one XD Welp, let's start this trainwreck.]

Ok, I know I have other long posts I should be paying attention to (*cough* Keiji's shady shenanigans rant *cough*) among other probably more important things, but quickly wanna get this off my chest because it's kinda started to bug me and add even more concerns about the yttd fandom than I already have. This is specifically going to be about soushin-- yeah, yeah, I know-- but also bleed into something more... broad. Or broader. Idk, I'm a Tumblr user not a grammar teacher.

While browsing through Twitter I've been noticing a little spike in popularity for yttd with more fans and soushin shippers emerging as well. Which is cool, the game deserves all the praise and popularity it can get. And as someone whose been here for years, I'm glad that the fandom is slowly and steadily grown more accepting of soushin compared to the attitude around it way back when. There's been some genuinely really cool stuff that really does the ship justice from a lot of talented artist and writers that I absolutely love (will link some later), but something I've also been seeing a lot of from fans is what I can only describe as a "sanitisation resurgence" (but not really. kinda). A week or two ago on Twitter I stumbled across some soushin discourse where some people were sharing the sentiment that "if soushin end up being related and/or have a big age gap the ship is ruined". That they can only be two years apart max or else Nankidai has "fumbled them".

And the only response to that I had is "what". Like, how is that a deal breaker to you lot? How did you even get into the ship without accepting that those things could very likely end up being canon? How are you here and not ready to ship them no matter what's revealed about them after everything we've learned about them? Midori and Shin possibly being related was always on the table, and Midori potentially having already been an adult when Shin was in high school was always a very real possibility ever since we learned that he was never actually a student at his school. This is literally what soushin shippers got harassed by antis for years ago. Soushin is "problematic", and that's why people who shipped them where treated so badly in the fandom or just excluded all together. I can't count how many timed I've come across a "soushin shippers dni" or "soushiners are freaks and I hope you all have a bad day" or soushin fanfics/art with "I DON'T ACTUALLY SHIP IT BTW" and "not a ship" and "actual soushin shippers dni" attached to it. I can't recall how many times I had to explain myself with the "I ship but I don't condone it irl" or explain why I shipped them to not be labelled as a freak as if you need an excuse to ship anything fictional to begin with. I still remember soushin artist @uououoon and how they ended up deleting their Twitter account years ago because of the harassment and slanderous comments they were receiving for ships the fandom deemed problematic. When a person was saying their goodbyes to them on reddit and made some goodbye art (which is now deleted), some assholes in the comments were calling them weirdos and pedophiles for how they explored fiction and "glorified abuse" (which are the usual comments to uououoon's art posted on reddit unfortunately). I only caught wind of this one because back when they were still active in the fandom they were my favourite soushin artist and I went through their stuff almost every day and was tipped off when I randomly couldn't find their account anymore. They were such a nice and incredibly talented person too so the fact they essentially got bullied by a flock of stupid western fans seriously irritates me thinking about it again. This is why we cannot have nice things.

Soushin is "problematic". It's toxic and subtly abusive and important to the characters in question, but that didn't stop people from going after people who wanted to explore a dark, canon relationship (romantic, platonic or otherwise). How the actual hell did we go from "soushin has very toxic and problematic elements and you shouldn't be shipping it, you fucking freaks" to "you can ship it but don't make it actually problematic, you fucking freaks" like what is happening right now???? The worst part is that this is coming from other soushin shippers. The fact that there's actually soushiners with "proshippers dni" or "soushin is not for proship" genuinely makes me want to bite someone. Like, you horrible summer child-- not only are you demonstrating that you don't even know what "proship" actually means, but you're also spitting in the face of the people in our community that have CARRIED this ship for us for years. Why throw them under the bus to be one of the “good ones” in the eyes of antis when they hate us all anyway?

This brings us back to the sanitisation point: I feel like soushin is slowly being "sanitised" to fit the sensitive palette of antis by trying to make them as "morally acceptable" as possible. It's a worry I’ve had for a long time that once the fandom grows more accepting of the ship we'll be seeing more people basically scrubbing soushin of everything that made, well, soushin, to justify enjoying it. I've seen a bit of it already with a few people trying to say it's "not abusive" or just erase Shin's very obvious trauma by Midori all together for quite some time. Guess it's starting to happen on a bigger scale sooner rather than later. Maybe. Personally I don't think soushin having a big age gap or being related would ruin the ship. It just adds another layer of fucked up to their already fucked up relationship (I already hc Midori to be significantly older anyway so maybe I'm just biased). It doesn't really matter. I came here for toxic yaoi. I want nuclear waste level toxicity, not nuclear waste level toxicity presented in the most conventional and moral way possible. What would the point even be? It’s like packaging poison in a grape juice box. Like, it might be harmless to look at and more justifiable to think of as delicious, but it’s still poison. You making it look all cute and innocent isn’t going to change that. It's kinda funny and by that I mean not really that people will talk about wanting more "toxic yaoi" but when the yaoi is actually toxic and messy and horrific they will cry about it being "bad" or "ruined". You don't actually want dark dynamics, you want dark dynamics stripped of everything that makes them uncomfortable and dark so it's digestible to your tastes that don't even align with said dynamics in the first place. The worst part of this whole "soushin isn't proship so it's fine" bullshit is that it relies on trying to make the ship more "morally acceptable" or "legal" than other ships. Dawg, we are talking about abuse. You shouldn't be minimising that to say "well it's not [insert other terrible thing] so it's fine!!" That's not the "gotcha" you think it is. It’s one of the reasons why antis being into soushin made me feel weird cuz like you can’t ship it and then turn around to insult someone else, man (I’ve seen so many soushin defenders bash other “proships” to justify theirs like what are you doing--).

Realistically, the simplest and smartest thing to do when I see someone mischaracterise or butcher my faves is to either block or ignore and pretend to not care so I don't act on my sixth sense telling me to off them and myself. Realistically, this shouldn't be a big deal or anything that important, but this attitude is usually weaponized to harm and harass people who don't conform to their purity crisis over fiction. I'm in the unfortunate position of being not only a Your Turn to Die fandom dweller, but a Hazbin Hotel and The Coffin of Andy and Leyley one too. I'm used to being labelled a rapist and incest apologist irl who's delusional and deserves to be harassed and insulted by virtue of the media or ships I like (probably not a good thing). But people who are more active in these fandoms than me have it much worse as they get this shit directly waaaay more often while I mostly get called these things indirectly, which is what motivated me more to make this post.

So a couple days ago someone made some art of Monika from ddlc, Nikole (don't know the game sorry) and Ashley from Tcoaal. A lot of people on Twitter, unsurprisingly, bashed it for including Ashley to the point where some felt the need to clarify that they like her as a character but her actions (for some reason I do not understand like Monika has also done some seriously evil shit why are you not applying that logic to her too?). What struck me the most is that a yttd fan-- a self proclaimed "Midori enthusiast"-- ALSO quoted it to bash having Ashley in it. A freaking Midori fan. I told them to mind their business and start separating fiction and reality and to stop being a hypocrite, and thus ensued the most hilarious and stupidest convo I've had in a while:

You can literally count the seconds it takes for these guys to start throwing predator accusations and slurs at people. So "not exploring fiction correctly" makes me weird, but harming or putting real people on blast for nothing is free game, apparently. They're not the worst, both in this instance and in general, but it just stuck with me. Which is impressive, cuz I normally don't have much emotions to spare aside from general mild irritation for things like this. Maybe it's the Sonic feet.

But it ties into my issue. Midori's an absolute piece of garbage, yet some people will convince themselves that his actions are in some way justifiable to justify their hatred of something else (that is a lot less severe in this case) rather than love and let love. Tcoaal is not an "incest game" and if you describe it like that unironically you are not ready to be on the internet. No, it doesn't condone or glorify incest-- it literally does the opposite. If you need the characters to look into the camera and say "what we're doing is wrong and immoral" before doing something bad, I think you're the problem at that point. For the same reason you liking Midori (probably) doesn't mean you support human experimentation and torture, someone liking Tcoaal doesn't mean they support incest and someone shipping soushin doesn't mean they support abuse. These things are dark and shouldn't be condoned irl, but this is fiction. We can do whatever the hell we want. Being into darker themes and media doesn't have to reflect your real world views, but the inability to grasp that sentiment leads people to make their interests as moral and sanitised as possible and, feeling morally superior, will go after people who don't do that. This person deadass said that "incest is not morally grey and absolutely unjustifiable" (didn't even say that it wasn't btw) as if their blorbo hasn't committed so many atrocities for kicks that I personally find more unjustifiable. That line implies that they think that everything else Ashley has done and everything Midori has done can be justified because it wasn't incest specifically, which I find is a WILD thing to insinuate XD But it really does encapsulate the hoops antis will jump through to defend their likes while attacking yours despite the fact that it's literally the exact same as theirs. Rule of thumb: if someone accuses you of condoning something immoral because you like it in fiction, apply that logic to them, look at what they like and if their wet little meow meow is the Joker, Eren, Killua, Makima, Midori or whatever other morally bankrupt character you can come up with, take that as a confession and run. Cuz half the time these guys are actually nuts. While quote tweeting someone to shit on their art isn't the worst thing, considering how twitter has treated tcoaal artists the fact that they'd potentially open them up to harassment pissed me off, which is probably evident from my tone.

[Hi hi, this is me from the present right now cuz a more recent development came up so I’m using it as an example here too.]

While most of the things listed here have all been happening online, this attitude can come up in the real world as well.

As OP states, a bunch of hellaverse cosplayers were targetted at a french convention by haters of the show trying to ruin their cosplay. This is already completely unacceptable but the thing I can’t for the life of me get over is torching their costume while they’re still wearing it. Literally attempting to set someone on fire. All over a fucking show. It’s baffling how people can justify actions like this because they think your taste in fiction is so disgusting it’s Ok for them to hurt you. Not just online, but outside as well. It’s not the first time a hellaverse cosplayer has been harassed (last time it was a Valentino cosplayer but then again Val fans get shit from all sides all the time), and while I’m pretty sure these will remain as isolated cases it’s still scary to think about. What’s even more scary to think about how people think that their opinion on hazbin hotel has any relevance to the situation. So many of the comments in that post are just “I hate Hazbin Hotel, but—” or “I hate the fandom, but--” or “I hate Vivzie, but—” and I’m literally here ready to start pouncing like SHUT UP. No buts. That is not in any way important here. You not liking the show or the creator should not be important to the situation of cosplayers being actively harmed. You don’t have to signal your allegiances before showing basic human empathy, goddamnit. And what’s even worse is that some people have just turned this into a “b-but the hazbin fandom!!” issue, which is insulting. For example:

The “Hazbin fans do blackface and disrespect black people daily” is a reference to ONE Alastor cosplayer that nobody had defended. Not even fans. At least no one I can find. Yet they are using this one bad apple to generalise the whole fandom as "bad" and down play the amount of bullshit the hatedom does to fans on a regular. It kinda makes me feel sick that someone would look at a situation like this and spin this into a “fandom thing” rather than focusing on the victims. That they don’t deserve to be taken as seriously just because of the fandom their in. Some lunatic in the comments was literally completely minimising this whole thing saying “some red paint (fake blood capsules) isn’t nearly as bad as lynching and what black people have gone through in America” before calling anyone who called out that that’s completely irrelevant racist for liking Hazbin Hotel like are you kidding me. My homies in Christ, someone almost got lit on fire can everyone please stay on the goddamn topic. This is one of the rare moments where I was kinda proud of twitter as the majority of the comments and quotes where calling out their bullshit, but the amount of likes and some of the comments are still disappointing.

So what points am I trying to make here? This was very spontaneous and rushed so apologies if it feels messy cuz it very much is messy. But my main points boil down to this: Purification, sanitation and the “fiction equals reality” and "your fictional tastes reflect on you morality irl" arguments need to die. They just have to. While petting Shin on a daily basis gives me enough serotonin to find the will to live, the only true solace I will find is when people start being normal. People shouldn’t be getting harassed or labelled as freaks for fiction you don’t like both online and real life. People are not less worthy of basic human decency and empathy solely based on their fictional interests. People should be able to explore fiction however the hell they want without worrying about there being made a call out post on them somewhere. I search Tcoaal on twitter and there’ll always be a bunch of posts with over 10k likes calling all fans annoying weirdos or say it’s an “incest game” even tho it literally isn’t. I will try looking for some Valangel art on tumblr and see some loser use the tag to basically shit on everyone who ships it and lying about the treatment these shippers get while defending Charlastor or just shit on the ship in general. I just exist on the twitter side of the HH fandom chilling with other Val fans and literally every single one of them has either received death/rape threats or told to kill themselves, got ratio’d by a bunch of haters, had a call out post saying not to follow dedicated to them, had their art reposted and Val scribbled out, repeatedly accused of ““romantising a rapist””, or all of the fucking above. Valentino’s VA gets asked if he’s actually like the character he plays in real life or a fan being “relieved that he didn’t abuse them like Valentino” when they met (kudos to Joel for being chill about it btw I would be fuming this fandom does not deserve this man). I type in a certain controversial yttd ship to search and most of the latest posts are just people being rude, saying that if Nankidai makes them canon they’ll drop the game, calling the man himself a freak, calling other shippers freaks, shitting on soushin as well and then having soushiners defend their ship while also shitting on said controversial ship. It genuinely feels like fanbases are circuses and we are the clowns 💀

I could list other examples people being weirdos but I can't do that without breaking the momentum of this post even more than I already have. I guess what I wanted to vent about is how these attitudes regarding fiction and the way people police how others engage with it and how people think of you based on what you like can go from just annoying to downright dangerous more often than you’d think. That belief that you are morally superior to someone else based on the fact that you ship or like things the “legal” and “pure” and “healthy” way (which is never actually the case btw) can lead to you being really disrespectful or a complete asshole and not feeling bad about it at all, which does more harm than good. Which is why I thought it was important to bring up more extreme cases to empathise how this obsessive gatekeeping of fiction can and does hurt real people, who should be more important to you than fictional characters.

All of this is very likely going to sound very aggressive in tone and I want to quickly clarify that this is not meant to be an attack towards anyone in particular. I'm just tired and recalling all this stuff is making my mood sink like a stone lmao. Who knows, maybe I'm just overexaggerating and things won't get worse when the game gets more popular. This is just what I've been witnessing both in and out of my side of the moon. The amount of yttd fans I've seen act like this are a lot tho. No fandom is perfect obviously, and this one is the farthest from it, but with new people coming in and this weird attitude and need to sanitise not only towards soushin, but other "problematic" ships and media as well growing more prominent (mostly on Twitter and Tiktok) my biggest worry is that the hostility in this fandom will just... increase? Roulettefeel made pretty good posts about it-- my favourites being this one, also this one and this one's pretty short and sweet, summarising most of my soushin points a lot better and shorter than my trainwreck of a post so I recommend checking them out. If you like soushin, go check them out. If you don't like soushin, go check them out anyway. They make stuff outside of soushin too. They're pretty cool.

[I also want to add that the whole sanitisation thing in the yttd fandom is nothing new. It’s been a thing for longer than I have been here. I’ve just been seeing it again with soushin, which is was what made me want to do this in the first place. There’s another dynamic the fandom obviously does this for, but uttering it would not only get me flamed but straight up burned at the stake of bad takes so I’m saving that for a rainy day.]

Aaaaannd, I'm done, I think. I didn't have a good conclusion for this in mind. Idk, just be nice? You don't have to like "proships" (or what the fandom has defined as proship cuz that's not the actual definition), but that's what the block buttons for. Don't like, don't read, I say. Fandoms are for everyone and as long as what the person is doing is harmless, let them feel safe being themselves without having to worry about someone coming after them. Real life cops already suck. Let's not bring them into our collective escapism. And something you personally don't like ending up canon doesn't mean the game or ship is "ruined". That doesn't just go for soushin. That goes for other things too. To tie up loose ends, soushin having an age gap or being related has always been on the table and fits with other themes in the narrative. That does not count as "bad" if it makes sense. Soushin is not "Ok to ship" because it's "not an illegal ship" (whatever tf that means) and it's not "bad to ship" because it's "romanticising abuse". It's fine to ship because it's fictional. You don't need a moral justification to ship anything. That goes for all ships. That's why NOTPs exist. And "proship" doesn't and has never meant "shipping problematic pairings". It's a stance on shipping. It means being pro people being allowed to ship whatever they want. That includes being cool with problematic pairings, but is not limited to those. It means not being a fandom cop. Please stop saying otherwise, I cannot keep living this way--

Soooouuu, to end off on a more positive note and finally put this whole thing to bed I'll link some of my fav newer soushin accounts for anyone who's interested:

Hyo (orewagahai on ao3 check that out too): They are an amazing, amazing writer. If you're into dark, abusive co-dependent, complicated soushin with beautiful characterisation I would highly recommend. They just posted another soushin drabble on twitter and it's great.

jinn: They've been putting out banger after banger ever since getting into the game. Their art is absolutely stunning and they upload frequently, so go check 'em out if you can! It's actual medicine for the soul, I promise. They also draw for dead plate, so if you're into that go ahead too.

angel: Also cool. They're soushin art is hilarious and cute. As much of a sucker as I am for toxic, abusive sludge, they give thses two idiots a silliness that I enjoy. Also if you like trans!Shin content they're pretty good.

欣武 (my dumbass forgot to add them the first time sorry): They are INCREDIBLE. Extremely incredible artist. Their art is so, so freaking good. Not checking them out is absolutely your loss, ngl.

Be nice to them. If I catch anyone attempting to annoy them I'm coming after you and your entire family. Let's be better and not chase new comers off this time :3 Thanks for listening to my incoherent venting. This is mostly for me to feel a bit better, but anyone is free to read. If anyone's got an opinion or observation, feel free to offer it. I need coffee. Coffee sounds good.

#yttd #your turn to die #hazbin hotel #the coffin of andy and leyley #soushin #fandom discussion #fandom discourse #proship discourse #should go without saying but don't harass anyone mentioned here thank you. you won't see the light of heaven if you do #take a shot every time i say “soushin” cuz you'd be on the floor afterwards probably #i feel like i repeat a lot of words here in general. jesus.#anywho i just needed to let all that out. the last few weeks have been weird #sorry if this is unreadable and roundabout i didn't know how to get my thoughts straight #this is how i sound when i'm off coffee for a whole month #i've just been seeing a spike in people acting unhinged over fiction and not in the good way and it kinda gets to me #i just hate seeing people i like having to deal with bs cuz the fandom thinks they're exploring fiction “the wrong way”#and just pointing out and exploring certain things gets deemed “too problematic” and gets attacked despite being important to the plot--#and i just want to enjoy fiction or not mind problematic themes without getting qt and called the n-word repeatedly for responding #people can like whatever they want just don't slap others who like other things over the head and label them bad people #idk maybe that's too much to ask. maybe people'll always be like this but i have my blogs so if want something done right do it yourself ig #sorry for any typos this is mostly just uncut pure madness XD #momento rambles

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