#fucking hated me and i had to try not to use it much and also not limp. random bursts of increasingly worse pains in my legs ranging from

[ruinix]

Thinking about dad!quinn who’s perfect not only with the newborn baby, but also with mama and he looks smoking hot walking out the hospital-💕

Hey there, lovely. Little confession, sometimes I just stare at my ceiling and think of Quinn and his future kiddos. He'll be such a great dad. I know it. I am a 100% believer of him being the best dad in the future. Do note that I have no idea how delivery rooms are...I've never been pregnant (thank goodness, i am not ready). This one ended up having a little bonus in your POV. As usual, you can skip it if you don't wanna read it... :> I hope you'll like this. 🥺🧎🏻‍♀️

His Little Princess

TW/CW: None, Fluff, a bit suggestive tones. Pregnancy and birthing (Pregnant!reader; mentions of cravings, pain during labor, epidural), Quinn being a fussy partner and dad

Count: 3889 words (+ 942) | Masterlist

You press a kiss on Quinn’s cheek, making him instantly turn towards you, his hands wrapping around you, so he can kiss you fully on the lips. Not so subtly, he runs his hands over the swell of your belly. His heart flutters in his chest.

“40 weeks, my Love,” he giddily reminds you, rubbing his nose against yours.

“Any time now,” you replied with a giggle. “Just going to sit on my ball.”

Without a word, Quinn escorts you to your yoga ball, his head filling up with worry at the sight of your waddle. He’s always concerned with how your center of gravity has shifted, with how your legs are probably aching, but he won’t dare try to touch you if you’re going to sit on it. You made it perfectly clear that you need your space when you’re doing that, especially when you caught him basically drooling over how you ass looked.

“You want something?” Quinn asks while you settle. “Apples?”

“Yes, please.” You nod happily. “No skin?”

“Anything for you, my Love.” He kisses your head before he turns to prepare apples.

Taking one from the fridge, from the fruit drawer that was brimming with Honey crisp apples, the one you have craved constantly throughout the pregnancy, which are perfectly red with splotches of yellow and green, he easily skins it. He never really knew how to do that before. He would always get huge chunks of apple flesh with the skin, but now, he can remove the skin in a continuous spiral.

“Can you give me a few slices with a bit of skin, Quinny?” you ask loudly as you turn on the TV to watch your show.

“How many?” He asks, finishing the first apple, slicing it into six.

“Just a few.”

Your vague answers don’t faze Quinn anymore. They never do. Before and during this pregnancy. But the way your ass moves right now though, it makes him gulp, secretly praying that you might ask him to help you get the baby out faster. That help meaning you and him gently fucking you, but you’re not. He can only sigh and swallow his horny thoughts.

It only leads to him getting worried and jittery. The baby might come any moment now. The problem is Quinn has always been so jittery all throughout your pregnancy. He tried—still trying—to appear so put together and calm. He must or else he will lose it in a frenzy of nerves. You don’t deserve him crashing out ever. Not when you’ve done so much carrying your—and his—child.

Catching you smoothen your hands over your tummy, he finishes up with your apples. He quickly places it on the table near you, then he softly runs a hand over your stomach, his cheeks burning when you press your hand over his, his soul lurching when the baby kicked right against his palm, his alarm ringing when he sees your wince after another kick.

“She says, hi,” you say in a tight voice.

“Are you okay?” He asks, kneeling on the floor, holding himself back from taking his hand away because you are clenching his fingers tightly. He watches you take deep breaths.

“It was a strong kick,” you sigh. “I’m fine.”

He cannot be contained. He is panicking. The baby kicking so hard had made you sore so many times, yet he cannot get used to it. He hates seeing you in pain.

 Slowly he leans down, pressing a kiss right where he felt the kick. He says, “Take it easy on mommy, Princess.” He kisses again, feeling a softer push just below. “That’s it. Gentle, sweetie.”

“She always listens to you,” you softly say, your eyes shining with tears. “Oh, Quinn, I wanna see her already.”

He reaches up, swiping the tears that fell with his thumbs, then he kisses your cheeks, over the tear tracks, on your lips. He already knows that you’re worrying about your little one “getting stuck” or past due, about pushing her out, about little fingers or toes missing because it’s possible. Anything’s possible and that worries you. It also worries Quinn. So much.

“Me too, my Love. She’s going to be fine,” he eases you. “She’ll be pretty and perfect.”

“What if—”

Quinn cuts you off with a small peck on the lips. “It will be okay. No matter what. She’ll be perfect.”

“Promise?” You stare at him with wide eyes.

“Yes. I promise.” He nods, offering you a slice of apple. The worry in your eyes dissipates as you accept it. “Scoot over so I can watch too.”

You grin, expertly maneuvering yourself, while he settles on the couch. He tries to watch the show, but nerves are bubbling up his throat. Something just feels off. Still, as usual, he settles, reminding himself that it would be okay. He keeps looking at you to ground himself. You look so peaceful while you watch the show and munch on your apple, taking little sips of your well-decorated water bottle.

Right now, you can easily get spooked, so Quinn keeps his worries to himself. Although, all he wants to do is hover over you, make sure you’re all safe and comfortable like he always did throughout the pregnancy. 

He does his best, because it’s what you deserve. Every craving you ask for—no matter how late you suddenly craved it, no matter how tired he was—is provided. The only thing he asked for was to press his ears and hands against your belly, to feel the little baby inside, even when she was still so small. When he was on the road, he would use Uber to get them for you or bribe your friends and his to deliver exactly what you wanted.

He wonders now if you need a massage. He loved doing that. Your feet. Your ankles. Your legs. Your back. Even your breasts. They’re always so tender. He makes sure to press kisses on your skin, right where you’re aching, muttering his apologies, and praises and compliments about how strong and amazing you are. Because you are.

His eyes follow your feet that are planted on the floor. You’re wearing the grippy socks that you bought online with cute bears on them. The sight of them makes him feel giddy. You have quite the selection of socks now. He always inspects them when he kneels and helps you into your shoes, doing your laces or straps. Sometimes he will mentally curse at the shoehorn that you purchased—technically it’s for both of you but he rarely uses it—while he also thanks its existence because it helps you whenever he’s not home.

The number of times you two went out shopping. He can still feel his excitement from those sprees. He took it upon himself to listen and be attentive to the quality of everything. Durability. Longevity. Comfort. He had taken out his phone as soon as the shop clerk finished explaining the features to look up reviews on YouTube or TikTok. Thank fuck for those apps. Nothing had hopefully escaped him. He would be so critical until you told him what you wanted with the reason being “just because”. Quinn gladly agreed—still will today—and bought whatever it is.

When it comes to clothes, he still feels mushy at the memory of the little pajamas, dresses, onesies, mittens, socks, bibs, and beanies. They’re all so fucking cute. Plus, the way you smiled while you were looking at them got him falling for you again and again. You just looked so at ease, so excited, so happy. He is happy too.

When you two shopped for maternity clothes, all the help he could do was to hold everything you chose and wait while you fit them all. Everything is so amazing on you. For every outfit, he felt his knees grew so fucking weak that he had to sit down, gazing at you with hearts for eyes, his chest squeezing at the mere sight of your beauty and at the sight of your tummy being showcased by the clothes. Every time you two came home, he would be severely attached to you. He cried his eyes out while he hugged you so tightly. He can’t help himself. He just loves you so much and you are carrying his child. Even now, you are wearing leggings and a flowery shirt that cinches under your breasts and flares like a dress. You are so effortlessly beautiful and hot.

When you stand up to get something from the kitchen, his eyes follow you. He wants to come up behind you and take all your weight with his big hands securely lifting your belly. He’s done it so many times after he saw it in TikTok and he will do it again. However, he just ends up staring at you from the couch, truly mesmerized. He always is.

Back to that app, it really helped him a lot. There are lots of mothers there that shared their experiences—in addition to the help he received from his Mom—which helped him prepare the hospital bags for you and the baby. Those bags are already in the car, waiting for the big day. On top of all that, he also finished stocking the nursery just a week ago.

Quinn is proud that he did his diligent research. Maybe, a tad too diligent, because when he offered you his servitude for your perineal massage—which he had heard about after he went into deep, deep scrolling through natural birth—he confused you so much. It was understandable because what the fuck is a perineal, right?

You thought Quinn was being fucking horny—which he is always. But then, after a lengthy doctor’s appointment, it was explained and suggested since you were in your 34th week. He wasn’t blind that you got embarrassed for not believing him and clearly you were expecting him to gloat. He didn’t. Why would he? It would’ve hurt you and him. So he said the same words he had said before when he was still suggesting it, “I will help you.”

The waterworks that day were long. He didn’t let go of you until your tears were dried, until you two fell asleep instead of starting the massage. You spent the whole next day trying to do the massage without you laughing at Quinn’s look of focus.

“I need to pee,” your voice breaks him out of his daydreaming.

“Do you need help?” He’s already standing when you shake your head. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. You laugh, making your cheeks flush. “You are so silly, Quinn.”

He watches you disappear in the hallway. His hands start to shake from the nerves. He needs a clear view of you. The need to stand outside the bathroom and wait for you is making him jumpy. He tries to settle himself, rubbing a hand over his chest, sitting down then standing back up again. He starts to pace. It really, really, really feels like something is off.

Minutes pass.

The feeling just expands and expands, festering the longer he doesn’t see you.

He needs—

Then he hears you call his name.

Quinn never ran so fast.

“What? What is it?” Quinn asks, opening the door so quickly. He finds you sitting on the toilet. Your eyes are so wide. Your calmness is the only thing that’s keeping him from losing it because for some reason, he knows. “What is it?”

“I thought I peed myself…but my water broke.” You carefully stand. “I want to change first.”

“Okay,” he nods.

He quickly supports you. He’s trying his best not to panic, but his hands are shaking as he helps you out of your clothes, into a new dress, into sandals. He’s dissociating. Everything is blurring and the only thing keeping him afloat is the feel of your hands gripping his. He can barely function as he does your seatbelt. He tries to calm down, but he is fraying, panting as he falls to his knees with his eyesight blurring.

“The stuff.” He grips your hand. “I need to get our—”

“Quinn,” you firmly say. Your other hand finding his cheek, urging him to look at you. He does. “You’ve prepared this car weeks ago. The bags are in the trunk. Get it together, Q.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out. He finally gets the strength to stand. “We need to hurry.”

He rounds the car, only to realize he doesn’t have his fucking key. He nearly bolts until your hand rests on his shoulder.

Softly and unhurriedly, you give him the car keys. “We have precious cargo, Q. Please drive safely,” you say, giving him a nod.

“I will.”

The car ride to the hospital is quick. Quinn takes that time to calm down, to ground himself. He manages that, not losing his head when your contractions started halfway through the ride. He didn’t spiral then. He has collected and tucked his frayed edges. He manages to get you safe in the hospital and now both of you are in a labor room with the bags stored on the couch.

He’s on you, gripping your hands when you let out a pained groan. He listens to the labor nurses, gulping down the panic that still tries to come up, because he will not stress you over him again. You are going through so much. You need him whole. And he is.

He attentively watches the doctor check the baby through an ultrasound, sighing in relief that the little princess is still in prime position and your cervix is slowly dilating. No C-section is needed. Just like what you wanted, but the contractions are truly getting to you. Every groan and moan of pain, every squeeze of his hand, every sob is getting to him. His heart squeezes in a painful way. Even more so, when your labor progresses, which means the interval of contractions is more frequent.

"It hurts, Quinn. Hurts,” you cry out, breaking his heart. "I need something. I can't. Make it stop."

You don’t need to tell him twice. He shouts for a nurse to get the forms. He understands that you’re asking for an epidural and you’ll get it. Whatever you need he’ll give it to you. As the nurse explains the consent forms, you grip his arms tightly, sitting up. He helps you change your position, on your knees and the headboard. The nurse sets up a bar for you to grip. 

“You’ll be okay, mama,” the nurse eases, tucking the forms into her arms, stepping out.

Quinn almost yells for them to hurry the fuck up, but the anesthesiologist appears to administer it. The yelp coming from you makes him twitch. He almost punches the specialist who explains it will work in ten-to-twenty minutes. Why the fuck not immediately? He wants to demand that. He just needs you not be in pain.

“I’m here, my Love,” he whispers, kissing your temples as you sag against him. He wipes your sweat with a soft towel. “You are doing amazing.”

“How are you so calm? You were panicking an hour ago,” you hiss, groaning as another contraction run through you.

Quinn isn’t calm now. He’s losing his shit. He worries about you. He worries about the little one. An hour. It has been an hour. He doesn’t know if that’s normal. He wants to search it up, but he doesn’t want you to see him fucking fumble with his phone when you’re doubling in pain. He wants to ask the nurse, but he doesn’t want to leave you. He wants to call his parents who are on their way to Vancouver and his brothers who are still in New Jersey.

He may have tucked away his frayed edges, but they are still unravelling. He is unravelling. Inwardly. He can’t tell you about it. So, he presses soft kisses on your shoulders when you shift to lay down.

“No words, Q?” You sigh in relief, your grip on him loosening. “It’s working. I think.”

“Yeah?” he asks. You nod, blinking at him. He knows you’re still waiting for his answer while he wipes away your sweat. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I don’t want more kids in the future?” You blurt out just as a nurse walks in. The nurse clears her throat, doing her business of checking your status. Your attention burns into his soul. “Q?”

“I’ll get a vasectomy,” he says in a low tone, clearly aware of another person’s attention. The nurse is a bit…nosy. Why is she not going away? What the fuck.

“What?” you ask, looking so confused.

“I mean it. You hated your birth control so you will not be going back to that.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “If you don’t want more kids, then I don’t too.”

Ever since he met you, whatever makes you happy makes him happy. Genuinely. He is so attuned to you. Everything he does is for you. He needs you to be happy and be you. That’s all he wants. All he needs. Because you breathe life into him now. His heart beats inside yours. You’ve taken it from him since before you married, since before you accepted him as your boyfriend, since before you met each other.

Quinn doesn’t want to take his heart back.

It will be yours.

Forever.

Until you two grow old.

Until you two find each other in the next life.

“I mean it. Just tell me what you want. I’ll make it happen.” Quinn grips your hand. He leans for a kiss but stops when the nurse stands up.

“You two are so sweet, but you’re crowning now, mama,” the nurse announces.

Maybe Quinn spoke too soon. He is spiraling. The obstetrician and labor nurses come in. He’s helped into a hospital gown and a hair cap over his head. His ears are ringing as he holds your hand. He can’t focus on what’s happening. He’s just there. His lips are moving and whispering encouragement into your ear, but he’s gone.

Gone until loud cries break him out of the haze.

The little princess—his and yours—is so small as they bring her to your chest. Quinn’s heart tumbles at the sight of you cooing and welcoming her. Such a little one who is still wet yet so incredibly red, crying her eyes out, showing off her strong lungs. His eyes fill up with tears because she is so beautiful like you.

“You’re amazing,” Quinn sobs, kissing your head, kissing a soft peck on your lips. “I love you so much, my Love. You did it. You are so strong.”

“Oh, Quinn,” you sniffle. “She got all her fingers and toes.”

She does. Now you don’t need to worry. He doesn’t need to worry.

“Look at her ears. They’re so hairy.”

“Hairy? Just a bit fuzzy,” he thinks, gazing at his daughter’s ears. He can’t help but look between you and the baby. He can’t even hear the doctor announcing that you will be delivering your placenta next. He’s cataloging your shared features. “Nose. Definitely your nose. Your lips.”

While she also has your smile? Quinn hopes she does. You have the prettiest smile.

“She got a little birthmark behind her ear,” he says out loud. You and one of the nurses look. It’s the slightest birthmark. Just two shades darker than the baby’s complexion. It’s almost like…

“It’s like a little heart,” the nurse remarks.

Quinn nods. His heart almost melts when his little one finally stops crying, getting more at ease with the world. He quickly starts snapping some photos, smiling when you grin so proudly. You should be proud.

He almost jumps when it’s his turn for a skin-to-skin contact. He nearly vibrates as he made to sit down after you deliver your placenta and the baby is brought against this chest.

It finally clicks in his head how small his baby is. He can cover her whole back with his hand. When he reaches for the curled-up fist, he chokes at how little her fingers are.

Then those fingers just open and clasp around his pinky.

Immediately, he looks towards you. His tears fall in heaps. He can barely see you as he feels the soft steady breaths of the baby, her heart beating quite fast. Is it supposed to be this fast? He doesn’t fucking know. Maybe it’s just his heart? No. It’s not. His little baby’s heart. Oh, so precious.

He blinks hard, keeping the tears away, looking around to see if someone is panicking, but no one is. He hears snippets of words.

“She’s healthy baby.”

“Needs to get cleaned up.”

“You did well, mama. No tears.”

“Thank goodness. Quinn, did you heart that? The massages worked,” you say in a soft yet exhausted voice. That has him in full alert, watching you so intently. You still look pretty, but you are blinking so slowly. A smile is on your face as you reach for him. He stands, holding his daughter securely, giving her to you when your hand runs over her back. “Just want to sleep a bit.”

“Is that normal?” He asks the doctor and nurses who clearly see his distress as you fucking pass out. “My wife—”

“Is fine, Mr. Hughes,” a nurse says, giving him a reassuring nod. “It’s normal to be exhausted after you gave birth. She’s fine. No excessive bleeding. We will clean up and we’ll take your little one in a few.”

He nods, not knowing what else to do, so he leans closer to you, brushing your hair away, brushing his knuckles gently over the baby’s cheek. Oh, so soft. His heart melts when she tries to open her eyes. He gasps when she somehow manages. Just a quick flutter that exposes her eyes are the color of his. His. His baby girl has his eyes.

He starts crying again, sobbing into your hair.

He can’t help it.

He’s feeling so much love, and it comes out as tears.

At some point, he doesn’t know how much time has passed, but someone is helping him to calm down as his unnamed baby is taken away for necessary checkups. He knows she’s in good hands, so he stays with you, not even stepping out of the room so the forms are being brought to him. He feels guilty for being such a fucking diva for that, but he can’t leave you. He doesn’t think he can even step out of the room without crashing out.

Then he makes his calls, going through the list of his contacts, telling everyone about his perfect baby girl in whispered yet prideful tone. His hand is wrapped around yours.

“She got her nose and her lips, Mom. Got the fuzziest ears,” he sniffles. “So perfect.”

He finishes his last call. Gazing at you, he feels his emotions overflowing once more. For the last time before you wake up, he cries.

A promise forms in his heart, carving itself deeper that he will carry it every day of his life.

He promises to protect his little one and live for her.

He’ll love her as he loves you.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

When it’s time to be discharged, you stare at Quinn who carefully helps you into a wheelchair. He has been fussing over you for the whole stay. His cheeks are still flushed when he notes your dress—as if he didn’t buy it with you—after his arrival from a quick trip to the car and the reception area for your discharge papers. He’s so cute. Always so gentle. Even more so now when he greets your daughter, calling her his princess, before he lifts her up from the hospital bassinet.

You heard and saw him cry so much. Your Quinn has been on an emotional roller-coaster as you have. He looks at you with so much warmth and affection, so much pride for you and your baby, so much love and adoration, so much want that you can’t even think about how different your body is now. You told him that you might not want another child, and he replied something about a vasectomy. He’s always putting you first. And it’s clear he will be putting your daughter first too.

You can already see her getting so spoiled but also keeping her well-behaved. Quinn has that air of being the perfect dad.

You just know it and you’ll be right next to him in caring for the little one.

Honestly, you don’t even know if you want another child or not. That’s okay. Never once in your life did Quinn rush you to a decision. Always so patient and kind. But the way he’s staring at you, you might be leaning on the former. He looks so hot in his white linen shirt and khaki shorts. If he doesn’t stop dressing like that, it will be a quick decision.

But you won’t say that just yet.

You just gave birth.

Again, there’s no use to rush.

“Here she is, my Love. All bundled up.” Quinn grins as he presents his baby girl.

“You swaddled her up so well, Quinny,” you chuckle, holding her securely, softly and lightly caressing the little mark behind her fuzzy ear.

It’s still so amusing to you how hard Quinn insisted that her ears are just fuzzy and not hairy. You don’t think that he knows that it will be gone in a few weeks. It’s always so refreshing knot that he doesn’t know everything, because this man had researched quite a lot. Sometimes it amazes you. Sometimes it annoys you. Because, seriously, how can someone—a first time dad—know so much more than you? Still, it’s what makes Quinn the best.

“All settled?” he asks, kissing your cheek, his three-day-old scruff feels so rough and nice.

“Yes. I wanna go home now. Our parents are waiting,” you remind him. You see the way he pursed his lip in a tight line, his eyebrows frowning, so you scold him, “You can’t monopolize our princess, Quinn.”

Luckily, all of your parents are understanding that you two prefer them not to visit in the hospital, that you two just needed the calm to settle your little one, but the three-day stay has you already wanting to show off your daughter. Quinn looks like he just wants to keep you and his baby to himself. Like a mighty dragon hoarding his golden treasures. Gosh, he’s so silly, hoarding you to himself after he gloated so much over the phone calls and video calls.

“Quinny,” you whine, pouting that has him immediately melting.

“Fine,” he sighs, booping your daughter’s nose which got her cooing. You two go still at the how delicate she moves which is barely since she is still sleeping. “They need to be quiet.”

“Quinn, you already told them that.” You chuckle as he grumbles while pushing the wheelchair.

He told everyone that they need to be quiet. He’s already getting too protective over the little one. He’s firm with the no-kisses rule, hand washing, and facemasks. You try to tell him that the masks can go, but he won’t have it. You saw how his hackles were rising and the panic in his eyes were doubling, so you agreed. You ended up consoling him for ten minutes, telling him that your and his parents agreed.

“Maybe they should stay at a hotel.” Quinn hovers over you as you stand up and place the little princess in her baby seat.

“We got lots of room, Quinny.” You let him secure the seatbelt, seeing the way he blinks his tears away. “She’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be okay?” He steps into your space, his arm going around you. “I don’t want them to overwhelm you. You need to rest.”

Oh, he’s worrying about you.

You reach up, your heart beating harder in your chest when he leans his head into your touch. “I’ll be fine. They’re also excited to meet our baby. I want them to see how she looks like you and did you hear? They’re preparing dinner for us. Our moms told me they got some tricks to show me.”

You can see his brain going into a full overload. He’s overthinking again, so you rest your forehead against his. You feel his shuddering sigh as you give him a small kiss.

“Just tell me if you get uncomfortable with anything.”

“Okay,” you say. It’s clearly not enough so you add, “I promise.”

A beautiful smile spreads on his face. He’s so handsome. Your stomach is filling up with butterflies. You swoon as he opens your door for you and do your seatbelt. You silently watch him round the car and enter. You can’t help but think that he’s so perfect and that you are so lucky.

[hillbillyoracle]

This post got me thinking. Like really churning. I just started working through Momento Mori by Joanna Ebenstein and this post kicked up some realizations for me.

Most of my major experiences with death happened before the age of like 25. Some were the ones you "expect" like grandparents and others were friends in my scene who either OD'd or straight up disappeared. My more recent experiences were supporting my partner through 3 deaths in the family in 3 months - one a cousin that was a few years younger than her that accidentally OD's leaving behind her children. Another was the grandmother who was her rock growing up in a chaotic household and who steadfastly included me at family gatherings when my partner's mom and sister would ice me out. All passed suddenly.

I think the only thing that is universally true about grief is that everyone goes through it differently.

Because so much of what these replies held up as "this is what you say" and "this is what you do" - I fucking hate that stuff (even though I admit I default to it) as much as or more than so many people here hate the religious comments (which I usually don't tend to mind personally).

To me:

"I'm sorry for your loss" = "I am having the correct feeling about this."

"I can't imagine what you're going through" = "I can't relate to you and I'm putting distance between us to feel better about it."

"How are you doing?" = "Share something vulnerable with me so I feel like I helped you."

And you could say I'm hearing that wrong, and I get that I likely am, but that's what those words mean to me. And when I'm grieving I've learned I can't really access that part of my brain that better attunes me the "proper responses".

I also do not want someone to feel angry with, I do not want my anger fed at all. I want help dissolving it because if I don't it'll fully consume me and that's even worse than the grief for me, to have all the good in me burnt up while I'm still alive because that's my personal experience of anger.

Which is all just to say, it has nothing to do with religiosity in my experience - there's simply no "correct" response you can rely on for all people. In words or in deed.

And that is what makes experiencing grief so hard - everyone gives you what they got and often it's a reflection of their own stunted relationship with death, yes even the atheists, and it often sucks.

And trying to comfort someone in grief sucks - how do you use words and actions to reach them when communication of any kind is so highly individual and this individual might not be able to tell you what they need and want to hear/have done?

If you go "no actually they're using the wrong words/actions, these are the correct ones", you wind up doing the very same things as the people who've pissed you off.

Or at least, that's what I found when I dug into it.

I try to be forgiving when I'm grieving but I fall short. I don't expect someone grieving to be forgiving if I miss the mark, but I appreciate it immensely when they're able.

My favorite things to hear when I'm grieving are ones I know some other people hate:

"I miss them so much."

"Remember when they..."

"I thought about them today."

"I wonder what they'd say about..."

"They would have loved this."

"I had a dream about them."

Releasing the idea that there was a correct thing people could say to me and I would feel a little better (or ensure I wouldn't feel worse) let me grieve how I needed to grieve. It let me support in ways I could better sustain over the long term (because boy howdy if grief isn't long term).

Anywho, a heartfelt hug and virtual cup of tea to anyone else reading this and going through it. On other side. Solidarity friends.

it's been a year so i feel more comfortable talking about it..

when you're atheist and you lose someone, religious people don't really know how to interact with you. it's fine, we have different worldviews.

'He's in a better place, now.'

Sorry auntie, but I don't believe that. I believe that his brain stopped working at 5h55pm on december 11th 2022, and that's it. Nothing after that.

It makes grief very difficult, because not believing in god or the afterlife also means accepting that you will never, ever see that person again. That's it. The end. Nada mas.

But, back to the aunties and other faceless people gravitating in the grey blurry waters of your awareness.

They tell you 'He's with god now' and you tell them 'Yeah I don't believe that' and.

they. get. annoyed.

Here I am, gutted open, the worst day of my life, barely holding myself together, and they! Get annoyed that I won't smile and entertain their point of view!

Another faceless person tried to heal me with cristals. She also got annoyed when I told her I didn't believe in that.

I usually don't really mind religious people. It's fine, we have different worldviews. I think I'm right but so do they. As long as they're good people, I don't judge them for their faith.

I'll even be grateful for them trying to console me. I get that you're trying to give me strength and love. Thank you.

But I'm going to be true to myself, yes even when I'm mad with shock and grief. And I still can't believe they got annoyed that I didn't play along to placate them, on the worst day of my life.

(I wanted to share because I've never heard anyone talk about atheism and grief, and the loneliness that comes out of it.)

[astraldelights]

Brat! 🪖

Synopsis: You start acting like a brat and Ben knows exactly how to put you into your place.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Content warnings: SMUT (18+), P in V, Spanking, Brat Taming, Unprotected Sex ( Ben doesn't believe in condoms), Glasses get thrown onto the ground :(, Soldier Boy being an ass.

-

“Hey sweetheart.”He exhaled after taking a drag of his lucky joint. The smell of weed was strong in the air, his legs spread wide clearly wanting to let you know how big it was. You rolled your eyes in response and tried to ignore his irritating presence. 

The only reason you had stayed back was because Butcher stuck you on babysitting duty. In his own words, “ Love, you would get squished like a bug if you went with us.” 

Even after insisting on tagging along on their field mission, you were met with a hard no. You didn't disagree completely but just wanted to avoid dealing with Soldier Boy’s outdated notion about women and politics. 

You had been with Butcher and his gang for a few months. You mostly helped out with research and handling retrieval of sensitive digital information from certain companies. Working behind the scenes meant that you were not physically built for any of the missions which usually involved combat. MM and Frenchie had been kind enough to train you in the basics of self defence and hand to hand combat. Teaching you how to use a handgun as well, in case shit got real, and with Butcher’s baggage it always did.

“Hey princess, you know playing hard to get only makes me want you more.” He said with a deep grin on his face. It was clear his high could get to him, considering the copious amount of weed he had already smoked through. You didn't mind the weed, but the only thing that ruined your high was him sitting beside you. Opening your laptop, you started to try and do your own work.

While you didn’t like Soldier Boy, you couldn't deny that he was very attractive. His dick-swinging, cocky attitude had to come from somewhere. He knew he was hot and you hated it. The first time you met him you had to act like you weren't completely ogling him through the body cams Butcher and crew had on them after breaking into the Russian lab. He was shown in all his glory, with his beard grown and body still in perfect shape. Before you could continue watching, the cameras seemed to go off after he let out that nuclear blast from his chest. Being around him was an internal battle everyday, trying to not look him directly in the face to avoid having to confront your confusing feelings towards him. 

But even that wasn’t enough.

While you were a bit of a homebody and preferred to wear comfortable clothes, you did like to dress up once in a while. And when Soldier Boy saw you in a mini-skirt for the first time, his perverted comments started. “Woah where have you been hiding?” “Is that what women are wearing nowadays? You look like a hooker. Not that I’m complaining” 

The rational part of you hated being objectified under his gaze, and the other part rubbed your thighs together every time he said something with his deep baritone voice. Everytime he spoke, its deepness sent a shiver down your spine. 

Your current predicament, however, did not allow you to avoid his presence. With every other room having horrible connection, that only left the room that Soldier Boy currently occupied. 

“You know, you would look way prettier if you got rid of those glasses.” Your eyebrow twitched in anger. “I actually need these glasses. Not everyone got a dose of compound V to allow them perfect vision for the rest of their lives” You tried turning away from him, only having limited space as his manspreading took up half the tiny couch you were situated on. “Also could you PLEASE close your legs? I’m sure you don't need that much space for what's in between your legs.” You huffed out, clearly frustrated with his macho manspread he had used to take up space on the couch.

“How about you stop acting like a fucking brat.” He grumbled. Ben was sick and tired of your attitude. Your lingering stares on his face followed by quick turns away. Always coming out in shabby outfits after giving him a taste of what you looked like underneath all that fabric. You were a tease, and he was at his limit. Using his strength he manhandled you right over his thigh, computer thrown onto the ground.

“What are you-” Smack!

Ben’s hand landed straight onto your behind, leaving a stinging sensation. “If you want to act like a brat, I’m going to treat you like one. If I have to smack some manners into you I will.”

You squirm on his lap but can’t seem to get out of his supe-enhanced strength as he holds you down with one palm on your back. Smack! Another hit lands

“Stay fucking still. I want to hear you count each time I hit this pretty little ass. If I can’t hear you we start from 0, got it?” You nodded, with tears already threatening to spill from the previous two hits. 

As his hand repeatedly came down onto your tender behind, you managed to whimper out each count until you reached the number 10. Tears streaming down your face, your glasses knocked off from the force of his hits. You looked up to Ben as his hand wiped away the tears. The hand which was holding you down for punishment, now tenderly cradling your cheek.

“Now ain’t that a beautiful sight, you gonna be good for me now?” You nodded, eager to please him or save yourself from further punishment. You weren’t sure. His hands moved to slip down your shorts, cradling your ass in his palm. You felt him rub his hand against your ass, feeling you through your soaked panties.

“You actually got wet from this? You kinky slut.” He grinned at the effect he had on you. Ben knew he turned you on no matter how much you acted like you hated him. Lifting you again he set you to straddle his thigh. You stay still waiting for his next instruction, not wanting to anger him with your insubordination. 

“See! I was right you look way fucking better without those glasses, and much hotter when your looking at me with those fuck-me eyes.” Ben was brimming with confidence and pride, disciplining you seemed to stroke his ego in a special way. Using his hands, he guided your hips to start grinding on his thigh. The friction between his thigh and your panties rubbing against your clit was heaven. The more you rubbed the closer you got. Hiding your face in his shoulders while gripping his chest tightly, he knew you were getting close. Ben started to bounce his thigh and wrangled you out of hiding in his neck.

“No hiding, I want to see your face when I make you cum.” As the grinding continued, you couldn’t hold back the whimpers which were heavenly to Ben’s ears. After so long he finally got to hear your voice in a pleasant way instead of bitching at him to clean up the common space. God he loved putting you into your place, which as you would find out is beneath him while he fucks the brains out of you.

Reaching your climax, you felt your cum leak onto Ben’s thigh. Breathing unsteady, you tried to catch yourself from falling but Ben already had that covered. He laid you down onto the couch, slipping off your panties in the process while he undressed as well. Taking off his shirt, you saw all the natural muscle his body had retained even after all those years of experimentation. Skin still perfect and body perfectly ripped. Exactly how it looked on the cameras. Even better up close. As his shorts came down, you saw the size of the monster he kept in his pants. There was a good reason why women kept ‘falling’ straight into his bed, and you just saw it. 

Your legs hooked around his hips, his tip touching your entrance as he slowly slid into you. The way he filled you up made your legs tighten around him and your toes curl. 

“Oh my- nghh” You heard his chuckle reverberate through both of your bodies. 

“I just put it in and you're already cockdrunk. What a Grade-A slut.” You didn't argue back, you were too busy trying to get used to the size of his dick splitting you apart from within.  Placing your arms onto his back, you slowly tried to roll your hips against him. Desperate for some friction that he wasn't giving you.

“Tsk tsk tsk, I'm not giving you anything until I hear you beg for it” He chided your weak attempt to fuck yourself on him. 

“Soldier Boy, can you please just move?” You whined. He gave you a slow roll but stopped again.

“Call me Ben, and I want to hear you beg properly.” Ben growled, he felt you clenched on his dick in response to his commands. While you would never admit it willingly, you loved letting him boss you around and this was no exception.

“Ben can you please fuck me hard now- eep!” As soon as you completed your sentence he started thrusting in and out, unable to hold himself back any longer. Drawing himself back out, he sank back in slowly before resuming his movements, coaxing the most erotic sounds out of your mouth.

“F-fuck your tight. We gotta work on breaking in your pussy properly.” You whimpered. This was already too much for you, unsure of how much more you could hold on. He continued punishing your hole with his cock, watching it go in and out covered in both of your fluids. 

Your moans filled up the room, unable to hide any of your sounds as you were too focused on the man currently on top of you. All your little sounds and moans were heavenly to Ben's ears.

“That's it baby, just let me fuck all your thoughts out.” His balls smacked against your ass while you let him fuck you stupid, a little drop of drool escaping your open mouth. Holding your jaw tight, he kept it open as he spit straight into your mouth. You waited as he watched you hold his spit obediently.

“Good girl. Swallow.” You closed your mouth and swallowed it down as he instructed. Ben nodded as a sign of his approval as he moved his hand down to your throat, applying steady pressure and restricting your airflow. 

Your breaths got shorter as he continued to choke you. You feel the pleasure that has been building up as you start to reach its peak. You weren't sure if it was the lack of air or just the feeling of his hand around your throat, but at that point you didn't care. Locking your legs together behind him, you pushed him in deeper as you squirted onto his dick. Your cum, now all over his dick and his abs. 

Feeling you clench intensely around his dick, Ben's thrusts seemed to stutter a bit but continued its relentless abuse. His tip continually bullying your cervix, Ben was sure you weren't going to be walking tomorrow. 

“Did you just squirt on me? Fuck that was hot, I'm making sure you do that again”  You whined in response, shaking your head. You were already overstimulated from cumming twice and were sure you weren't able to give him anymore.

“You're so fucking cute. But nobody says no to me.” He moved his hand down to your clit. Rubbing it while his dick abused your cunt, hitting all the right spots inside of you. It was too much, you were too sensitive and couldn't hold yourself from cumming a third time. Your intense orgasm seemed to pull Ben over there edge as well, causing him to release deep inside you. 

“I can't hold it back anymore so fucking take it.” He grunted, painting your walls white with his cum while continuing to fucking it into you. Eventually he began to slow down and slowly pulled himself out.

Ben watched as your hold winked at him after he pulled out, leaking his cum that he shot into you. Swiping up his cum from your thighs, he pushed it back into your hole with two fingers, making sure it didn't escape. You whimpered at the feeling but was too weak to fight it. 

As he sat back up, he started smoking the joint he previously abandoned. You felt your body being shifted up and onto his lap. You curled up against him and buried your head into his neck, too exhausted and seeked his touch after such an intense session. 

“Next time keep the glasses on. I want to see it covered in my cum.”

-

A/N: He's kinda mean in this one but he's soldier boy so....

Masterlist

[fruitiesss]

bob reynolds NSFW alphabet !

as requested lol, i listened to the people and the people want bob smut.

MINORS + AGELESS DNI. SMUT.

send requests in! characters are on my pinned posts, just give me a hot minute to write them ^^

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) Bob's very into cuddling and being close in general, he's also a human heater so if you're not cold you're gonna have to push him off until you are (his pouty face ensues). If it was really messy, he'll run a bath and get in with you situated on his lap. He keeps water bottles by the bed and isn't above running quickly to the store to grab some food if you need it.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) Bob likes his hands. They're almost constantly in use because he likes to fidget and read, so he's more than capable with them, and he loves the way you come apart under them.

He'd like your thighs and hips, it's something to hold onto while he fucks into you or when you ride him. He also loves the squishiness of them, much better than any stress relief toys you buy him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Bob's never been in the place mentally (or physically) to risk having a kid at his age. He's always used condoms or pulled out when he's been in quick hook-ups before (though not many, he's quite inexperienced). You would have to sit him down and discuss kids with him first, but even then he's still hesitant and nervous.

He prefers to cum on your stomach or back if you'd let him. He cleans it up fast though, knowing the stickiness when it dries is less than desirable.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) He rarely watches porn - why would he need to, he has you! - but does when you're away on a long mission or a trip. He takes inspiration from it and tries to incorporate a position or kink he'd watched that he thought you might like.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) This boy is inexperienced. As I said before, he's had a few hook-ups here and there but he's never been interested enough to learn. You're gonna have to teach him a few things and he is so eager to please you in any way you want. He's incredibly good at following orders.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) COWGIRL. FUCKING RIDE HIM HE WILL CUM INSTANTLY. Just the way he can see you - all of you - makes him harder than a fucking rock. Ugh, this man will have his hands anywhere, eyes half lidded in pure bliss as he watches you bounce.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Bob's a mix of both. He's serious when he's concentrating, trying to reach the spot that makes your toes curl, but he laughs and jokes with you when he's not. He can't take himself seriously and neither can you, it feels so good but it's also really funny.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) He's never taken care of himself properly before. Now that he's clean, he probably trims a little down there so it's not completely unbearable but he won't be smooth or clean shaven. He dyed his hair blonde ONCE and nobody will let him forget it, so YES the carpet matches the drapes thank you. He also doesn't mind if you shave or not. Hair is natural and he understands that, he actually prefers if you don't shave, as long as you're clean.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Sex for him is all about connection. He's done the unfeeling, unromantic stuff before and he hates it. You are his everything and he needs you to know that. He's complimenting you with every other word, letting you know how much he loves you or how good you make him feel. He is all about you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) He rarely jacks off because you're right there all the time. Though when you're out of town or on a long mission he will do it a couple of times just to keep himself sated until you can come back. He's needy for you always.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) BOB LIKES HIS HAIR BEING PULLED. Grab it by the roots and pull and he will give you the sweetest sound you've ever heard. He loves praise too, call him a good boy and he's already on his knees for you so he can do anything you want. He's a switch 100%, will do anything you want but likes to be dominated sometimes.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) He likes being in bed with you, he's very hesitant to do anything in public because you're his to see and he's yours to see. He will if you really want to, but he won't like it. When he's really needy, he'll corner you wherever you are in the tower until you take him up to one of your rooms, with him following like a dog on a leash.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) You. If you're in the mood, he's in the mood. If he sees you, he's in the mood. Wearing something revealing? He's on you. You opened the floodgates when you first laid with him now lie in the bed you made.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) He's not into any kind of bodily fluid (other than cum, obviously) or anything where he hurts you or you hurt him. He refuses to lay a hand on you. Unless it's a soft slap. Impact play is a big no no.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) He likes to get his dick sucked. He loves it, actually. You look so pretty on your knees with his cock in your mouth. He prefers giving, though! He wasn't so good at it when he started out but he has definitely gotten much better since he started out and he is a MUNCH. This man will spend hours between your legs if he can, his intense eyes staring into yours.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Bob as a person is very soft and sweet despite everything he's been through. He would take it slow and sweet with you, afraid to break you as if you were made of glass. He could take you fast and rough but he wouldn't be able to keep it up.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) He doesn't like them. Too fast, it blurs in his head. He needs to know you're satisfied before he can leave you. He will take you for a quickie if you really, really beg him and only if you're in a place where you can't get to your beds.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) He likes to experiment with anything you bring to him. He'll do anything (other than his nos) at least once.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) Thanks to his powers, he has very good stamina. He'll last about 6 rounds with water breaks in between but if you wanted more, he will give you more. Anything for you. He'd last the whole day for you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) He's never seen the need for them. His hand did the job just fine when he was low on money (or needed the money for drugs) and even now he doesn't see the need for toys. He doesn't get jealous if you have any toys either, he'll use them on you if you're into that.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) He thinks he's a tease but really he gives in whenever you so much as pout at him or whine. He's so smitten for you and wants to provide everything you need.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Bob will be quiet at first, biting into his hand to stifle any of his moans or grunts so he can fully hear the beautiful noises he elicits from you. But that's when he's on top. Get him submissive and that boy is LOUD for you. Pull his hair and he WILL moan. Overstimulate him and he WILL whine.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) He likes to bite and suck marks into your skin. Especially in those spots that are hard to cover up. It gives him a sense of pride, knowing that he did that to you. He's also very bitey in general. Very cute.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) He's not small at all but he'd not HUGE. I'd say he's 6 inches, nice and thick. Knows how to use it once he gets the hang of sex in general. It curves slightly to the left and has a nice pink tip, cut.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) This guy is super needy. He's ready for you at any time, you just need to ask and he's already pouncing on you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) He only lets himself fall asleep once he's sure you're comfortable enough to. He is very sleepy after, though. He's falling asleep as he's scrubbing you in the bath, head slumping forward onto your shoulder until you nudge him. Once you're taken care of though, he's out like a light on the bed.

[msookyspooky]

I need to know what your headcanons are on modern dating of Billy, Stu and or Randy 😊💕

Oooh nice ♡ (I hate modern dating sm and will be single for life before doing dating culture. lol I was designed for dramatic darkest soul proclaimtions, letters of yearning and long drawn courting that last a season before even dating and even dating we're not dating long if I know ur it. I wasn't designed for 'what's ur snap' and was made to send Polaroid nudes in letters with dried flowers and my perfume and...Other things not 'showering? without me?' text... Lmfao but I'll try! 😅💖)

Modern 2025 Dating HC's for Scream Guys

Characters: Randy Meeks, Stu Macher, Billy Loomis

TW: Sex Mentioned, Modern Sexism/Discourse.

Randy Meeks

♡ He's sadly a Reddit user but not in an incel 'niceguysforum' way but in a Dad jokes and we arguing with a 15 year old with a big titty anime pfp on a thread over the symbolism in Hellraiser kind of way.

♡ May also be into the Softmaledom and GFD groups on there and gets ideas from it (He gives nerdy but sweet kinky boy once yall are doing it ya know he does)

♡ Met in Fandom Spaces or at a Horror Con (Dare I say...He'd also be into anime too? 👀 If he was it would be Monsters or Hellsing or anything by Junji I'm JS.)

♡ Would send you horror movie merch/buy it and it arrives on your doorstep. Expect matching couple merch.

♡ Sends you voice notes randomly of "Oh my God, babe. These freaking assholes don't understand that The Babadook was a fucking metaphor-" and it's embarrassingly long before he tries to delete and when that fails he acts like he was talking to himself and accidentally pressed record

♡ Constantly finds new horror movies to watch even cheap ones and FT you to watch it with him till you fall asleep

♡ Definitely FT nightly if you're long distance till one of you falls asleep

♡ Would have a YT channel, Tiktok channel or Podcast on Horror Movies or Crime

♡ Would call you something cringe but meme like pookie bear ironically (and unironically) also calls you 'kitten' as a joke because you both think it's funny acting like a discord Daddy and his kitten girl for the disgusted reactions

♡ Has you both hugging as his pfp and rubs it in other nerdy redflag incels faces like 'Oh no one loves you? 🥺 Damn, someone does me-' in internet arguments when he gets told 'She wont let you hit bro' when defending someone

♡ Became a damn germaphobe after Covid and makes you put your hands out to put sanitizer on. Flinches still when someone coughs w/o covering their mouth cause he had it and doesn't ever want it again

♡ Plays Outlast with you and you both are screaming and laughing hard all night long over the headset

Stu Macher

♡ Stu Macher too bad you died in 96; you would've thrived online

♡ Met you on an app like Tinder, Insta or Snapchat (Or asked for it)

♡ FT you doing random shit in silence + random dumbass noises to fill the silence like boy why tf you fting me while boiling water???

♡ Is so much harder to murder now so either he won't do it but be oddly fascinated by it or he will and is just extra careful

♡ Is such a troll with a keyboard. Only refers to women as bruh, bro, bby, baddie, bih, bop. Uses terms like fine shyt to describe you. Just over does '*xyz* Ahh', 'The huzz are watching', 'What the Sigma??', 'She mid' in comment sections just because he likes attention and knows ppl will be like 'sybau'...He'll even do it to you as his S/O just to rile you up.

♡ Giant troll even when dating. He sees a prank on TikTok? He's doing it and might record your reaction too

♡ Will send risky texts all day everyday. You've seen his dick at every angle. You've seen every surface from tailbone to tip. He always asks for pics in return and constantly pushes his luck wanting your face in them or video

♡ Uses emojis and reaction gifs

♡ Texts you good morning and it's Russian Roulette...Sweet or Surprise Morning Wood?

♡ Netflix and Chill Regularly

♡ Takes Selfies to send 24/7. He just messaged himself eating a McChicken to you...Probably some nasty sex joke in there somewhere somehow istg

♡ Likes when you borrow his clothes and take selfies to send to him. Is like '😍' at you in his oversized sweater for bed

♡ Surprises you with shit he saw on pornhub/horny side of X and sometimes its fun and other times you're like 'Hey, no. Nuh uh I don't bend like that.'

♡ Can be sweet in a funny way using heart eyed reaction images to ur selfies or 'Oh mmyyy Shaylaaaa! 😭💘😫' to something he finds cute

♡ Will text you at 1am 'you up?' or 'I'm bored :(' and if you answer and he lives close he will be at your door with food

♡ Would think all women are either bops/thots, femcels or baddies (srry I fear misogyny is somehow worse/more open now like wtf happened)

♡ Claims Human Centipede or Tusk was hilarious and he might actually think that but he could also be lying bc he knows it will get a reaction from you

♡ Constant reaction pics to what you say like he's on X comment section

♡ Is rich enough he'll get those heartbeat rings/bracelets then forgets to wear it with you

Billy Loomis

♡ This mfer is a pretty boy edgelord incel (Travesty rlly) I am sorry; sad but true

♡ Still kills or has fantasy of it but would have to be way sneakier

♡ Met you organically because he doesn't like apps and claims it and hookup culture have destroyed society (...He says as he's scrolling X/Twitter)

♡ Will randomly send you sad qoutes and ur like 'oh god are you okay???' thinking he's in danger and he acts like he accidentally sent it

♡ If you're a girl; he constantly claims you're 'not like other girls' madonna whore complex kicks his ass everytime

♡ Will get petty if you miss his text or don't respond right away

♡ Talks to you about movies but is like 'Sorry...You probably never heard of it' then quizzes you bc he refuses to believe you *understand* an artistic *masterpiece* like Clockwork Orange (Sarcasm on my part)

♡ Would either listen to 90's grunge, Indie Rock or like $uicideboy$ type stuff

♡ Never sends you a selfie of himself smiling its always him looking tired or mad or blurry

♡ FT you at the worst angle ever like a 50 yr old man

♡ Doesn't use emojis except 🖤 if ur lucky

♡ Gets so pissed at Stu who pisses him off on purpose like 'WHAT THE HELL IS SKIBIDI TOILET I'M GONNA PUNCH YOU-"

♡ May have moments where he genuinely lets his walls down by sending those reaction pics with words on them like you see on Pinterest and that's the only way he knows how to say stuff w/o saying it, ya know?

♡ Does have Spotify playlist that remind him of you and Pinterest boards too but wont admit it

♡ If you text him and use a petname he's like 'shut up' while ttly smiling at his phone since you can't see

♡ Wants to know ur location on ur phone or when u get home safe (...He's hiding outside ur house, babe.)

♡ Will fully let his walls down talking for hours to you about movies but his taste can get dark

♡ Surprisingly is more honest/open through text than in person

♡ Total Agoraphobia and uses his phone for dopamine escape while acting about it all. Only time he feels content is you in his bed or arms

[latenightwithpizza]

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.”

“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?”

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

“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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

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

part two

[velvetvexations]

[link removed] ^saw this post on my dash today and I’m too scared to say anything directly cause I know I’ll get dogpiled, but I had to talk about it somewhere. This certainly isn’t the most egregious example ever, and I do get what op is trying to say, but at the same time it’s completely surreal to me that both the op and a good chunk of people in the notes are just running with the idea that “dysphoric TERFs” are only the way they are *specifically* because they hate trans women, no questions asked. Like I agree that these types of people probably hate trans women, and that transmisogyny plays a role in their beliefs and decisions. I have no problem with that being pointed out, I think it’s a good thing to recognize. But isn’t it also just as likely that someone who identifies as a dysphoric cis woman but is repulsed by the idea of undergoing transition probably hates trans men too? You know, the thing she would likely identify as if she wasn’t completely consumed by transphobia? Like how severe must the brainrot be that so many people can see someone saying “I’m dysphoric about being a woman but I won’t transition because I don’t want to become a disgusting man and betray feminism” and just completely fail to recognize the deeply internalized transandrophobia? istg the treatment of TERF as synonymous with transmisogynist has done so much damage to peoples ability to recognize transphobia directed at trans men and transmascs. If someone identified as a dysphoric cis man who won’t transition because he holds negative beliefs about trans people, I think most people would very easily clock that as internalized transmisogyny. But when the same thing happens the other way around, it’s somehow also solely due to a hatred of trans women specifically, not a hatred of trans men or even just trans people in general. Like I said this particular post isn’t the worst example of this I’ve ever seen, and the only reason I’m bothering to point it out here is because this happens *all the god damn time* and no one seems to notice because it’s done so casually - especially here on tumblr. I’m just so tired of every single instance of transphobia being spun as purely transmisogyny. I’m not saying transmisogyny isn’t also present because it absolutely is in most cases, but this is how transmasculine experiences are continuously erased within our own communities. Take an instance of general transphobia, call it exclusively transmisogyny, and then if a transmasc person tries to speak up call him an entitled man who wants to silence trans women - or tell him to go make his own post and then continue to berate him for it when he does. we are neither allowed to collaborate with and relate to the experiences of transfems, nor are we allowed to make our own spaces to talk solely about our own issues. transmascs are just literally never going to be allowed to have a voice in our own community as long as this cycle continues. to any trans person or ally reading this: Please for the love of god just spare 5 seconds to consider the existence of trans men + mascs when you speak about trans and feminist issues. I promise that including us and acknowledging the bigotry directed our way by cis society is not going to take anything away from trans women + fems or derail the fight against transmisogyny. Including and considering the experiences of all trans people in your activism and theorizing is always going to be beneficial to the entire community, and quite frankly should be the baseline but the bar is on the fucking floor right now.

I reblogged it and I'm so annoyed the OP blocked me and made a separate post just lying about the way TERFs act and think. So infuriating. Fucking self-identified TMEs silencing a trans woman and dictating how transmisogyny works because they equate being a victim with being a woman. And oh, dawg, I do not bring out the word "silencing" easy because I get that everyone has a right to not engage with you, but if you make a post about transmisogyny and how much people hate trans women, and you block a trans woman who very politely disagrees with your framework and argue over her in a completely separate post, yeah, fuck you, you have no fucking interest in listening to trans women.

[dulcecherub]

Daggers

Fratboy! Rafe x Sofia

Warnings: toxic!rafe ish, he briefly fights someone in this

Authors note:This was inspired by my conversations with @lostsyren, about frat boy Rafe and Sofia. And if we had Sofia in the earlier seasons instead. Also not proofread!

Taglist: @araybiaaa

Rafe’s jaw clenched, the baggy of coke still in his hand. He watched as Sofia leaned against some Pogue boy. Watched as he whispered into her ear; Sofia giggling as she pulled away.

Rafe wanted to hit something. Preferably that Pogue next to his girl.

He wouldn’t have said it out loud. Not to her. Not any of his Kook “friends.” But deep down, he believed it.

“Yo Sof!” Rafe practically yells, Sofia eyes widen, spotting him as he nears. The Pogue boy looks almost laid back, like he could care less about Rafe.

“She’s busy.” The Pogue boy says. His arm wrapping around Sofia’s shoulder.

“Busy my ass.” Rafe mutters himself. He comes near, yanking Sofia away from the Pogue boy. “How about you leave now.”

The other boy nonchalance changes, his nose flares. “No.”

Rafe lets out a humorless laugh, Sofia eyes go from the back to Rafe then towards the boy. Rafe scowled, not liking the attention he now was sharing.

“Come on, Sof. Let’s go.” Rafe doesn’t wait to see if she follows. He knows she will.

“You’re such a dick! Why can’t you—”

Rafe turns, staring at her. He feels almost like Orpheus bringing Eurydice back to the mortal world. He’s read one chapter on it in college and already he feels like that describes them. That page of his textbook looks the most worn.

“Why can’t I what? Leave you alone? Not a chance.” He doesn’t care if he’s being selfish.

“And I’m asking you too. Danny—”

“Danny?” Rafe looks almost disgusted, that idiot Danny. Trying to get his girl.

“Yes, Danny. He’s actually sweet to me. Cares about—”

Rafe scoffs cuts Sofias words off, a pinge of hurt runs up his spine. But he won’t utter the words. Won’t tell her how much it hurt to see her with other guys.

He’d been watching her, walking around campus with him. It left a sour taste in his mouth. No one was worthy of Sofia. He knew not even him. But it hurt so bad how much he wanted her. How badly he wanted to hold her in his arms.

“Don’t be dumb. I care about you too.” His nose scrunched up, almost as if he’s disgusted he’s said the words out loud.

“Did you just call me dumb?!” Sofias eyes widen with anger.

“Not like that. God.” Rafe eyes squeezes shut, his hands squeezing the coke. He hates how it instantly relieves him of his anger.

“So we’re back to that huh?”

He’s confused at first before realizing the baggy is out in the open. He shoves it into his pocket, but she’d already seen. Fuck.

“It’s just this one time, okay. One time.”

It’s her turn to scoff.

“You’re unbelievable.” She moves away from him, almost like it burnt to be near him.

“Sofia—”

She just scowls, walking back to Danny.

“Don’t.” He grabs her arm, holding her to him. “Don’t go back to him. I can’t. I can’t handle it.”

Sofia eyes meets his, her eyes briefly widen. Surprised by the intensity in them. Surprised he’d stopped her. Usually he’ll give a dry laugh before walking away from her. But not tonight.

She yanks herself free from him, her eyes narrowing.

“Why? Why can’t you handle it hmm?”

“Because… you’re my girl okay. Not his. Not a—”

“Oh spare me, the melodrama.” Sofia eyes turn into slits. “I’m not your girl. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Sof, please—” He extends his hand out to grab her wrist but she moves away before he can circle his fingers around it.

“No! I’m so sick of you. So sick of you using me. You act like you own me Rafe. You don’t actually care. You can say it all you want. But it’s about how the other person feels it. And honestly—” She raises her hand out to gesticulate at him. “I don’t see that here.” She whips around to go back to Danny.

Rafe shakes his head, following behind her. “No, no you have it all wrong.”

“Leave me alone Rafe. I mean it.”

“No, just listen to me.” He grabs her shoulder but she manages once again to swerve him. His jaw sets. “Stop playing around Sof. You’re not going back to that—He points towards Danny like it disgusts him—to that shithead.”

Sofia rolls her eyes, she gives him a smirk. “Watch me.”

Rafe clenches his fists, watching as Sofia approaches Danny. Rafe sees red when their lips meet.

“Oh fuck no.” In quick strides, he yanks Danny by his neck and pushes him to the ground.

“Rafe!” Sofia yelps, trying to yank him off Danny. But it’s too late, Rafe fist meets Danny’s cheek. Danny groans as his head falls back.

“Get off of him! Rafe!”

Rafe yanks Danny by his collar, his eyes intense as he eyes the Pogue boy. “You ever touch her again. I’ll do so much worse. You understand?” Rafe searches Danny’s eyes. “I said do you understand?!”

“Yes! For fuck sake.” Rafe lets Danny go, he turns to Sofia. Who glares at him.

“You’re a fucking prick! I hate your guts!”

“You don’t.” He’s so arrogant and he knows it. But he knows her.

“Fuck you.” She pulls Danny up. But he pushes himself away from her once he’s on his feet.

“Sorry Sofia, you’re not worth the trouble.” As he staggers away. Rubbing his hands on his jeans, cleaning off the dirt that was trying to coat itself there. Sofia scoffs before turning back to Rafe.

“Happy now?” She crosses her arms, shaking her head.

“Delighted actually.”

She shakes her head once more. “You think that was going to impress me? You’re dead wrong.” She begins to stomp away, Rafe follows her. This time just walking beside her, not attempting to grab for her.

“Rafe, stop following me.”

“No.” He gruffly, following her anyway. Sofia continued to stomp away, her arms crossed. This was starting to feel like when Orpheus was bringing Eurydice back from hell. A part of Rafe wondered if Sofia would turn. Showing him how much he truly mattered to her. He almost willed her too.

She didn’t, she continued to walk like he wasn’t even there. He felt the sting of it.

“Sofia, come on.”

Still, nothing. He reached an arm out to turn her. She quickly turned without him needing to.

“You’re such an asshole! You can’t stand to see me happy. Because that would mean I would be completely unavailable to you.” Sofia threw her hands out in anger. Her eyes glaring daggers at him.

“What? You were going to be with a shithead Pogue? Someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do? Come on, Sofia.” Rafe sucked his teeth. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

“You’re so selfish.”

“When it comes to you. Yeah.”

Sofia let out an agitated sound. “Oh please! You do that in all aspects of your life Rafe! You, you use people. Treat them like shit. You think you’re above everyone else because of money.” She continued to gesticulate in anger. “It’s always about money!”

“Not with you!”

A silence overtakes them, like tidal wave finally curling up and making itself known.

Sofia breaks it, the wave crashing into the shoreline.

“You don’t get to pick and choose when you finally decide you want me.” Her voice was hoarse, on the edge of breaking. He saw the way her eyes sheened.

“Sofia—” He says softly, now, truly seeing the affect he’s done.

“I love you.” Sofia sucks in a breath, almost like she’d been running and now was winded. She didn’t shake her head this time. Her eyes not softening nor sending him daggers. She just seemed defeated. The opposite effect Rafe wanted.

“Sure, if you believe that.”

Then she walked away, not letting him confess anything more. Rafe stood there, dumbfounded. Had he lost her for good?

[m4ple9x0x]

Sᵒᵘʳ Cʰᵉʳʳʸ

-Chapter IV-

Hyunin x fem!reader

WARNINGS: SMUT MDNI !! a lot of swearing, lmk if I forgot anything.

Genre: strangers to friends to lovers, smut, stalker!Hyunjin, yandere!Hyunjin, slow burn.

a/n: this chapter is shorter, i hope y'all will enjoy it anyway! if u guyz have any feedback or opinions lmk, im open to it n also to some constructive criticism, also if u wanna get added to the taglist lmk!! <3 maple out~

dividers by: @cafekitsune <3

Previous chapter

These past few days have been pretty much quiet. Nothing really happening in your life allowing the boredom to settle in, the free time that you had on your hands made you start pondering over the invitation that Joanna sent you. The party was in two days. It was obviously a good thing, you could get out there, reignite your spark that has been buried long time ago, but there was no doubt, you have to admit that you’re scared. Maybe it sounds dumb, but what if you actually get to be happy again, create new friendships and then something happens and it will destroy everything? Just like back in high school, you’re afraid of having to start all over again, only to end up all alone.

At least now you got used to being alone, but making friends again, getting attached to them, only to see them walk away… only to let them be snatched far away from you? That’s truly unfair, and that’s what’s scaring you the most. The possibility of having a strong bond with someone again and allowing that person to see you at your lowest, to see your vulnerable side, and after that becoming strangers is there, and you don’t want to have to go through that heartbreak again. But being alone for the rest of your life isn’t an option either.

*Gosh why is life so complicated?*

The fact that the acting agency didn’t contact you regarding the casting wasn’t helping either, making you overthink every single detail that maybe ruined your chances of getting accepted. You’ve been laying in your bed for hours creating infinite scenarios and possible outcomes in your head, your anxiety worsening with every unanswered question floating through your brain. *What if the tone of my voice wasn’t suitable for that line? What if I didn’t gesticulate enough? What if… what if… what if*. All these possible mistakes that maybe in that moment you didn’t even notice or thought of as mistakes were multiplying and creating a big black hole that was slowly starting to suck you in and make you vanish from the real world.

You hated all this waiting. *I got in my head again...fuck...what should I do, what if I will fail over and over again?*, you started crying. The loneliness was eating you alive. You grabbed your phone, wiping the tears from your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, you went on instagram entering the conversation with Joanna, the last message was about her coworker coming to the party too. The solution to your loneliness problem was right in front of you, you just had to get out there, to go to the party, you needed this, you were the one capable of changing something, it was your life and you were the only one with the power of getting it back.

you: hei, so i’ve been thinking about it and i decided i wanna come to the party. 18:50

You close your phone, *This was the right decision...right?*. You get up from the bed and walk towards the kitchen deciding to make a salad. You start cutting the vegetables and seasoning everything, you check your phone and notice a message from Stacey.

stace💋: girl call me when you see this. 19:26

You sit at the table and start eating, your phone dialing Stacey.

-Finally! We haven’t been talking these days, what’s happening with you Y/N? Stacey’s voice was full of concern.

-I don’t know, been overthinking and stuff… You say, taking a mouthful of salad.

-Stop trying to brush things off, why haven’t you called me that night after Josh showed up?

-I was just tired, wasn’t really in the mood to talk about it.

-I see… are you ok? Chan told me he talked with you that day.

-Right now I’m better, I felt kinda off earlier…

-Talk with me sweetie.

-Well besides that day with Josh, the agency didn’t contact me yet, it’s been on my mind.

-Hey I’m sure they liked you, these things take time, they probably have a lot of people on the line you know, don’t worry about it that much, I’m sure they are gonna contact you soon. Stacey’s voice was soft as she reassured you.

-I guess… also I didn’t get to tell you but there was this girl at the cafe, she was working there and she threw Josh out, she was very nice with me and now we kinda are friends, her name is Joanna.

-That’s so nice Y/N!!

-Yeah, and she invited me to a party on Valentines Day, her coworker will be there too.

-I hope you’re going!!

-Yeah, I decided to go, what could go wrong right?

-Exactly! I’m so proud of you babe, you’re finally getting out there again, that’s good for you!

-Thank you Stace, how have you been?

-Well guess what arrived today? Excitement was now noticeable in your friend’s tone.

-What?

-A bottle of wine, I wonder who could’ve sent me such a thing… You and your friend start laughing.

-Hmm… I wonder who too.

-Y/N you know I love this! Thank you so much babee!

-I also love this too, thank you Y/Nnnie! You hear Chan screaming in the background.

-No need to thank me, you guys send me gifts all the time.

-Doesn’t matter!

-So I guess since you’re so happy the project went well?

-OH YES, the teacher loved it!

-Good job Stace!

-Thank you babe, I can’t wait to drink the wine.

-I wish we could celebrate together…

-Me too, but hey, let’s not be sad, you gotta keep the good vibe for the party, okay?

-Yeah, yeah.

You keep talking with Stacey and Chan on the phone until it gets late, the couple going to sleep. You get back in bed and turn the TV on to watch a movie, you weren’t really feeling like watching something horror so you looked up a romance instead, this was kinda out of character for you, but you were in a good mood so you needed to keep it that way, as Stacey said.

Some time passes and you’re half an hour into the movie, you pay attention to the main characters that are starting to have sex, and then it hits you. The dream. *Fuck I completely forgot about that…*, you start having flashbacks of the man’s face, of the way in which he was kissing you, of his touches, his tongue on your skin, his fingers digging into your thighs as he was eating you out, his pleading glassy eyes staring up at you, staring into your eyes as if he was trying to reach your soul, his moans, his voice. It’s like you’re in a trance as you close your eyes and slowly start to caress your own skin, moving your hand lower… lower...lower until your fingers find their way under the waistband of your sweatpants, sliding over your hot and wet folds, you start moaning softly images of him in your mind.

*I wish he would be the one doing this to me*, you stop and open your eyes getting your hand out of your pants.

-What the fuck was that… this is so wrong, he’s literally a stranger that I bumped into twice...I don’t even know his name.

You brush this off turning the TV off deciding to go to sleep.

Only problem is...you can’t. You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling in the darkness of your room, he’s still in your mind, you can’t stop thinking about him, you touch your face and feel your cheeks being very hot. *Maybe if I drink some tea I’ll be able to fall asleep easier*, you think and get up from the bed, opening your phone you see a message from Joanna.

@Joa_47: im so happy you’re coming, my coworker said that he’d like to meet you, he told me to tell you to go tomorrow to the cafe if you’re free. 23:56 you: tell him i ll be there :) 00:00

taglist: @lezleeferguson-120 @hwangjoanna

[lostatsea-blog]

maybe ona is dead set on being cold to lucy, but she softens when she sees lucy struggling with just the one crutch and she remembers it’s her fault. lucy of course is also remorseful of how she acted but shes actually not trying to flirt. yet she can’t help being a natural flirt. lucy being nervous mentions the age gap and ona gets more confused but understands lucys pov. maybe?

Thank you for your suggestion to help break my writers block. As requested the next part of Battle Lines.

Battle Lines Part 3

Lucy Bronze x Ona Battle

No warnings but the ending with get a little fluffy.

Lucy’s POV

I don’t know what came over me or why I asked her to dinner on a not - date (that I am hoping I can turn into a date) but now I am stood in front of my wardrobe wondering what the fuck I have to wear that is the appropriate level of dressed for a non-date – date but the thought of Ona believing that I hated her had been too much.

The truth is, I had been captivated by her since Lucy Staniforth’s wedding. Her perfect smile, the way she crinkles her eyes when she is being silly, the perfect definition in her jaw; it had all made my heart flutter like I was a teenager. While I had dated quite a few women, I did not remember the start of those relationships feeling like this. We had chatted for hours like we had known each other all our lives and when we had danced, feeling her athletic body pressed against mine had set my pulse racing. I wanted nothing more than to feel her writhing beneath me as I explored every inch of her perfect skin but I was brought back down to reality very quickly by my friend Jordan, who reminded me that there was an eight-year age gap between us. Ona was too young for me, at the start of her career with the whole world in front of her; I was at the end of my career with more baggage than a girl Ona’s age needed to deal with.

I settled on a pair of tight black jeans, a white button down shirt and a pair of black boots. Checking myself out in the mirror, I decided to take just one crutch. If the physio’s knew they would go mad but two would get in the way. I had one chance to convince Ona that I was not a complete and utter fucking psychopath with multiple personalities. I glance at the clock and grab my keys to go and get Ona. The thing about playing for Barca is they own an apartment complex and so all the players live in the same building. Ona lives two floors down so I start to hobble my way there.

Ona’s POV

I glance at the clock for what must be the sixth time in the last 10 minutes and feel a fluttering in my stomach. I don’t know why I am nervous, after the way she has behaved there is no way anything is going to happen between us. I am simply going to allow her to say whatever it is she wants to say. We play on the same team, in the same position, we need to be able to get along. Tonight is about sorting things out enough to have a good working relationship – nothing more. I glance at my outfit in the mirror. I had settled on a pair of light blue jeans, white fitted t-shirt and a white shirt over the top. I wish I could say I had picked it out without care but the destruction of my bedroom would tell a different story. I am pulled from my thoughts by a knock at my door and the sudden racing of my heart takes my breath away. My body is reacting against my will because after the last few weeks, I am not letting Lucy off the hook. I just need to fix things enough so that we can work together.

As I pull the door open, I am met with the widest smile and I have to fight with myself not to return it. Instead I give her a friendly hello and grab my keys so that we can leave.

“The uber is 5 minutes away” she tells me. I nod and head towards the stairs. When I reach the door, it takes me a minute to realise that Lucy is a good distance behind me. Looking back, I see her struggling with her crutch. It is then that it dawns on me, she only has one with her. I watch her approach, every step taking a great deal of effort and I am flooded with shame once again. She is struggling because of me, because of my reckless tackle.

“Can I help you” I ask softly watching her hobble while wanting nothing more than to wrap my arm around her waist and support her.

She looks up and smiles at me again “It’s okay, this is not my first time test driving these things” she jokes as she reaches me, “drives a bit slower than I like though.” I can not help the giggle that escapes but I clamp down on it and nod as we continue to make our way outside.  

The restaurant that Lucy has picked is an Italian ten minutes from the apartment building. I imagine if Lucy hadn’t of been injured we would have walked it and with that thought, guilt once again gnaws at my consciousness. I watch Lucy struggle with her crutch as she gets out of the uber and have to force my hands inside my pockets to stop myself reaching out. My plan to stay professional seems to be dwindling fast. There is just something so innately charming about the English woman that sneaks through all of my carefully constructed defences.

Once we are settled at the table, I have to ask her about the crutch and why she only has one. She pauses a minute and I get that signature Lucy Bronze smirk before she replies

“Well, I would usually prefer to not take any on a date but being able to walk was important” she joked. At the words date I feel my face blush and I know she sees it too by the way her green eyes twinkle. Trying to save myself, I clear my throat

“I never agreed to a date – This is just dinner between colleagues” I insist but the heat in my face is not in any rush to cool down.

“If you say so” she winks and my face is now on fire along with the rest of my body. Needing to break eye contact I stare down at my menu – this woman is going to kill me before the night is out.

Lucy’s POV

I would be lying if I said the pink hue currently covering Ona’s neck and face did not fill me with a sense of hope. I can tell that Ona is trying to stay detached and distant but this proves to me that I have some sort of effect on her which is a massive boost to my confidence. I can also see that she feels guilty about my movement. I have caught her watching me a couple of times tonight and she seems to be forcing herself not to react.

I love this place; I found it randomly one night when I had taken myself out for a walk. I had been struggling to adapt to my new home and needed some space to clear my head. When I had stepped in the people had been so friendly and it did not hurt that they had some of the best pasta I had tasted in my life. Once the drinks and food had been ordered (both of us opting for the seafood linguini), I turned my attention to Ona. While I had joked about it earlier, seeing her so out of sorts hurts my heart – This is not the woman I met at Lucy’s wedding. That Ona was confident, charming and unapologetically herself. I wish I could turn back the clocks and handle things differently but that wasn’t possible; all I could do was try and repair some of the damage. Without thinking I reach out and place my hand on her arm to still her nervous actions and she looks up startled not expecting the contact. She doesn’t pull away though and allows my hand to rest on her arm.

“I’m sorry is not enough Ona and I know that” I say with sincerity “That night at Lucy’s wedding, the connection that seemed to be building between us was something I have never experienced in my life”

“You did feel it” her voice is barely a whisper but I catch it. I know my actions the last few weeks would have caused her to second guess out entire interaction and I have that I have tarnished those memories for her.

I waited and searched for her eyes and once she was looking at me I nodded “I felt it” I confirmed because she deserved that knowledge “After we went out separate ways, I felt like a teenager with the biggest crush on a cute girl” my confession makes her blush and I know instantly that I want to spend the rest of my life making this woman blush like that.

“I would have welcomed your attention” she says softly “You were not the only teenager after that night”

“I know you would have and that is why I had to pull away” I sigh and she looked both angry and confused. Gone is the soft smile and gentle eyes replaced by a fiery Spanish temper. If possible she looks even more beautiful when she is angry.  

“That makes absolutely no sense” she throws her hands up in frustration breaking the contact we’d had “You liked me, you knew I liked you so you had to destroy it”

“Ona” I sigh “You are 24 and I am 32” I say this like my point is obvious and this will automatically help her to understand but I am very wrong and her fury just intensifies.  

“So? You think I am not aware of your age or mine?” she demands “What has that got to do with you treating me like shit for months”

“You don’t think that age gap is too big?” I ask “You are at the start of your career and I am at the end of mine. You need someone who is at the same stage of life as you, who you can experience all of your highs with. Ona you are going to be the best in the world one day and you deserve to have your partner right alongside you. I thought if I pushed you hard you would realise, I am not good for you and then just battle me for right back – I never imaged I would cause you to feel the way you do”

The speech comes out rambled and I can see many different emotions crossing her beautiful features at each stage of my explanation but when I am finished, she just seems sad and that worries me. Maybe I pushed too far and maybe I cannot salvage this.

Ona’s POV

As I listen to Lucy’s speech, I am confused by my reaction. To listen to her talk about the end of her career is hard but with starting clarity I realise that she thinks she is not good enough for me. She thinks that she will hold me back.

“Who gave you these ideas?” I challenge with defiance and it is her turn to be shocked by my response “who told you that you were too old for me?”

“No one, Ona it is just a fact” Lucy replies

“merda” I huff out and I am amused by the way Lucy’s eyes wides in surprise. I don’t swear often but this situation makes me want to swear “merda – who?” I demand “The Lucy I was speaking to at that wedding isn’t the one I have had to deal with for months and I deserve to know why”

“A couple of my friends pointed out that it was cradle snatching” Lucy admitted “It made me second guess myself. I felt like one of those pervy older people who goes for women far too young for them”

“Do I not get a say?” I challenge again and again Lucy is startled but I need her to realise that I am not some meek, love-struck teenager. I am quite stubborn and I know my own mind “Did you not think to ask ME how I felt about the age gap”

“If I’d have asked you out, would you have said yes?” Lucy asks, that fucking grin back on her face. The grin that exudes confidence of a woman who knows she is going to get what she wants and I realise that every smile, every grin, every touch, every wink and every second of prolonged eye contact has been moulding me to her will. She has my hand in her own and I feel her fingers gently stroke my palm. I nod my response unable to form the words.  

“What if I ask you out now, will you say yes?” her words echo in my mind and I am lost in her eyes. This is the Lucy that I met at Staniforth’s wedding; this is the Lucy I have been searching for these last few weeks

“I am here aren’t I” I reply softly and it is her turn to blush

“So, this is a date?” she teases

“It is now” I reply gripping her hand a little tighter, in no rush to break contact. I know there are things we still need to talk about. I know we cannot brush the last few weeks under the carpet but I will also not deny myself what my heart and mind so clearly want. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would ever be on a date with my teenage idol or that said person would be looking at me like they wanted to do unspeakable things to me. For now, we would have to see how this date went.  

[cardinalcopulate]

Some Kinda Hate // Frater Imperator x Reader

Posted a new story on ao3! You can also read it below the cut.

MDNI!! 18+ ONLY!! - dividers by @/cafekitsune ♡

Summary: Copia is angry over the popularity of his twin brother. You help him release his frustrations and stress.

Tags: pwp, second-person POV, no use of y/n, blow jobs, cock worship, deepthroating, forced orgasm (kinda?), boss/employee relationship, established relationship

Word Count: 1.3k

Author's note: Please do not repost or scrape for AI (or however that works, idk. also? can't believe I have to say that)

Read it on ao3 here!

“Fucking V!” Copia hissed.

You couldn’t help but smirk a little at his childlike anger over his twin. It was almost endearing. His eyes were trained on the small TV playing “Satanized”.

“He can’t just come in here and replace me! This song,” he scoffed. “That was my song! He steals my music and my fans! What a dickhead.”

Copia’s frustration, perhaps even jealousy, with V was understandable; Change was always difficult for him but this change involved being stripped of performing around the world. He felt like his passion was being torn from his hands and he had no choice but to let it happen. He was the face of The Clergy for far longer than his predecessors which made the transition from Papa to Frater even more difficult, even if it was technically a promotion. It just didn’t feel that way to him.

“Fucking V,” Copia muttered to himself again as he stuck a paperclip into his keyboard. With a small click, the keycap for the letter ‘V’ came off. “Ha-ha!”

You smiled again. Despite the genuine pain he felt watching his twin brother from the sidelines, his antics were amusing. Did Copia really think that popping the ‘V’ key off his computer would hurt the new Papa? It was hard to say; sometimes, he seemed to lose his grip on reality.

“Love, do you want to talk about it?”

He only grumbled in response. Copia threw himself on the couch of the parlor room that he was using as his temporary office. His gloved fingers dug into the cushions with a creak.

You pursed your lips and sunk to your knees before him. “How about we try a different kind of stress relief?”

“Ah, tesoro, you always know just what I need.”

“Of course I do, Papa.” You ran your hands up his strong thighs and used one hand to palm at the crotch of his slacks.

Copia whined at your use of his former title. His cock began to fill as his body’s blood ran south.

“You’re so tense.” You leaned forward, mouthing at the tent in his pants and squeezing his thighs. The insistent touch of your hands made him shiver.

“It’s just—ugh! He’s not even a good singer! Fuck,” he panted. His hands gripped your hair at the roots. Copia ground his clothed hips into your face. His heady scent seeped through his slacks. You could almost taste the precum dripping from his erection.

“I know, baby. Go on. Just let it all out.” You looked up at him while your hands undid his pants and freed his cock. Thank the Unholy Father for Copia’s eternal aversion to underwear. It slapped against his soft, hair-covered belly. A fat bead of precum squeezed out from his slit. You were always taken aback by how thick he was and how the veins throbbed when he was hard. By the looks of it, Copia was close to cumming from your attention already. “You’re all leaky, my love,” you teased.

“Sh-shut up.”

“Oh? Am I making Papa mad?” You kissed his cock’s tip then outlined your lips with it, smearing precum along the delicate skin.

“Yes, you are and you know it, you little shit!” He groaned when you cupped his balls with one hand, using the other to exert a vice grip on the base of his cock.

“Do something about it if I piss you off so much,” You challenged.

Without hesitation, he pulled your head all the way down his dick. Your nose brushed against the coarse hair on his groin and lower stomach, at the point where the two became inseparable. You gagged as his tip hit the back of your throat. The feeling made your mind cloudy and pulse race. Your body’s response was immediate: drool immediately trickled from your mouth down your chin. A soreness in your jaw already began to spread from the girth of his heavy cock in your mouth. For a few, dragging moments, Copia kept your head still; he savored the velvety softness of your mouth wrapped around his erection. He didn’t ask if you were ready for him to move; He didn’t care. You were just a hole for him to fuck. At the realization, you gulped and he whimpered in response. “Shit.”

Copia settled his hands on each side of your face. He moved you up and down his cock like you were a fleshlight. Each rough thrust made you choke. Tears ran down your cheeks as you moaned around him. “Mine, mine, mine,” he grunted in time with each slide of his dick down your throat.

You hummed in affirmation. You were his: His to fuck, to objectify, to play with. You were his to own in mind and body. He didn’t doubt your loyalty, even with the rise of a new Papa. Copia knew you’d always be his. He watched you take him in your mouth over and over. The communion that bound you to him for the rest of time. You swallowed around him; Precum coated your tongue and made your head spin. Hollowing your cheeks, you pushed him impossibly further down your throat with each rut of his hips against your face.

A knock echoed through the room. “Frater?”

“Shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered. “I forgot that new sister is coming today.”

You released his cock with a wet pop. “You’d better cum, then, Papa.” You spread his dripping precum around and stroked him from tip to base. “First impressions are everything. What kind of impression would it leave for her to see her big, bad boss face-fucking his assistant?”

“Just a second!” Copia called out. His cock throbbed and twitched. “I-I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And you’re going to. The way I see it, my love, you either cum now or we shove this back in your pants and deal with it later.”

“Fuck,” he whined.

Your other hand found his balls; Copia shuddered as you alternated between light squeezes and gentle tugs. You guided him back into your drooling, waiting mouth until the tip hit your throat again. He made eye contact with you. In that brief glance, he understood your message: Fuck my mouth until you fill it with cum. Now.

Copia’s hands found your hair again. He pulled you back and forth on his leaking erection, desperate to take advantage of your offer. Your throat was certainly going to be bruised in the aftermath of his rough, quick thrusts. You both moaned in tandem. There were few things either party loved more than you kneeling before him with your mouth stuffed. Copia squirmed in response to plethora of sensations centered on his cock.

“Frater?” The voice outside the door called louder.

“Just-Ah!-a second!” He grunted.

You whispered and rubbed a finger against his taint, “Last chance.” You swallowed around his erection again.

“Fuck!” Copia moaned. He bit down on his gloved hand to muffle the wanton noise as his cock kicked and flooded your throat with cum.

You watched as he screwed his eyes shut and a few drops of sweat ran down his face. Copia continued to push his cock in and out of your mouth, riding out his orgasm. You swallowed around each spurt of cum as he quivered and moaned. A few thin, sticky strings threatened to overflow from your spit-slick lips. The sight of you swallowing the evidence of his orgasm, nearly making a mess, burned into his mind. When he finished, you released his softening dick and helped him tuck it back into his pants.

A gloved thumb reached down, wiped a tear away and then a stray drop of cum on the corner of your mouth. Copia brought it to his mouth and sucked it clean, making searing eye contact with you. “What a good boy. Taking everything your Papa gives you.”

“Always, Papa,” you smirked up at him. He helped you stand and resettle on the sofa.

There was another hard knock on the door. “Frater!”

“Coming!” He huffed. Copia pressed a quick kiss to your forehead and headed to the door. He greeted your visitors and introduced you to them. They were none the wiser that you had just finished worshipping his cock like your own personal God.

Hope you enjoyed!! If you like what I write, please consider buying me a coffee. I might be opening c0mms soon, stay tuned if you're interested!! Thank you for reading :]

[elliespassagerprincess]

Can you do smt for abby with the song new magic wand by Tyler the creator?

I love her puppy eyes and muscles so much 🥺

Also, i love obsessive women so

New Magic Wand - abby anderson x reader

hi anon!! fictional obsessive women are so hot ughhhhhhhh. i hope you enjoy:) also abby in this pic??? i love her.

this story is based off the song new magic wand by tyler the creator. If you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)

pairing: abby anderson x fem!reader

requests are open, send me your thoughts:)

Warnings: dark themes, obsession, violence, psychological tension

Summary: Abby has never been good at letting things go. And she sure as hell isn't letting go of you.

Masterlist

You met Abby during a supply run in Jackson. Just two soldiers assigned to the same patrol, nothing special. But there was something about you—your laugh, maybe. The way you didn’t flinch when she barked orders. The way you looked at the world like it hadn’t completely fallen apart.

That was two months ago.

Now, she watches you from the shadows.

She doesn’t mean to. At first, it was casual. Coincidental. A walk past the stables. Lingering near the training yard. Asking around. But then she saw you with someone else. That girl—Mia, from the medbay. Too close. Touching your wrist. Whispering.

Abby’s jaw locked so tight her molars ached.

She waited. Quiet. Calculating.

She told herself you weren’t hers. But that wasn’t true. Not really.

You were hers. You just didn’t know it yet.

“She’s gonna be dead, I just got a magic wand.”

You started noticing strange things.

Your door left slightly ajar when you knew you closed it. The sweater you thought you lost suddenly reappearing on your cot. A shadow behind you in the glass of the dining hall. At first, you brushed it off. The world was full of paranoia and trauma—maybe it was just stress.

Then Mia disappeared.

She never showed up to her shift. Her bunk was untouched. No note. No signs of struggle.

You asked questions. Abby watched you from across the rec room as you begged the search party to look further. No one had the energy to care. People disappeared sometimes.

But Abby cared.

Abby had taken care of the problem.

She didn't use a "magic wand"—just her hands. Just enough pressure. She didn’t scream. Abby was proud of that. No mess. No loose ends.

She thought you'd notice her now. You didn’t.

You started pulling away. Spending more time alone. Your smile—her favorite thing about you—began to dim. She hated that. Hated that you didn’t know she was trying to protect you.

Abby tried to get closer. Leaving you small things. A can of your favorite peaches. A leather glove you mentioned needing. You thanked her, politely.

But not the way she wanted.

“I need to get her out the picture, she’s really fucking up my frame.”

Abby started dreaming about you. In those dreams, you kissed her like you meant it. You let her hold you. You begged her to stay. Woke up to soaked sheets and a clenched jaw.

Reality was uglier. You barely looked at her now. You were scared—she could see it in your eyes. That made her blood boil and her stomach twist.

It was that fucking patrol leader next.

Sergio.

Too friendly. Too smug. Too willing to walk next to you, show you how to hold a better grip on your rifle.

Abby followed him. Took his knee out behind the stables. Broke his arm and left him in the snow. Said she found him that way.

It wasn’t about jealousy, she told herself. It was about clarity. You and her—there was no room for anyone else in the picture.

They were ruining the shot. The life she could see so clearly with you.

She’d fix it.

“I wanna be found, passenger in your car.”

You knew it by the fourth disappearance. This wasn’t just coincidence. Someone was doing this.

Someone was doing this for you.

That’s when you found the journal.

Hidden under the floorboard in the old stables. Pages and pages of your name. Drawings of your face. A lock of your hair taped to the corner of a page. Abby’s messy handwriting scrawled beneath every entry:

“I saw her smile today. I think she smiled at me.”

“She wore her green coat. It suits her. She looked cold—I should bring her another.”

“She looked at her again. I want to rip her throat out.”

“She's mine. She just doesn't understand yet.”

Your breath caught. She was watching you. All this time.

“You got a new friend, it hurts. I’ll make you one, I’ll make you one.”

You confronted her. Cornered her in the greenhouse, where no one else went anymore.

"Abby," you said, voice trembling. "What the fuck did you do?"

She didn’t deny it. Just looked at you like she always had—like you were the sun burning through her skull.

“I protected you,” she said. “They didn’t deserve you. None of them did.”

“You killed them,” you whispered.

She stepped closer. You flinched. That hurt her—cut deep.

“I’d do it again,” Abby murmured, voice soft and low. “I’d do anything for you.”

You should’ve run. You should’ve screamed.

But something in her eyes—something fractured and sincere—rooted you in place.

She reached out, calloused fingers brushing your cheek. You didn’t move.

"You don’t have to be scared," she whispered. "I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want you to see. We can be good, you and me."

And despite everything—the deaths, the obsession, the blood on her hands—your heart stuttered.

Because some broken, desperate part of you wanted to believe her.

Wanted to believe you could be loved that completely.

“Please don’t leave me now.”

Abby kept you in a cabin miles from Jackson. Safe. Stocked. Secluded. A place where no one could come between you.

She made you tea. Lit the fireplace. Spoke softly. Touched you like you were made of glass.

You tried to run once. She found you hours later, frostbitten and sobbing.

She carried you back. Wrapped you in blankets. Kissed your forehead.

“You don’t get it,” she murmured against your skin. “You’re all I have left.”

And eventually...you stopped fighting. Let her touch linger. Let her hold you at night.

You told yourself it was survival. But when she kissed you the first time, your lips parted.

Not in protest.

But in surrender.

[sglossmin]

Muse | MYG pt. 8

Plot: What happens when the man you practically simp over in high school, is right now, sitting across you after almost 10 years of not seeing him? Worse? You're here for an appointment for therapy and he's your psychologist.

Pairing: SeniorStudent!Yoongi x JuniorStudent!Reader ---> Psychologist! Yoongi x Artist!Reader

Genre: Fluff, slight age gap, slice of life, a bit of angst, schoolmates to lovers(?) Switch POV

Warnings: matured content

Word count: dunno

A/N: Available on WATTPAD (click here) now too!!

Comment your @ if u wanna be added to the taglist^^

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7

“You know we can have more appointments until you improve more.” Yoongi softly smiled at me.

“I think I’ve improved a bit… But not enough, I know. Don’t worry, I’ve lived almost half of my life like this.” I forced a smile, trying to lighten up the mood. “Besides, I just tried. I knew my past would always crawl back to me… It is a matter of time to accept myself. It happened already. Going to therapies won’t bring my dad back.” 

For a person who’s fucked in the head, I’m pretty self-aware… Pathetic.

Yoongi nodded in response. He knew that only myself can truly cure whatever madness I have in me.

This is it. The last time I’ll be in his clinic as his patient. 

I gave him tons of reasons on why I wanted to postpone the last two sessions at first, some of it were a lie. But now that it all ended? Relief washed over me. I can’t stand showing him all my vulnerable side anymore. It’s sickening. My guts turn into knots every time he looks at me with pity. I hated it.

And the thing that I hate the most… is that slowly, I feel myself leaning onto him. 

Like every breath he takes is a silver lining for me. Every laugh and smile… I wanna be the cause of it. I wanna love him. A hundred percent—fully and devotedly love him. But how can I love him if I can’t even love myself? If I can’t even accept the person that looks back at me through the mirror?

I can’t be in love.

To fill the emptiness I’ve been feeling since the early morning, I called Taehyung and Jimin to hangout at a nearby club.  I didn’t call my girl friends because I just want it to be us—the 95 liners. Taehyung has been my close friend ever since middle school and through him, I got to know Jimin and had a manager and new friend. Also, I don’t want to have someone that will remind me of Yoongi for now… Which is absurd, especially that he’s my neighbor. The chances of bumping into him are higher than forgiving myself. 

I need a distraction.

Anything that will take my mind off him.

The loud music and flashing lights filled the club. People who are too drunk to care spread all over the room—mostly they’re making out, dancing, or just sobbing on the corner. The DJ played Mommae and blasted it through the speaker that made everyone dance. As we walked inside, I saw a couple grinding on each other on the couch. A wave of disgust and blush creeped to me, remembering the dream I had the last time. Cursing mentally, I walked between the two towards the bar.

“What’s for you, m’ lady?” Taehyung teased as he leaned on the counter.

“Hmm… I’ll take a Long Island Iced Tea.”

“Damn.. Strong, huh?” He chuckled before turning to the bartender and order. 

Jimin ordered as well before turning to me, “Wanna drink that much?” His tone was playful but there was also a hint of worry. “You’re not the drinker type… Got any problems?”

I chuckled and shook my head “I may not drink that much but… I have a high tolerance, you know. And also, don’t even mention it.” 

“So, there is a problem,” Taehyung smirked as he chimed in in the conversation.

The bartender served our drinks and we clink our glasses before taking a sip.

“Is it a boy problem? I heard from Sana that you were seeing your neighbor,” Jimin teased, a sickening sly smirk playing on his lips.

That bitch…

“Y/n? Seeing a guy? Ooh, now we’re talking. I honestly thought you became gay.” Taehyung casually uttered as he sipped his drink.

“Wha-” I rolled my eyes and frowned at him. “What made you even think that… I-i’m gay??”

“Well, you know, it’s been a while and I’ve never seen you with anyone.” He shrugged and gave a look at Jimin.

“So being single for a while makes you… gay?” I scoffed and drank half of my drink before speaking again, “Well, now you know, I’m straight.”

“Ooh, Y/n coming out as straight wasn’t really on my bingo card,” Taehyung teased and nudged my arm as we laughed.

“Anyways… about this guy…” 

“Don’t. I’m here to be distracted, have fun and hangout with you guys… So, don’t press it, hm?” I raised a brow at Jimin and he salute like a soldier.

“Yes, ma’am!”

This bitch…

“But what do you mean by “to be distracted”? Hookups? Be utterly drunk? I mean… if it’s hookups then I’m down, just saying” Taehyung smirked as he playfully wiggled his brow.

I gave him a disgusted look. Not that I don’t find him attractive or anything, it’s just it would make our relationship as friends messy. “We both know that’s not gonna end well… Besides, I’m not in here for hookups. I don’t wanna get people’s STDs.” I scoffed, as I finished the drink.

I drank another glass of Long Island before going to the dance floor. Feeling a bit tipsy, I swayed my hips to the beat. The alcohol slowly kicks in as the music blast to my ears. Taehyung and Jimin were also with me on the dance floor, probably dancing with other girls. But I knew that they were accompanying me so that I’d feel safe while having fun. It’s a nightclub after all. Guys who are in here just to have girls to take home are scattered all over.

Shibal this life.

I was practically dancing and using all my moves on the dance floor and I felt some eyes on me. Swaying my hips, I feel myself on the rhythm. I wasn’t really putting a show, I was too tipsy to care about anyone. Just me and the blasting music.

While dancing, my back bumped into someone that made me look back. Our eyes widened as we saw each other, our movements stopped and the music slowly faded. 

Am I too drunk to hallucinate?

“Hey…” Yoongi gave a small smile. I could see that he was surprised to see me at the club too.

Then as I was about to reply, a girl cut me off as she giggled, “Hi! I’m Yoongi’s girlfriend. Yoongi, mind if you introduce her to me?”

He turned to look at the girl on his side with a scowl, “Daeun… She's Y/n, she’s my friend and… we’re not  together anymore.” He said as his voice was laced with annoyance and irritation.

“Oh I was just teasing. Defensive much? Anyways, hi, Y/n! So yeah, I’m his ex.” She giggled as she reached out for my hand and aggressively shook it. “Nice to meet you!”

Geez… She’s giving me the ick. Is she high?

“Yeah, nice to meet you,” I forced a smile, my eyes flickering to Yoongi who just stood there awkwardly. Then as our situation got more awkward, I felt someone put their arm around me.

“You okay, babe?” Taehyung smirked down at me and I could feel Jimin was suppressing his laugh beside me.

My heart flutters at his sudden action. Amused and surprised by his ridiculous approach. 

“Hands off, or Imma kick your ass,” I muttered so that only he could hear.

Taehyung raised his hands in a mocking surrender before pulling away. I excused myself before going to the bar and I could feel that the guys followed me. Before they could even ask about anything earlier, I cut them off.

“Don’t,” my tone was firm, giving them a death stare. Poor guys just wanted to help… or gossip. I ordered the same drink from the bartender. As he handed me the alcohol, I drank straight half of it. Thankful that regardless of its strong liquor content, it’s sweet enough making it bearable to drink. With this third drink for the night, I already felt lightheaded, and the loud music added a buzzing sensation to my head. 

“He-hey…” Jimin reached out to prevent me from drinking it straight but failed to do so. “Y/n, what’s going on? You’re drinking too much.” His voice was laced with confusion and worry.

I just casually waved him off with a drunken flick of my hand as I giggled. The liquor is starting to kick hard on me. “I’m fineeee. What do you mean??”

“I think we should take her home,” Taehyung said beside me as he brushed off a strand of hair on my face.

“No.” I slammed my fist on the table that made me hiss. Tears threatened to fall as the alcohol messed with my head. “M-my hand hurts…”

The drunken state of me made the two exasperatedly sigh. They weren’t really used to seeing me like this since I’m more of the “composed” friend in the group. Then as I dramatically sniffed, I heard someone clear their throat that made me turn towards them. 

At that moment… I didn’t know whether I was flushed because of the alcohol flowing in my veins or… because of the man standing in front of me.

With poor coordination, I stepped closer to him, grinning from ear to ear, my eyes were droopy and the feeling of adrenaline washed over me. “Min Yooooonngi-shii. Why are you hanging out with an… ex? Like… how did she become your ex? She’s so freaking annoying. She was like nye nye nye nye I'm his ex. She was… Gooshhhh!!” I exclaimed as more words came out of my mouth became slurry and out of context.

“Anyways, you look saauurrr hott tonight, don’t you know that? Gosh, Min Yoongi. You’ll be the death of me.” I said as I almost stumbled but I gripped his arms before it could even happen. I gently gave his biceps some squeeze as I giggled, “Whoa… Can you choke me with this?” I bluntly said as I gave him a blank face.

I could tell that Yoongi was taken aback by my question (more like a statement) while the two choke on their laughs—obviously enjoying the drama.

“I uh…” Yoongi stammered with his words and rubbed his nape. Even with my foggy head, I could tell that his cheeks had a faint tint of pink.

That again…

With a cheeky smile, I poked his cheeks. “You’re brush—blushing… aren’t you? You always do that when you get shy. Cute.” 

My giggles turned into sobs not so soon after. My face was buried on his chest as I bawled my eyes out for no reason. I felt his hand gently pat my back as I cried. I looked up at him with hazy eyes. Our surroundings fade into a blur, leaving just the two of us. “Yoongi… I… I-i… I like-” Before I could even finish my sentence, I puked all over him.

His eyes widened and so did mine. Tae and Jimin walked towards us with a panic painted all over their faces. The other people in the club were too drunk and occupied to even notice.

“Fuck, Y/n… Not cool,” Taehyung cringed at the sight of us.

Panic took over me as I tried to wipe it off his shirt, not even wincing at the feeling of my own vomit on my hands. “S-sorry… I didn’t mean… Fuck.” Tears well up in my eyes as I look at Yoongi. 

Despite what I did, Yoongi’s composure stayed calm. His eyes flickered with concern on me instead.

“Y/n, stop,” Jimin held my arms as he pulled me back. I then instinctively wiped my hand on my clothes which made Jimin look at me with disgust and worry. “Gross… Come on, let’s get you home.”

WIthout even thinking, Yoongi chimed in, “Can you guys even drive? You both look drunk.” I could hear the protectiveness in his voice. Like he suspects something’s gonna bad happen to me if he leaves me with two men.

“We’ll just take an uber,” Jimin firmly replied while still steadying me in his hold.

“I could just take her instead.” Yoongi argued—despite being drenched with my vomit, he still insisted.

A part of me wants to go with Jimin and Tae since even with my drunken state, I feel the humiliation creeping up on me. However, a part of me also wants to go with Yoongi instead since his house is close to mine—less hassle for the two.

Since Yoongi was insisting, I let him take me instead, “It’s fine, Jimin. We’re neighbors and his house is just across mine and he’s also my doctor—I mean, was. So, I think you can entrust me to him.” I let out a soft giggle, the alcohol is still fucking up with my head.

“You were seeing a doctor? For what?” Jimin frowned and I felt his grip on me tighten a bit.

“Depression and shit? Yeah, my mind was just too fucked up so I went to see one. You know, so that I could feel a lil better after killing my own father.” I casually shrugged as I wiped the remnants of my puke off my face—unbothered by his shocked look he was giving me. His hold on me loosened as he found no words to reply.

“Look, I’ll take her home, don’t worry.” Yoongi said before stepping in closer, pulling me away from Jimin.

The alcohol was still kicking in which explains why I was giggling while bidding the two goodbyes. “Bye byeeee. Go home safe, okaayyy?? Pew pew,” I imitated a gun firing at them as Yoongi dragged me out of the club. 

Once we’re inside his car, I let out an exasperated sigh. “Gosh, you stink.” I gave him a dramatically disgusted look.

“Well, thanks to a certain someone,” He smiled mockingly as he turned on the engine.

In the middle of the ride, I started asking questions that he found ridiculous and amusing—mostly ridiculous.

“Where are we going?”

“To your house.”

“Why?”

“Because we both stink.”

“Why?”

“Because we just do.”

And as he was preparing himself to answer another ‘Why’ question, I caught him off guard by asking another topic.

“Why were you with your ex on the dance floor?”

 He hesitated for a moment before giving in and answering my question.

“She dragged me.”

“So… you really go to a club with an ex?”

“I wasn’t with her in the first place. I was with the guys then it happened that she was there too.”

My brain processed his words slowly. “Hmm… not convincing enough…” I mumbled more to myself than him.

“How long have you guys dated?” I asked out of curiosity. My voice has a hint of jealousy in it and by the way he was suppressing his smirk, I could tell he felt it too.

“For three years. Met in college and… things happened.”

I scoffed as I drifted my gaze from him and turned it towards the window instead. “Whatever. I didn't ask for your history with her…” I mumbled.

As the ride went on, I felt my lids heavier until I let myself sleep in his car.

I jolt awake with my head pounding, dry mouth and a throbbing ache all over my body. Regardless of that discomfort, I felt my bed more comfy than usual and a hint of the smell of lavender spread through the air. Slowly, I opened my eyes—vision adjusting as I tried to recollect myself.

Fuck… It hurts so much…

With half eyes open, I walked towards the door using my muscle memory but as I did, I bumped into a wall which made me stumble. My butt hitting the floor harshly. I let out a yelp, eyes are now wide open. 

Across me is nothing but a beige wall—mine isn’t like that. Anxiety creeped in and I stood up immediately, looking at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Shit shit… Where am I?

Looking down, I observed the clothes that I’m wearing. These aren’t mine. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself as I was about to lose my sanity. Everything about last night… the dance… the encounter… the vomit…

Oh the vomit…

I cringed at the thought of the mess I made last night. Also remembering the fucked up things that I said—especially the time my mouth slipped and it kept yapping… Gosh I wanna strangle myself right now. Stupid mouth.

Still puzzled about where I am, I searched for my belongings. Phone, bag, clothes from last night. Anything I could find. I felt a bit hopeless when I found none. I searched every part of the room but it was nowhere to be found.

I walked towards the door and stepped outside. The soft click of the knob sent a shiver down my spine. I walked further down the hall until I reached the living room—one I knew all too well. Relief washed over me as I kept walking.

If Yoongi took me then… why here? My house is literally just there.

As I reached the kitchen, I saw Yoongi cooking while muttering the rap song playing on his phone. The smell of buttery pancakes lingered in the air as some bacon was placed on a plate on the other side. He seemed to sense my presence as he turned to look at me with a smile.

“Good morning,” his voice was raspy, a clear sign that he had just woken up too.

I couldn’t reply to him as my throat was too dry. So I just nodded and smiled at him in return. Sensing that the aftermath of drinking too much was affecting me, he offered me a hangover drink. I chugged it down and I already felt at least 30 percent better.

 After recollecting myself and having the capability to talk, I asked him, “Why… am I in your house?”

Instead of replying right away, Yoongi chuckled, “You left all your belongings to the club. Your bag, phone… keys. And I didn’t know your friend’s number so…”

I nodded and let out an “ahh…” Words were still too slow to form as my head pounds. Then my mind goes back to what I’m wearing. His clothes. I knew it was familiar. From what I remember last night, I puked on him and had some on myself too… 

He must’ve cleaned me while I was sleeping. Which means… 

My eyes widened at the realization. I embarrassed myself in front of him. No—embarrass is a light term. I humiliated myself—degraded even.

I’m such a disgrace. I swear… I will never ever drink again.

It took me a lot of courage to ask him the question I’ve never thought I'd ask someone. “Did you… clean me up and change my clothes..?” My voice almost trembled at the humiliation I’m feeling.

Yoongi casually nodded and went back to cooking.

Just like that???

As much as I didn’t wanna press on the topic, uneasiness still creeped all over me. “Then you…” 

Yoongi sighed and turned his attention to me. He gave a small reassuring smile before talking, “I didn’t see anything. My eyes were closed while cleaning you and dressing you up.”

It felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest. “You know, you could’ve just woke me up…” My tone was laced with playfulness with a bit of hesitation.

He let out another chuckle before flipping the pancakes. “I tried. But you wouldn’t budge. So I just let you sleep in the guest room.”

With that in said, I didn't press the topic further more and apologized about my embarrassing acts last night.

part 9 read here^^

A/N: Too short? I think so too... Anyways, Yoongi POV tomorrow(?) :P

Taglist: @choijay-07 @sanarin @yooforeaa @this-most-assuredly-counts @minniejim @amarawayne @peacenpigeons @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @rottingbedpost @emirawht

[thefingerfuckingfemalefury]

Getting rid of the Krakoa era was, for me, my "Linkara on One More Day" moment

For those who don't get that reference, Linkara is a comics fan and reviewer who USED to be a Spider-Man fan. One More Day pissed him off so much that it didn't just kill his love for a story or era, it killed any desire he had to ever buy a Spider-Man comic again

And y'know, while I hate One More Day, I did used to think...well, he's entitled to his view, but I can't imagine a single story decision killing my love for a character or franchise SO COMPLETELY.

And then this happened

And I can honestly say

I have not bought an X-men comic since the end of the Krakoa era

And I doubt I ever will again.

Literally the ONLY X-related content I'm buying this entire year, is the Pride special that has a Mystique and Destiny story in it. Which I'm hoping, since it's not part of the X-line, and it's written by a queer writer, will actually be GOOD and, fingers crossed, will also utterly retcon that utterly godawful DOGSHIT "Mystique" miniseries that Marvel did recently which was, quite simply, four issues of mediocre crap followed by a final issue that was such garbage that it made me want to track down every single copy of this comic and burn them in a GREAT BIG FIRE

To be honest, I hate Exceptional X-Men as well. You'd think a comic with Emma Frost in it that also confirms Kate Pryde is queer at last would be my dream comic but god, I am just so utterly....UNINTERESTED in absolutely everything about it because I just utterly fucking despise everything about the themes, intent and status quo of the "From the Ashes" era

Put bluntly I don't want Mutantkind trying to re-assimilate into the flatscan world

I want Mutantkind declaring an all out guerilla war upon humanity to punish these fucking flatscans for their crimes and bring about the end of their governments, corporations and society as a whole

a new series is coming from Jeph Loeb

Seriously, it's no wonder that the X-men comics are utter fucking dogshit now when you consider we've gone from amazing talent like Al Ewing, Tini Howard, Kieron Gillen, Vita Ayala and Charlie Jane Anders

To having the books being written by talentless washed up hacks like fucking Jeph "No one gives a shit about asian people" Loeb

I mean I'd have basically no fucking interest in this series just from the concept alone but seeing that Jeph Loeb is the writer?

Fucking christ, what was Rob Lifield not available? XD

[necrotic-nephilim]

@sasheneskywalker i love when you enable me to ramble about things because oh my god do i have thoughts.

so recently, i made a post discussing the phenomena of DC x DP and DC x MLB crossovers and why they exist and part of that post was discussing how largely speaking, at least half, if not more of the Batfamily fandom doesn't read the comics. if they interact with canon DC material, it's adaptations that are their own sequestered universes and oftentimes not remotely comic accurate or seeking to be. the most obvious example is the Young Justice cartoon. i'm adding a cut to this post because it just got so long i'm so sorry.

a lot of times, when people are discussing the "why" of this oversaturation of fanon-only fandom, they blame Wayne Family Adventures. and i think, to a point, i agree WFA is responsible for a boom in this fandom. but as someone who's been in the fandom long before we had WFA, to me it's the other way around. WFA was DC's way of meeting the demand for this easy-to-get-into, easy-to-consume content about the Batfamily that predicates itself on the comics just enough to be vaguely the same characters, but has a more sitcom, slice-of-life sort of vibe so DC could profit off of this section of the fanbase that otherwise wasn't consuming its primary material. and well, it's definitely worked. not only that, but i have a weird theory that the decline in the MCU also led to the rise in the Batfamily fandom. when you consider the fan content that made the MCU popular within fandom, it's that 2012 "they all live in Avengers Tower and Thor is eating poptarts and Clint is in the vents and there are movie nights every Friday" sort of vibe. those were the fics that were a hallmark of the fandom. and as the MCU has strayed from well... quality content in general, but specifically well-thought-out crossover content where characters can have their own arcs but also exist in a wider story where they clearly care about each other, that fandom was sort of homeless. so where do you go, if you like a superhero found family where you can have villains for angst but also stick them all in one big family-like home for silly crack and have a plethora of options for gay ships? well. you go to the Batfamily. if you write a crack/fluff Batfamily genfic with silly vibes and low stakes instead of say, a fic about a very specific comic issue even if it's a popular comic, you're *going* to get more traction for the former. because the fanbase largely just isn't reading the comics.

and i feel... complicated about this. because on one hand, Don't Like Don't Read has been a tenet of my fandom experience. i'm very pro-fandom and that includes fandom content i don't like. and to an extent, i do think this sort of should apply to Batfamily fanon. i enjoy having my moments with other comic purists, giggling over exceptionally painful OOC headcanons or even facepalming in pain over some content but it is on me to not interact with that content. you don't make fandom a better place by being hostile to fans who engage with canon in ways you don't approve of. and frankly? we as comic readers are not going to get non-comic fans to read the comics by being asshats to them. no one is going to want to pick up any comic if we get a superiority complex about it. and also, i feel like we're all lying to ourselves a little bit insisting comics are so, so easy to get into. they're not. we can just all agree, they're really not. i've been single-handedly helping my sister get into comics, specifically Wonder Woman and no matter how simple i make it, i watch her get frustrated trying to understand what pre-Crisis and post-Crisis and New-52 and Flashpoint and all these things mean and what a retcon vs a reboot is and what a Crisis Event is and what the hell Diana's current backstory even *is*. sure, you can give someone a beginner list of comics to start with and slowly dip their toes in the water but sooner or later, *something* is going to confuse them. comics as a medium straight up aren't going to be everyone's cup of tea. and if someone *just* wants to read silly fluffy fanfiction about the Batfamily, i can't entirely begrudge them for not wanting to take the hours and hours out of their day to understand this medium. it's not an accessible medium to get into. "read this and this, but this run is out of print and this run wasn't collected in trades at all but also make sure you read that event in order and this is a good comic but the backstory in it is retconned and you *have* to read this it's so important but it's also really bad because the author kind of sucks" sounds. ridiculous for someone who like. just wants to read some stuff about Nightwing. sometimes, we all make reading comics sort of sound like a chore, not a hobby.

so my point is, i do extend some grace to Batfamily fanon for existing. i think my biggest gripe is, as i said in my other post, misuse of tags (if you're not creating content about comics, maybe you don't need the comics fandom tag on Ao3, just the all media types umbrella tag) and my far bigger gripe: when panels are taken out of context to support fanon only headcanons. if i could impart *anything* onto the Batfamily fandom as a comic fan it'd be this: if you haven't *read* the comic, don't spread the panel. if you don't even know what comic it's *from*, don't spread the panel. it's fine to use comic panels to discuss your headcanons, but so often i see someone spreading a comic panel from a comic they haven't read, and when asked where it's from, they can't source it. a silly example that comes to mind is a post going around, taking a panel where Dick, in his internal monologue goes "here comes the sun. do do do do." and the post is claiming it's from him getting buried alive. when that panel comes from Nightwing (1996) #140, and he gets buried alive in Nightwing (1996) #127, two completely different moments frankensteined together. if you're going to not read the comics, that's completely fine, but unless you're sure of the source and the context, panels shouldn't be spread around. i'm sick of this specifically happening to Red Robin (2009), with ppl claiming Tim has totally killed people because he blew up some of Ra's' bases, when those panels within context, make it clear he gave everyone time to escape. and in a later arc in that very comic, Tim grapples with the idea of murdering Captain Boomerang, and *specifically chooses not to*, because he doesn't agree with murder, even against the person who has hurt him the most. if you'd like to write fanfiction where Tim is pro-murder and has done some sketch things, i'm totally on board and would probably like to read it. but there's no need to pretend it's canon from a few panels you saw out of context.

beyond that, i think it's not *entirely* correct to say that fanon is harmless. whenever i see very WFA-positive posts, they often default to the argument that WFA is fun and silly, and comic fans are killjoys for not liking it. which. i think is complicated because the issue is, WFA and fanon don't exist in a vacuum. if you like WFA power to you, i don't think it's the worst thing ever, but i do think it's degrading to these characters because honestly? they feel incompetent in the webtoon. it's one thing if WFA was solely a slice-of-life sort of deal, just having silly episodes where Bruce is taking on a PTA mom or they're all fighting for the last cookie. but when WFA attempts to take on more serious plots with these characters, it *fundamentally* falls flat in understanding them. i get it, Bruce comforting Jason having a panic attack because a noise reminded him of the crowbar felt cute in a microcosm, but i'm so serious when i say that storyline destroyed how like. half of this fandom understands Jason Todd's relationship to his trauma. it doesn't understand how he reacts when he's triggered, what coping mechanisms he seeks out, and how he would handle Bruce comforting him. even if i can believe for a brief moment Jason *would* be triggered by something like that, him running and trying to hide and then getting a hug from Bruce to make it okay is just. painful. WFA needs everything to be wrapped up in a nice, neat little bow. so even when it starts to tackle interesting concepts, it makes them fall flat with its need to be soft, low stakes, hurt/comfort. there was a two-parter episode that dealt with the complicated mutual hatred/jealousy between Tim and Damian that *almost* really interested me because for once, it felt like the webtoon wanted to explore canon messy dynamics. but of course, it had to be fixed with one conversation and a hug. you don't mend the *years* of issues these characters have like that. WFA isn't in character because these characters are hyperbole cartoonified versions of themselves to fit within the medium and be a cute happy family.

because that right there, is the crux of it. the Batfamily fanon seeks to simplify the Batfamily and force them into a nuclear family. there are so many fantastic posts on here discussing how the nuclear family-ification of the Batfam is eroding decades worth of complex histories so i won't go too far into that. but what i will say is that there's this need, in the Batfamily fandom, for the Batfamily to exist as a unit. they are a *family*. (honestly i think calling it the Batfamily is a misnomer and has been for years but we're in too deep now.) they exist to each other first, and any teams or friends they have come secondary to this family unit. you can *specifically* see this demonstrated in what headcanons are becoming popular these days. i have an entire lengthy meta in my drafts about how i *loathe* the "the Batfamily meets the Justice League" genre of fanfic because it makes no *sense*. in order to have this genre of fic exist, you must operate under the assumption that no one in the League, or adjacent to the League, knows the Batfamily exists and are thus utterly shocked to discover Batman has kids. and to make *that* work, you have to strip *every single Batfamily member* of such important dynamics and friendships so you can lock them all in Gotham for their whole lives. Dick can't have the Titans, Tim can't have Young Justice, Duke & Cass can't have the Outsiders, Jason can't have the Outlaws, Damian can't have the Supersons, Babs can't have the Birds of Prey, and so on. because if they had these relationships, they would be known to the League. the Batfamily fandom doesn't care about this, it's just "silly fanfiction", it's not trying to be serious. but how can you say you like Dick Grayson as a character if you don't understand the Titans *are* his family? at some points of his life, moreso than the Batfamily even is. it is constantly repeated to us in most comics with Dick how much the Titans mean to him. he *needs* them to be who he is. the same extends to every other Batfamily member, most of which have been full League members at this point. but in fanon, that doesn't matter. the Batfamily are a sequestered unit first, and all of those side relationships are secondary and easy to toss away, if it makes your fanfic work better.

and because they have to be a unit first, you have these forced relationships that dump years of actual canon material for the sake of making them get along. the Batfamily fandom has its favorites and well. it's no secret it's usually the boys. Jason and Tim by *far* stand out as fandom faves so, their dynamic is a heavily explored one. it does matter that in canon they don't tend to get along and especially don't see each other as family. what matters is that you can push dynamics onto them. and so fanon gets all twisted up about which Robin Tim actually idolized as a kid (Dick) and what member of the Batfamily is pro-murder but still an older sibling figure to him and looks out for him (Helena, or if you want the dynamic of once tried to harm Tim but they've reconciled, Jean-Paul) in favor of who's the most popular. Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian are always going to be the standouts for popularity, but it's specifically Jason and Tim who are getting fanonized the most. and that's because really, we don't have much canon content of Tim that *isn't* the comics. for Dick you've got Young Justice (tv), for Damian you've got the DCAMU, for Jason you've sort of got the Under The Red Hood movie, but Tim sort of lingers in this limbo. (yes, he's in Young Justce (tv) and Titans (live action) but in neither is he the main character nor given much depth) so, he gets a *lot* projected onto him and has become fanonized. and even with Jason's animated movies, you don't see him interact with Tim, so people build it from the ground up how they want to see it, disregarding of canon comics. i think it's what makes him so popular in the first place- he's malleable into whatever you want or need him to be.

and of course, the fanon ignores other characters in the Batfamily it doesn't know about. i feel like you could create a tier list of Batfamily characters by their popularity, going from the fandom main characters: Tim, Jason, Bruce, Alfred, Dick, Damian. to the underrated: Steph, Duke, Babs, Cass. to the forgotten about unless they're convenient for a story: Kate, the Foxes, Helena Wayne, Carrie, Selina, Harper Row, Maps, Minhkhoa Khan. to the absolutely unknown: Helena Bertinelli, Jean-Paul Valley, Onyx Adams, the Clovers, Julia Pennyworth. it's not lost on me that the ignored characters tend to be women and people of color. which is both a canon and fanon problem, DC will continue adding interesting characters to the Batfamily, play with them for a few years, then drop them to default to the "Batboys" again. and it's a vicious cycle of the fandom only caring about the "Batboys", and thus people entering the fandom via fanon osmosis won't have content about the other characters, therefore, they won't be interested in those characters enough to create it, and it's just this ouroboros consuming itself, no matter how much canon content we have of these other characters. and it's ridiculous just how large the Batfamily is becoming because of this, which is why i'm a pre-Flashpoint fan, because then the Batfamily was contained enough to actually feel like a family with every character having nuances relationships with each other, but i digress because those thoughts could be their own post.

and the thing about fanon is it doesn't exist in a vacuum. DC has started turning the comics to accommodate for what fans are asking for, because fans will beg and beg for content they're not going to consume. Tim Drake: Robin had Tim as a coffee drinker because that's the fanon accepted headcanon. and the resolution of the recent Gotham War arc was for Bruce to buy this new manor for everyone to move in and call him. nevermind that most of these characters have their own homes and have zero reason to be moving in with Bruce. Tim had his marina in Tim Drake: Robin, Dick has Bludhaven, Cass and Steph have their little side of town in Batgirls (2022), and so on. these characters are being forced together as a unit, as one big happy family living together, to appease what non-comic fans want and it's damaging comic relationships. Robin: Knight Terrors saw Jason and Tim team up and working together, which i've seen varying opinions on but i personally despised. their interactions made zero sense for any of their canon history, but it appeases them being this close sibling relationship that fanon acts like they are. also the fears they faced in their respective knight terrors didn't make sense for either character and *only* worked as a moment of bringing them together so they could reassure each other and have this weird dreamscape bonding moment. the canon is bending itself to the will of fanon rather than building on the pre-existing complex relationships. Tim barely even gets along with his most important team in Dark Crisis: Young Justice because it seems the only important relationships the Batfamily can have is with each other. and when we do see them outside of the Batfamily, it only seems to be to relive the glory days like with World's Finest: Teen Titans, instead of developing them as they currently exist. this isn't recent in the comics, it feels like you can trace it back to the New-52, but it does feel a *lot* worse over the recent years. WFA is fine when it exists in its own bubble, but the simple truth is, DC content never exists on its own. the adaptations will reflect back onto the comics. (the damage the Young Justice cartoon has done to some characters should honestly be studied) and so it does frustrate me a bit when fanon-only or adaptation-only fans act like we're being nothing but killjoys for being frustrated with this. since they don't read the comics, they don't see how the comics are suffering as a result of this.

people argue about what's out of character for the comics they don't even read. i'm sorry, but "bad dad Bruce" is consistently canon. that man is just kind of shitty. when you take someone who has the drive he has, who has this need for the Mission first, who needs a teenager in spandex next to him to keep him off the ledge, that guy is sort of going to be a shitty father figure. he just is. not on purpose or with malice, but when you compare him to any other dad in a big DC family, he sure takes the cake. it's why characters like Oliver Queen tend to *really* fucking hate Bruce for how he treats his kids. Bruce loves fiercely, but he doesn't do well with putting that love first. and his love is a controlling one, he is very particular about controlling how others in the Batfamily are "allowed" to operate. it's what drives the wedge between him and Dick, it's why Steph is never a true daughter to him. (besides the reason of her needing to be a love interest to Tim first, anyway-) i've never understood the massive outcry of people reacting to Bruce kinda being shitty in comics they're not reading. there are some moments that get ridiculously OOC with how cartoonishly evil he is (the whole Gotham War arc and that... complicated mess with Jason) but largely if you want sitcom loving nuclear father Bruce, you have to accept that is a fanon thing, not a canon one. the Batfamily being a nuclear family in *general* is fanon. most of the "Batkids" don't actually see Bruce in a particularly fatherly light and begging for moments where he calls them his kids or they call him dad outside of incredibly specific circumstances is just OOC.

it's getting harder and harder to exist peacefully in this fandom it feels like, if you don't comply to the standard fanon has set. i'm happy people are having fun with their blorbos, even if in ways i dislike, but that "harmless fandom fun" does ripple it's way back to canon, eventually. so i end up pretty tangled with my feelings because are fans at fault for DC making these poor decisions? probably not, but it certainly feels like an unfortunate cause-and-effect situation whether at the end of the day, nobody is happy. and of course, i know some fanon-only fans are striving to be more canon accurate and care about canon dynamics more than others, but for them it's always going to be an uphill battle with the above-mentioned out-of-context panels thrown around and ever-pervasive fanon overtaking anything that's truly seeking to be canon compliant. so really, it sometimes feels like we're all losing.

[asgardian--angels]

things I wish I could relive for the first time again:

that magical window where you finish a new piece of media, having watched/read it all by yourself with no fandom contact whatsoever, and you are just so happy about it, and full of interesting theories and takeaways, and just in love with it as a gorgeous piece of art.

because I swear to god as soon as you join the fandom for anything, you're bombarded with how you're supposed to view characters and their arcs, how you're supposed to morally and ethically judge the plot and the ways it apparently failed to present the right message, and if you don't you'll either be shunned for not sharing the popular headcanons or you'll be harassed for not criticizing the source material enough.

like how is it that the fans of a piece of media are also the ones being the most negative about it? If I like a show or a movie or a book, well, I liked it. That's kind of the point. I'm actually not here to tear it apart and talk about how it didn't live up to standards other people had! I enjoyed it for what it was, and forcing myself to find negative things to say about it doesn't actually bring me more enjoyment of it or reap any benefit to me. Fandom's a double-edged sword; you want to join a community to share your love for a piece of art, and the price you pay for a modicum of joy is a mountain of negativity. that's one main reason that I never engage with fandom until I'm completely done with a show, because if I was plugged into all of that commentary and discourse during the process, I'd be completely colored by how I'm expected to interpret everything this piece of art is presenting to me without being able to even form my own opinions.