#i think this is just something that happens sometimes

[inkskinned]

i. there's this video of a guy dancing on his tiptoes. i will begrudgingly admit the song is kind of catchy actually. i don't think it's the worst song i've ever heard. he seems passionate about it. but it is embarrassing, how he's dancing.

ii. you know where this story is going, unfortunately, and so do i.

iii. three weeks ago i had to drag half a dead rabbit out of my dog's mouth. i was just recently discussing how cruel things feel lately. that the way the world is shifting feels mean. three days ago, a random woman rolled down her window to snap at me because she missed her turn. this is now routine.

iv. 11 years ago in october, i made a post about how we shouldn't make fun of people for doing brave, vulnerable things. it has over 400k notes. people - at the time - seemed to generally agree with me. we have all felt shy and insecure when we share an intimate part of ourselves. we have heard someone at a concert say "that's fucking embarrassing" and said to ourselves - oh, this person is unsafe to be vulnerable in front of. we have said i can't act like that in public. we have left our art and passion in the dark. i think there will never be enough graveyard space for the art we have killed because what if others shame me for it.

v. the thing i was bullied for in high school was because i was a "predatory lesbian." a popular girl i'd literally never spoken to just decided she didn't like me and announced i was "stalking" her. to this day i have no idea what motivated this - i think i was just shy and poor and awkward and ugly. the perfect target. what they don't really ever show in movies is how quickly it moves, how suddenly strange people in the hallways are attacking you about it. they also don't show you that the bullies get this strange ... glee out of it. like, it's fun for them. it's enrichment. everyone else is in on the joke. suck it up, kid.

vi. so far, from what i have seen, creators that stand up for the musician all seem to have the same story: when i asked why we're bullying a random guy, people actually got mad that i asked. i've had similar things happen to me when i ask for us to be less comfortable with our anonymous cruelty. when an internet stranger says "be kind, it saves lives" - people find it funny to say fuck you i hope everyone kills themselves. pages and pages of people saying the same bullshit. sitting in their little caves, eating their own humor. it's just genuinely exhausting. the natural endpoint of "cringe culture" is that even kindness is cringe-worthy.

vii. loneliness is an epidemic. but where are you going to make your community? call your representative. go back to bed about it.

viii. due to how i was raised, i am always confused by cruelty. i understand the american isolationist belief "i can do whatever i want" - sure. but why wouldn't you want to be kind? i have lived too many bad things. i cannot be the epicenter of someone else's bad dream.

ix. it's just that if we were going to bully someone relentlessly, why is it never the healthcare CEOs. why isn't it the fascists. why isn't it, like, someone who you could at least argue "deserves" it. why is it always just some guy in socks singing a pretty mid song? or a person that doesn't look like you, just, like existing.

x. it's just that i think people enjoy doing it. they want to do it because they get some kind of masturbatory release from it - like a shrug or a splinter, they all seem to say the same thing - come on, it's funny.

xi. the world is sometimes beautiful, and sometimes you make something. the world is sometimes terrible, and you are worried they won't accept what your hands can wring. you open the instagram comments and they're still saying all sorts of shit to just - like - a normal guy. and some part of you thinks: if that was me. good lord. if that was me i'd -

xii. somewhere there is a graveyard. someone is already burying their hopes and dreams.

[kissbabie]

rin gets hard when you call him rinnie ♡

rin always grumbles when you call him rinnie. but secretly, he really likes it. there’s no explanation exactly, because he’ll absolutely glare at anyone else if they were to call him that, but when it comes to you, he’ll act all annoyed while looking away with a blush. and sometimes, when you call him rinnie so sweetly, he has to hide his growing boner with a pillow or make some excuse to go to the bathroom.

and he won’t ever admit it, but he especially likes it when you two have sex, when you’re underneath him — breathless and whimpering, hands gripping onto his biceps as you let out soft whines, “rinnie.. haaahh..”

the nickname, whispered so soft and sweet, sends a sharp jolt straight to his gut. he groans, and he fucks you just a little bit harder. his body moves like he’s chasing something that only you can give him.

“shut up, don’t call me that.” he grumbles. he sounds pissed but he’s flushed all the way to the tips of his ears, biting his bottom lip hard as his rhythm falters just the slightest bit when you wrap your arms around his neck.

“rin, rin … rinnie, i can’t—!” you’ve already cum so much. his body is flush against yours, your tits pressing onto his chest as he whispers straight into your ear, although this time he isn’t telling you to shut up for calling him that ridiculous nickname.

“feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and low, fucking into you like he’ll fall apart if he stops. “you like calling me that while i’m inside you like this?”

you try to answer, but you’re so dazed that the only thing that comes out is a tiny moan. and you look so pretty rin thinks, with your lips parted and drool at the corner of your mouth as you whine out for him. you feel him twitch inside, breath stuttering, but even after he spills into you, hips shaking, he just keeps going.

“just one more,” he pants, kissing your forehead.

but really, he’s lying. he won’t admit that the reason he wants to keep going is to hear you whine out choruses of “rin, rin, please—! feels so good, y’re so big—!”, and to hear you call him rinnie again as you’re all fucked dumb, him being the only thought in your head.

and when you keep whispering “rinnie”, looking at him with teary eyes and a pout, he just gets the urge to keep going.

for this req

a/n: i changed my username from fairbabie to kissbabie, just wanted to clarify so nobody got confused wondering what happened to my acc or had trouble finding it. also i’m really late but thank you for 1.2k!!! i love you all ♡

[hairmetal666]

Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words “Hawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.

Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, can’t hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.

He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore. 

It’s just. He thought. Hawkins hadn’t exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this show’s focus. 

But enough, apparently. Obviously. 

Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble. 

For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. It’s not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That there’s no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed? 

Hellfire has been his companion through it all and now—now—

Eddie’s talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry. 

He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Lover’s Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theories—none close to the truth. 

The thing is. He’s become—fond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesn’t care about cryptids, isn’t interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, it’s the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. They’re funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddie’s voice makes him a little melty? Well, that’s between him and 3am. 

Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.

They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."

And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."

"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.

"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."

"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"

He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.

The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.

"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--

"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.

"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."

"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."

"Eddie..."

"What do you know about Hawkins?"

"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."

"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.

"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"

"I'm being serious."

"It's cute."

"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."

"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."

"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."

Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"

"Nothing," too quick.

"Are you lying to me?"

"I can't say."

"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."

"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."

"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."

"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."

"What's stopping you?"

He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.

"NDAs."

Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.

That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--

The line goes dead.

"Fuck."

He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.

"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.

"Called into a radio show about monsters."

The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.

"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.

---

Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.

He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.

It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.

It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.

Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.

He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.

There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.

"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.

"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.

A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.

Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"

"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."

He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.

Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.

His heart stops.

"Eddie--"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Run."

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

I think cnc Tumblr porn helped me understand consent better. Like coercion is a brand of cnc, so when I noticed my partner said "I think" instead of yes, and arms pulled away even though other parts were responding, it reminded me of coercion cnc, which lead to a stop and discussion. I might be a bit of a horny fuck, (nothing wrong with that, just inconvenient right now), but is there a way to turn down arousal/libido? Depression, stress, and relationship issues seem to be the big ones on Google, but. Um. Yeah. I'm also worried that things I wouldn't put much weight in could be coercion. Like if I ask about sex they'll feel a time limit on when they have to say yes, or cuddling with them while asking will pressure them towards saying yes.

hi anon,

I'm gonna say first and foremost. let's maybe work on starting a new paragraph when we introduce a new idea. because some of these swerves hit like trucks and you gotta warn a bitch.

anyway, let's talk about it!

no, there's not a reliable way to decrease your libido. that happens to a lot of people via mental or physical health problems and stress, as you noted, as well as in response to some medications or other things that cause hormonal shifts. it's not really something that can be purposefully induced, no matter how irksome being horny may be. life is a series of annoyances.

re: your thoughts on coercion - listen, man, you're going down a bad rabbit hole here. do we want to follow this thought to its logical conclusion? then asking for anything is coercion, because it places pressure on the other person to say yes or risk disappointing you.

when my wife asks me if I want to watch an episode on Once Upon a Time with dinner, he really wants me to say yes even though OUAT sucks so bad that it makes my brain hurt. sometimes I say yes, because I'm in a good mood and I like to make him happy and also because I post OUAT recaps on patreon and I need that sweet sweet #content. but other times I say no! and that's okay with both of us, because I know my wife is a big girl who can handle not always getting exactly what he wants and he knows that I'm not saying no because I hate him or because I think he was being an inconsiderate asshole for asking. and, most importantly, when I say yes he knows I'm not doing that because I feel pressured to say yes but because I'm genuinely fine with it.

if you ask about almost anything there's an expectation to answer eventually. it's entirely reasonable that you would be thinking about sex while cuddling and present the option. if you don't feel that you can trust your partner to say no when they don't really want to do something, then that's something you need to talk about with them! but there also comes a point when you have to believe someone when they say yes rather than perpetually second guessing them.

[the-bi-writer-blog]

reblogging again bc I have a couple uncommon disorders (~1 %) and it always astounds me that (some) doctors think that “rare” and “non existent” are synonyms.

First off in general, we should all start using “uncommon” instead of “rare,” bc even though their dictionary definitions match, their colloquial definitions definitely don’t.

If something is “uncommon”, you don’t see it every day, but it’s not a total surprise when you do. I don’t get birthday presents everyday but that doesn’t make them “rare,” just infrequent.

Aside from that, though, I H A T E the way that some people will repeatedly and willfully denying the reality in front of their own face - and they do it by saying that “rare” stuff doesn’t matter. Case in point, here’s a word-for-word conversation I recently had with my building’s manager:

Me: “Hey so, the laundry room is flooded. Can you fix that?” Him: “Oh that happens sometimes.”

Me: “Yes, sometimes. Like right now.”

Him, already unlocking his door to escape the conversation: “It’s only sometimes though, not all the time. It hasn’t happened since last winter.”

Me: “Again, it happened to me today. Like an hour ago. There are still large puddles on the floor as we speak.”

Him, dismissive: “It doesn’t usually happen though, so I’m not worried. (Goes into his office without another word.)

Me: “??? ????!?!!!!!!!”

.

So anyway. That’s what it feels like talking to doctors about uncommon disorders lol. It feels like a hellish groundhog-day version of:

Me: “I am having these specific symptoms at this specific point in time.”

Uncaring doctor: “Okay but that’s rare though :///////“

Me: “Okay but???? It is happening tho??????”

Ugh. It makes me want to _scream._

Hot tip for anyone who’s chronically ill and stuck in this cycle tho: I’ve had _immense_ success seeking out medical _students_ instead of normal doctors. (Like residents who are fresh from med school and practicing to get their full license.)

I’ve had some *fantastic* recent experiences with medical students that frequently involve them believing in me, listening to the full story, asking questions, and doing research to fill in their knowledge gaps. It’s been SO, so refreshing!

10/10 do recommend if you’re a fellow Chronically Ill who’s being written off as if “rare” just means “imaginary.”

"this thing is rare and only affects 1% of the population" dude that's 80 million people can you shut up

[marvelwitchergilmore]

There For You

Summary: Joaquin Torres x fe!Reader -> All your life you've told people you're 'fine'. So what happens when Joaquin sees through the mask?

Disclaimer: A lot of angst with a splash of fluff here and there. Dealing with feelings of guilt and high walls, Joaquin shows up for the reader, homemade meals, hurt/comfort fluff, Joaquin sees reader, happy ending.

I’m fine. 

That was a sentence you were used to saying. If there was a book published after everyone had died, listing the amount of times you’d said a word or a phrase; I’m fine would be a top contender. 

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Well…”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, I promise,” you laugh.ed. “Honestly, it’s okay.”

“How’s your day been?” 

“It’s been-”

“Well, I’m just about to…”

Fine was something you’d always been. Mostly because you had to be. You couldn’t really remember when it all started, just that it did. And now it couldn’t change. You’d tried once, not being fine. It didn’t go so well. 

“How’ve you been?”

Silence. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve been good. Yeah, it’s kinda been-”

“Can I ask your advice on something real quick? It-It’ll only take like a second.”

That second took three days. And it was still a conversation talked about months later. 

So, after that, you put the smile back on. You’d tried to sit up, only to slouch again a few seconds later, and you plastered on your smile. If anyone asked, you were fine. At the very least, you were a variation. Okay. Good. Well. 

And them? They needed your help. Or advice. Or needed you to just listen. You needed to take in their information so they could get it off their chest and you were to keep your own to yourself. Once they’d actually asked you to. 

“How was work?” They asked you as you sat down, your entire body ready to just cry itself to sleep. 

“Not great.” 

They shook their head and sat back. “Oh, no. Actually.” They’d heard the tone in your voice. The last time they heard that tone, it hadn’t been something great. “Can you not tell me? It’s just, I don’t like hearing about that kinda stuff.” They meant you work. So, pulling your feelings back in, you turned your head away and looked back towards the window. “But, I have a new update. So…”

Again, you’d plastered on a smile. You didn’t have the energy for the argument that would come if you shook your head and said no. You also didn’t want to be alone at that moment. So, if sitting through a variation of the same conversation you’d heard more than a thousand times was what you had to go through to avoid an argument where inevitably you’d apologise, then you’d sit through it. 

Some days it felt like if someone asked more than once…maybe even pushed you for the truth, you’d collapse right there. You’d cry and tell them everything. And feel completely guilty about it afterwards. People didn’t need your troubles burdening them. People needed you. As a friend, as a shoulder to cry on, as an advice service, as a soundboard. They needed you. 

Even when your voice notes went unheard, when your texts were skimmed over and left behind in favour of someone else's conversation. It was in the small hours of the night the guilt would creep up on you. What if they’d been dying to get it off their chest all day and you’d just interrupted them. Maybe they’d skipped over it, but it still interrupted them. They’d already said they didn’t want to know. 

They didn’t need to know. 

Because you were fine. 

So, you got up. You answered the text messages, you listened to the voice notes, you found time in your busy schedule to go to lunch or grab a drink with them. And each time, you’d come back home, your words still with you. 

“Alone again,” you sighed as you sank into your sofa. “Alone again.”

Sometimes, you were glad to be alone. It meant the weight on your chest was a little less full of guilt. That you’d still wanted to tell them things when you knew they didn’t really want to listen. That, deep down, you just wanted to leave and let them keep talking. It was a lot to take on sometimes. Thankfully, some days, you didn’t really notice the weight. Not until weeks later when it would crash back over you. 

In your own way, you’d screamed for help before. You’d been drowning. But nobody had heard you. They’d pointed out that you weren’t you and that you needed to apologise. So you had done. If more than one person was saying it, it meant it had to be true, right? 

It took a while, but you’d succeeded. You’d finally become the person they wanted again. Inside, most days, it was like being held together by glue and duct tape. You kept the mask up, for as long as you could, to give you time to replace it with stronger stuff; wood, nails, bricks, metal. If they didn’t see you still fixing it, they wouldn’t make such a big deal about it. They wouldn’t blame you for being the person you’d become who wasn’t you. 

And eventually, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the wood and metal and the mask you’d been wearing. 

Everything would be normal for them. And you’d be able to still keep everything in, without the walls bending and breaking like cardboard. 

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

“Morning, Y/n.”

You looked up and smiled from your desk. “Morning, Cap.”

“Hey, Y/n.” Joaquin followed Sam. 

“Morning. You guys okay?”

They both nodded. “Hill just gave us our debrief. Told us to come and find you.”

You nodded. “Yes.” From your desk, you pulled out two files and handed them over. “The mission is on a little island, just south of the European continent. We’ve had confirmation of sightings of ex-hydra agents in local areas.” 

You pushed the diagram from your tablet onto the projector screen. “They have been here, here and here.” The spots formed a triangle on a nearby coast. “We also know one is confirmed to have once been affiliated with the flag-smashers.”

You gave them both the rest of the debrief. “Barton will be flying you out tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? Why tomorrow?”

“Because our sources tell us their secret shipment isn’t going to arrive until then and if we don’t catch them with it, then there is a chance our case may not hold well enough. Hill doesn’t want to take the risk of it falling through.”

After thirty minutes, they both had everything they needed to know. 

“Get your rest now, Torres. We’re gonna need it for tomorrow.”

“Aye, aye, Cap. Where you headed?”

Sam turned around as he walked out of the door. “Got a date.”

You leaned over the desk. “Bucky and your sister have a date!”

“Same thing!”

“Sam! Leave them alone!”

“Hey, they brought this on themselves. I’m just making sure nothing…untoward is gonna happen.”

You sighed. “Bucky is over a hundred years old. His flirting skills remain in the 40s.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.”

As Sam left leaving both you and Joaquin with laughing smiles on your faces, Torres turned around to you. 

“You got much on tonight?”

You shrugged. “Not a lot. Why?”

“Wanted to see if you’d like to come with me later.”

“Do you need my help?” 

Even for Joaquin, that question fell off your lips far too quickly. 

He shook his head. “No. Just me and the others were gonna catch a film and some dinner. Wanted to see if you’d like to come?”

“Oh…” The all too familiar guilt crushed your lungs. They didn’t need your help. “No, no. It’s okay. You guys have fun, though.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, your smile feeling a little forced even for you. “Yes. Of course. You…go and have fun.”

“Okay. But the invitation is still there so if you change your mind…”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

Joaquin didn’t know what it was, but something made him stay right where he was. He could have left. Gone home, napped, got ready to go out. But something made him stay. 

“Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

He shrugged a little. “It’s nothing. Just…have you been sleeping?”

“Have I…” His question took you by surprise. “Y..yes. I’m sleeping.”

“Properly? Like…eight hours, REM sleep, all that jazz?”

You tilted your head a little, looking at him as if he had just grown a second head. “Not…not all the time, but that’s mostly down to my neighbours. Is there something you want to tell me? Are you okay?”

Joaquin nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. But you’re sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Okay. Alright then.”

“Alright.”

“See you later?”

You nodded. “Maybe.”

He didn’t see you later. But by the looks of it, he had a good time anyway. Kate’s instagram story showed you as much. But he did see you the day after. You were there, readying the jet and some of the equipment before him and Sam were about to jet off. 

“Keep your earpiece in-”

“At all times. I know.” Joaquin and Sam repeated after you. 

“I’ll be tracking you guys every step of the way. If you need my help, just call out. I’ll be able to hear you. And remember, we need confirmation of the shipment before you start bringing people in.”

“Got it.”

“Good luck, guys.”

“Thanks, Y/n.”

Almost twenty four hours later, they were back along with confirmation of the shipments and a dozen people in custody. 

Thankfully, the paperwork after it kept you busy for a couple of weeks. For as much as you wanted to say yes each time you were asked to attend something, the paperwork gave you a real excuse so they didn’t think you were avoiding them. Because you would have loved to have said yes. But after years and years of only ever being needed, it was hard to grasp the concept of being wanted. Which part of you still didn’t believe. 

But, as the months and missions went on, things started to slip. Not by much but you could feel it. Yet, somehow, the mask managed to stay up. 

Unknown to you, however, Joaquin saw right through it. He saw through it all. The masks, the reassurance, the mystery. He knew you cared. A lot. People always knew they could go to you. They always did. Joaquin also knew Sam had tried to talk to you a few times. 

He’d seen something in you. Something that he saw in a lot of people he’d helped. But after his third attempt, he decided to let you come to him when you were ready. 

“You know, if you ever want to talk-”

You smiled, laying a hand on his upper arm as you passed him. “Sam. I promise you, I’m okay. If I ever need someone to talk to, I’ll come to you. But, seriously, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay. I promise.”

Joaquin, however, wasn’t as patient. Maybe with everyone else, he could be. But not with you. 

Not when he was visibly seeing the changes in you that you were somehow managing to hide from everyone. 

It had started with the first sleepless night you’d all seen for the first time in a while. A level seven threat just on the outskirts of the city. Almost everyone was called in to help. It had been a lot. You’d been put through a lot. 

Despite working mostly on the tech side of things, you were still a fully qualified field agent. 

When everything had finally died down and people could head home before the six o’clock news briefing later that day, you’d stayed awake. You’d combed through everything you could, you’d brought up every piece of CCTV footage, you’d gone through every statement you could in order to piece together a coherent explanation that wouldn’t scare the rest of the country into a coma. 

“Have you even gone home?” Joaquin asked you just as the clock turned to read 21:03. 

You swivelled in your chair, a little quieter than usual. “Not yet.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you home.” 

That was the first time you hadn’t fought someone who was trying to help you. Joaquin drove you home and when you got inside, your phone started ringing. And you just let it ring, and ring and ring. For a moment, your heart held out hope. Maybe your friend was calling in to check on you. But from the texts that followed…they weren’t. 

You’ll never guess what’s just happened…

Over the next six weeks, Joaquin saw the changes. They were subtle. He had to hand it to you. You were clever at hiding it. 

“From the amount of coffee you’d been drinking, you shouldn’t still be yawning.”

You chuckled. “Must be decaf.”

There was a drop in your expression from the happy smile it had held a few seconds earlier. Then it was quickly replaced with a defeated, yet somehow accepted, expression. Whoever you were texting, you were happy to help. But wishful of something else nonetheless. 

Then he saw it in the way he made you jump. Or how anyone made you jump. 

It was rare someone ever managed to scare you. You were observant. Saw things way before other people did. So when he walked up to your desk, with you facing him, and he saw you jump when you finally looked up, something else flicked inside of him. 

It was like each individual light switch was slowly turning on one by one each time he saw you. You were tired. It wasn’t decaf because he saw you pour directly from the pot of regular he’d just made. The hopeful then saddened expressions when looking at your phone. The distant look in your eyes. He didn’t know where you’d go, but sometimes you’d just completely disappear. The tired pull of your body into and out of work. The declined invitations. The reassurance that they wouldn’t want you there. The true acceptance of your own statement, no matter how many times he’d tell you it was wrong. The glassy look in your eyes when someone asked for a second time if you were okay. The even brighter glassy look in your eyes when your friend surprised you at work and ate lunch with you. 

She’d asked you how you were and you’d told her some things. It hadn’t been much. Just paperwork and research. She’d asked questions to know more, but before you could get to any kind of topic that didn’t come with a  generic answer, she’d moved on. Brushed it off and the brief thankful look in your eyes that you’d finally be able to tell someone something was gone. 

He’d watched you help others, talk to them, be their soundboard, look out for them, take their comments that even you had noticed had been a subtle dig at you. So, when the day came that you stepped away for a small break, Joaquin went in search of you. 

You were ten seconds away from crying for eight hours straight. You were exhausted. Anytime anyone said anything to you, nothing seemed to register. You could hear the voice in the back of your mind of people telling you that you needed to apologise. But that just frustrated you more because you didn’t know who to and for what. Just that you needed to. You’d been trying to sleep at night and you knew others could see it. You were just grateful that they accepted you had noisy neighbours. Only, in the three years that you had new neighbours, they’d never once woken you up. 

The image of the unplayed voice notes kept flashing through your head. But they needed you. They needed someone to vent to, or someone to get advice from, or someone to brag to. They didn’t like doing the same, but it was okay. It had to be okay. 

Some people could have full lives, but lonely existences? You had friends, you had family. There shouldn’t be any reason why you should feel like this. Maybe that’s what you had to apologise for? They knew you were grateful for their help when it was given. And, despite the times their promise you could always come to them felt empty, they knew you were grateful for their offer, right? 

A knock came to the single bathroom door. “Y/n? You okay in-”

“I’m fine. I’ll be out in a second,” you called out from inside. Your eyes shut tight and your fist was against your forehead. Quickly, you turned around and ran the tap, splashing your face a few times, trying to ignore the dizziness inside your head. 

“Hey, I was getting worried-”

Joaquin saw your legs buckle just before you caught yourself on the frame of the door. “S-Sorry. Lost my footing. I just needed a second to-”

From your grip on the door and the tremble in your legs, you were finding the energy to move forwards without completely falling over. Then he saw your face. The tired eyes, the wetness to your lashes, the tear stains at the bottom of your cheek. 

Then it was the shaking in your fingers as you lifted your hand for a moment but quickly replaced it. Your chest was moving at an uneven rate and finally, your hand slipped. 

“Whoa, hey, okay, okay. Come with me.”

With one arm around your back, Joaquin helped carry you over to a nearby chair before he crouched down in front of you. “Hey, look at me. How are you feeling?”

“I…I’ll be fine.”

Your eyes were still closed but Joaquin shook his head. “Okay, no. I’m taking you home.”

“Honestly-”

“No buts. I’m taking you home. When was the last time you got any decent sleep?”

You were trying to think of when but just as you did, you were finding it difficult to find the words. The voice in your head was too loud; you’re fine, you’ll get better, this shouldn’t be happening, get over yourself, people have it worse, others need your help, others need his help.

“I-I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to worry about me. You-you should go. I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll call a cab-”

“Don’t try and fight me on it. I’m going with you.”

If you had the breath or the energy to, you would have done. But you didn’t. So, two hours later you were freshly showered with your hair washed since the smell of anti-bac from the doctor Joaquin had called had been knocking you even more dizzy and nauseous. 

It had surprised you when you’d come out of your bathroom to find warm and fresh clothes laid out on your bed. A pair of shorts and a t-shirt – fresh from the dryer, despite you having picked them out of your dresser before you went for a shower. And a sweater. It wasn’t yours. But the familiar warm scent of it let you know it was Joaquin’s. 

Put it on to keep you warm

You did as the note said and by the time you pulled it over your head, another smell drifted through your home. Downstairs, you found Joaquin cooking. 

“You really don’t have to stay-”

“I’m staying. You’re run down and you need someone to look after you.”

“I’ll be okay. I’ve looked after myself before-”

“And now you don’t need to.”

“Joaquin.”

He just stopped and looked at you. “You do everything for everyone else. And in the last six weeks alone you’ve done that on minimal sleep. You need someone to take care of you, and I want to. You can keep fighting me on it, but I’m staying. And before you say anything – you do not need to apologise. Not to me, not to anyone else. People get sick and people let others take care of them, it’s just how it works.”

That had been the sixth time he’d told you you didn’t need to apologise. So, to avoid saying it again, you changed the subject. 

“What are you making?”

You came to find out Joaquin had ran down to the corner store whilst your clothes were warming in the dryer. He’d made you one of his family’s recipes. A full meal – one that his mother swore could cure everything. A bad tummy, a bad day, a broken heart. It was a cure to everything. 

“Thank you.”

Joaquin smiled and for the most part, you both ate in silence. But you could feel his eyes on you. Watching your movements, probably noticing the slight shakiness still in your hands. 

“I’m gonna stay the night.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I want to know. See it with my own eyes that you’re sleeping.”

“You do realise how creepy that sounds right?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, that does kinda sound- you know what I mean. I want to know if you've actually had a decent night's sleep.”

“I’ve only got the one bed at the minute-”

“I can take a couch-”

“Or you could stay with me.”

A slightly awkward silence replaced the once slightly comfortable one. 

“Sorry. I…you probably…I should have- I’m sor-”

“Do you want me to stay with you?” The look on Joaquin’s face was nothing but complete softness. There was no harsh judgement in his eyes or his voice. There was no mockery or fakeness. It was nothing but just pure…

Care. 

And somewhere between the awkward silence and the caring gaze, your voice answered before your brain even had a chance to drag you back under the water and raise the mask. 

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Okay. Such a tiny word with such a heavy meaning. 

Ninety minutes, a full meal that hadn’t been microwaved, a loaded dishwasher and two sitcom episodes later, you were brushing your teeth before finally getting into bed. 

Joaquin lay beside you. At first he’d offered to remain on the outside of the covers. But you didn’t want him to get cold. So, with a quiet smile, he’d pulled the other side of the covers back. Your phone had started blowing up with different text messages from different people but one in particular was more incessant than the rest. 

And once Joaquin knew the texts weren’t important – mostly from your reaction after you’d read them as they came up as notifications, he’d taken your phone from you and turned it off completely. 

It was the first time he’d seen you relax in ages. 

Not by much, but it was a start. Besides, if there was a real emergency, they’d call him, too. Not that he’d let you anywhere near work for the next few days at the very least. You needed a break. 

Finally, you got into bed and felt your body, despite how stiff it felt, relax into the mattress. 

“I don’t know if I can fall asleep.”

Joaquin didn’t say anything. All he did was move a little closer to you before taking your hand in his and resting two of your fingers against his wrist. 

“Count my pulse.”

“Does that work?”

Joaquin nodded. “Whenever I was on deployment and couldn’t sleep, this is what I would do.”

You took his word for it. And for the first time in almost six weeks, you fell asleep long before the clocks touched midnight. And somewhere in the night, your fingers had gone from holding his wrist, to his hand to suddenly being held completely by him. 

When you finally woke up in the morning, the day before was slow to come back to you. The panic, the dizziness, the sickness, Joaquin, the doctor, the sweater, the meal, and…the pulse. You felt warm. And when you finally opened your eyes, you found yourself tangled with the very man who had helped you. 

The very man who had stayed. 

And for a short moment, you closed your eyes and leaned into him again. And, almost as if he did it all the time, Joaquin’s arms held you closer before you felt his lips brush the top of your head. And you both stayed like that for a long time. You were certain you’d fallen asleep again. 

But Joaquin stayed. He didn’t try to move, he didn’t attempt to leave or wake you up. 

He stayed and held you. 

“How’d you sleep?”

“Better than I have done in a while.”

Lifting his hand, he carefully brushed the stray hairs from the front of your face to behind your ear. “Good.” Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your forehead. “Good.”

After a few beats of silence, you spoke again. “I know you told me not to fight you on it-”

“Y/n.”

You held onto his arm as you looked up at him. “No, no. I’m not gonna…I just wanted to say thank you.”

Joaquin was quiet as he looked at you, studied you. “You’re welcome, but you never have to thank me for staying.”

“Not many people have. Not many people noticed I needed someone to stay.” The true answer was that before Joaquin, nobody had stayed. But that seemed too sad to say out loud. And you had a feeling he already knew the true answer. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay-” It was almost like the tears before the tears. That feeling of your chest catching onto itself and the rush of blood to your heart to try and keep it at a normal pace. 

Joaquin shook his head. “No, it’s not. You’ve done everything for everyone. They should have noticed. And I’m sorry for not noticing sooner.”

You just shook your head lightly, “It’s not your fault. I kept it hidden.”

“Why did you?”

You swallowed, looking down at his chest, your fingers tracing the letters on his t-shirt. “S’ easier, I guess. You get so used to being jumped over that eventually you stop being a hurdle.”

You could feel Joaquin’s hands on your back, his thumbs slowly tracing back and forth. 

“I have tried…before. I’ve tried talking to people, telling them about my day but then they’ve asked me to not tell them. Sometimes they’ll say they can’t handle it and that’s not their fault. So, I’ve kept it all to myself. And I know I can handle a lot. It’s not like other people’s problems are as big as what I’ve faced at work…it kinda just adds up. And I don’t know what to do after that.”

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. 

“I know Sam’s asked me a few times to talk to him but I can’t seem to shake the guilt. He spends his entire time helping the world. You, too. I should be able to handle…all this. I know I’m only human but it just feels like…it feels like I’ve gotten this far. Why can’t I keep going?”

Joaquin was quiet when he spoke to you, his voice soft and without abruptness or judgement. 

“Because even the strongest humans need a break.” Joaquin pulled you a little closer to him. “You are extraordinary, and you’ve been there for everyone who has ever needed you. But you also need to take time for yourself. Your job is stressful enough without adding everyone else’s problems on top. And the fact that people have told not to talk…I am begging you, Y/n. Talk. Tell someone what’s going on. Talk to Sam, talk to me. I want to hear you. The good, the bad, the ugly, all of it.”

For the first time, not only were you hearing someone say those words, but you were also hearing them mean it. 

“Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Looking at him, you felt the tears come forward. And for the first time you didn’t fight them. Leaning up, you held onto Joaquin and he held you right back, tight to his chest. 

Joaquin felt the panic pass through you and eventually leave, he felt the tears falling onto his shirt and he just held you closer. You both knew you wouldn’t be ‘fixed’ at the end of the day, but that was something that helped. 

You’d felt yourself break once before and your family had noticed, but from their words and their hugs and their actions when you finally moved again, they expected you to be right back to normal. So you’d put the mask back on. 

But not now. 

You didn’t have to.

And for as scary as that was, it was also freeing. 

You and Joaquin talked some more after the tears had slowed and a silence had passed. And then he listened some more over breakfast. Eventually, he decided to stay a while longer. 

A week later, you finally got back into work. You had said you wanted to go back after three days but Joaquin had nearly tackled you back from the door. 

The first person you went to see was Sam. 

It was a long conversation but not a single ounce of it was judgemental. No words out of his mouth were telling you that you needed to apologise or that you needed to go back to ‘normal’. With a gentle hand on your back, he handed you a phone number of one of the veterans he used to help. They were now a licensed counsellor and therapist. 

“...and if you ever want to talk to someone who doesn’t know you, give ‘em a call. Sometimes it can be easier talking to a stranger.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

It was a process. Talking, dealing with the guilt, learning when to walk away. But it was helpful. Eventually your anxiety stopped spiking as high each time the phone rang, or it flashed with a notification. You didn’t feel like you needed to go someplace because someone needed you to. 

It was nice to feel wanted. 

“You okay?”

You looked up over the desk at Joaquin. Sam had left the room a few seconds ago, both of you shouting at him to leave Bucky and Sarah alone. He’d been caught stalking them at the grocery store the last time. But, like usual, he ignored you both. 

You smiled with a short nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“You mean it?”

The true smile remained on your face. “Yeah, I mean it.”

In the last few months, you’d come to find you couldn’t hide anything from Joaquin. Even if you lied, he’d know the truth. And he’d stop at nothing until you’d finally tell him as much. 

But you weren’t lying. You were really okay. 

“Wanna join me after work?”

“Where are you headed?”

“The Park. They’re showing a movie tonight. Thought you might wanna come with me.”

“Is anyone else going?”

Joaquin paused. “Not exactly.”

You just looked at him confused. 

“Kate’s probably gonna already be there and some of the others but I’m asking because I thought we could go…together.”

“Together?”

Joaquin nodded. “Kinda like a date. Or not a date, if you don’t want it to be. But it could be. Again, if you don’t want-”

You smiled, a little amused at his nervousness. The Falcon – a Captain in the Air Force and one of Captain America’s closest allies – Joaquin Torres rarely ever seemed nervous. But you found it cute. 

“I don’t mind it being a date.”

He looked up, a little like a deer caught in headlights. “You don’t?”

You shook your head. “I don’t.”

“So, it’s a date?” Joaquin smiled. 

You nodded with a smile of your own. “It’s a date.”

“Great.” Joaquin was trying his best to not let his excitement jump out of his skin. “I will pick you up at six.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Joaquin was walking out the door backwards, his eyes still on you. Which meant he crashed into the wall before looking behind him to step out of the door. You giggled a little, watching the embarrassment flood on his cheeks as he apologised to the wall before he disappeared down the hallway. 

And just as he had said, he knocked on your apartment door at six o’clock. You were just in casual clothes but he looked at you as if you were some kind of model. 

“You look beautiful.”

You felt yourself blush. “Thanks.”

“Ready to go?”

“Yep.”

Without a second thought, he took your hand in his as you headed down the hallway and into the elevator. And where it should have been awkward silence, it wasn’t. Because you talked. 

By the time you both got to the park, you were in a fit of laughter. You and Joaquin had found a spot just in front of a tree to lean against before you helped him flatten out the picnic blanket he’d brought with him. 

“My lady,” he presented you with the blanket fresh on the floor. 

“Why, thank you, kind Sir.”

And the movie played.

By the time the credits rolled, you were slowly falling asleep on his shoulder. And by the time you’d both made it back to your apartment, collapsing on the sofa, you’d both fallen asleep together watching an old re-run. 

Maybe people hadn’t stayed before. Maybe people hadn’t listened before. 

But Joaquin did. 

And would forever. 

[cybergoth1]

﹟— ❛❛LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING...

☆﹟— paring: fem!deadpool!reader x jason todd.

☆﹟— summary: jason todd used to think dying was the worst thing that ever happened to him. then he met you.

☆﹟— warnings: +18, dni. hate fuck. rough sex, oral sex, hair pulling, a little bit of spanking, filthy dirty talk, degrading, unprotected sex. swearing, blood, guns, suggestive dialogue, deadpool being deadpool, reader and jason throwing punches in the kitchen. enemies to lovers (?). the divider was made by @bernardsbendystraws. thank you!. some of deadpool's lore. red hood's lore. 4k words!.

JASON HAD BEEN TORTURED, murdered in a warehouse explosion, and shoved into the Lazarus Pit like some experiment. He came back different; angrier, colder, with a permanent itch under his skin he could never quite scratch. He’d clawed his way back into a city that barely noticed he was gone, wearing a new mask and a grudge like armor. And then he’d spent years readjusting to a world he never asked to return to, trapped in a body that felt more like a cage than himself. But none of that, none of that life-long, soul-crushing suffering, prepared him for the torment of working with you.

Standing by your side made him believe in karma. Hell, even divine punishment at this point. Maybe those christians were onto something after all, because just hearing your voice made him want to put a gun in his mouth. That was the level of his despair.

You, with your mouth that never shut up. Your warped moral compass. Your blood-soaked sense of humor. Your fourth-wall-breaking commentary that made him wonder if he was the one hallucinating. You were a walking migraine. A useless, brainless cheap merc from New York who somehow hadn’t managed to die permanently — thanks only to that freak-show healing factor. And, of course, your kill count that made even him raise an eyebrow.

And now you were in his city.

Bruce was pissed. Truly, deeply furious, the kind of mad that led to terse one-sentence orders and sending Red Hood to "clean up the mess". Which meant Jason got stuck playing babysitter to a lunatic who treated Gotham like it was her new theme park. You kept taking contracts on people too close to the Bat’s interest; mob bosses under surveillance, corrupt judges, the occasional undercover informant. Important people. The kind of people you weren’t supposed to make disappear without blowing up months of work.

Months of his fucking work, by the way.

And now here he was, trying to keep you from burning his city to the ground while resisting the urge to shoot you in the face. Not that it would work. He’d tried. Twice. Shoot you right in the face, and in the thighs at least four times. You just laughed at him. Like the bitch you are.

But in the end, the two of you had a few things in common. You were both taking out terrible people, and it’s not like the old man and his cult could really do anything about it, you’re basically immortal. So, yeah… sometimes he ended up teaming up with you behind his family’s back.

You two were literally doing that right now. And he bitterly regretted making that damn call.

The warehouse you two had broken into thirty minutes ago reeked of cheap gun oil and rust. Smoke still curled in the rafters, clinging to the air. Jason stood near a half-shattered window, body tense, pistol aimed at the last conscious thug crawling toward his dropped knife.

One silenced shot.

Thud.

Peace.

Or… so he thought.

"Okay, but hear me out—what if, instead of just shooting them, we had, like, a dance battle first?" your voice rang out behind him, chipper as hell, despite the blood soaking your suit from shoulder to knee. "Real Step Up vibes. I could’ve been Channing Tatum, Hood. You robbed me of that."

Jason let out a slow, pained sigh.

You strolled into view, katanas dripping, mask rolled up just enough to chomp on some suspicious-looking beef jerky you’d stolen off one of the corpses.

He stared at you — hard — judgment practically radiating from behind the helmet.

You winked. "What? He wasn’t gonna need it. I checked. Real dead. No pulse."

He holstered his gun like he was trying to keep himself from choking you with it.

"This was supposed to be stealth," Jason growled. "You came in like a Michael Bay explosion in clown shoes."

"I only wear clown shoes on thursdays. Today’s monday, obviously I wore my sexy combat heels. They give me great posture."

He rolled his eyes, not that you could see it — but you probably felt it.

"You decapitated a guy mid-sentence."

"Yeah, I freed him from the shackles of his spine. Heroism."

Jason sighed, loudly. It came out all warped and mechanical through his helmet’s voice emulator, like a dying vacuum cleaner. Fitting, given his shitty mood.

"Do you even remember the briefing?"

"Absolutely not." You beamed. "But you looked super hot while explaining it. I was distracted by your mouth. It moves like a really angry kiss."

He turned to you slowly, the glare behind his helmet palpable.

You tossed your bloodied jerky onto a pile of corpses. "Also, sorry about the headshot bet. I thought we were still playing. I win, though. That guy’s brain did a little jazz hands at the end."

Jason’s jaw ticked. His fists clenched. He hated you so fucking much. Every mission with you ended in some kind of bloodbath or blown cover. And he’d put up with it. Again and again. Because, unfortunately, you were useful when managed correctly. Roy’s words, not his.

He’d managed feral dogs with more grace.

Still, he tried.

Every time he managed to think of you as just a useful tool — and not an actual person capable of annoying the absolute shit out of him — some of that deep, deep hatred eased up. Just enough to keep him from having a heart attack mid-conversation.

"Let’s just sweep the building and go," he muttered, shouldering past you. You could feel the raw, seething loathing rolling off him. He was pissed. Yikes.

You grinned. "C’mon, don’t be mad. They were assholes. One of them called me a slut with swords. Joke’s on him, though, I’m also amazing in bed. Two for one."

He turned slowly. Here we go.

You took a playful step back. "Ooh. Somebody’s got the grumpy face on. What’s wrong, Red?"

He inhaled, deep, slow, like he was trying not to explode.

Then he did.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Ooooh, there it is."

"I’m serious," he snapped. "You’re a fucking useless dumbass. You blew the side off the building before I even gave the signal!"

"Well, to be fair—" you started.

"Shut the fuck up."

Your mouth closed, but your smirk widened.

Jason stepped toward you, voice dropping to a hiss. "I have had it with your psychotic bullshit. You treat every op like it’s a fucking improv skit. People are dying. Real people. And all you care about is if your one-liner hit or if I laughed at your dumbass joke."

You raised an eyebrow. Not that he could see. "To be fair, the ‘pencil-dick mafia’ line was comedy gold—"

"SHUT UP!" he barked, voice raw now. "Jesus, do you ever stop running your mouth? It’s like your brain’s stuck in horny stand-up mode while the rest of us are trying not to fuck up the mission. You’re not fucking funny. You’re a goddamn walking catastrophe with no fucking impulse control!"

You stared at him.

He kept going.

"You think you’re charming? You’re exhausting. You make every mission ten times harder than it has to be. You blow our cover, you disobey orders, and you laugh while slicing people open like it’s a fucking cartoon. I don’t care how fast you heal—if you get me or anyone else killed with your bullshit, I will personally find a way to keep you dead."

He was panting now.

"And for the record, stop flirting with me. You’re not sexy. You’re not even fucking attractive. You’re loud, obnoxious, and about as subtle as a chainsaw to the face. You think I haven’t had people throw themselves at me? Women with class, with self-control, with an ounce of fucking dignity? I don’t want you. I don’t even like you. Fuck."

Silence.

The air was thick.

And then—

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "Holy shit."

You stepped closer, eyes gleaming inside your mask. "That was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me. I think I need to sit down."

"What—"

You pointed at him. "That? That whole verbal curb-stomp? I think I just came a little."

"No, seriously," you whispered, leaning in like it was a secret. "I am so unwell right now. I think my ovaries did jazz hands. My therapist’s gonna hear about this. If I had a diary, I’d write ‘Today, Red Hood called me a useless bitch, and I got horny in a warehouse full of corpses."

He took a step back like you were radioactive.

You followed. "Say more mean shit. Call me pathetic. Tell me I’m annoying again but in that gravelly ‘I want to strangle you’ voice. Maybe spit on me?"

Jason turned sharply. "I hate you."

You cupped your hands around your mouth. "Is that foreplay?!"

He ignored you while leaving the warehouse.

You grinned like a devil.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting on the roof together, watching the flames lick up the side of the warehouse. Jason was smoking, trying to pretend you weren’t five inches from his thigh. He’d given up smoking a while ago, but being around you made him seriously reconsider. Alcohol or nicotine felt like the only way to survive your presence.

He was so out of it, he couldn’t even bother worrying about you seeing his face without the helmet.

"I’d call this a win," you offered, sipping from a cup of coffee you definitely hadn’t been holding five minutes ago. "We stopped the arms deal, torched the stockpile, and I got to see you yell like a stressed-out dom in a CW drama."

He exhaled smoke through his nose. "Stop talking."

"Make me."

He didn’t move.

You smirked.

"I can be quiet. If you put something in my mouth."

Jason side-eyed you with the force of a thousand suns.

"Like a gag. Or a sandwich. Or your coc—"

He shoved the rest of his cigarette into your coffee and stood up.

You sighed dreamily.

"God, I love him."

TO JASON'S GREAT MISFORTUNE, the two of you kept working together. Worse, you somehow wormed your way into Roy and Kory’s lives, like this was some kind of team-up he never asked for. Naturally, Roy adored you. You made him laugh so hard he had to stop eating and drinking around you just to avoid choking to death. Kory didn’t get your sense of humor at all, but she liked your honesty. And Jason?

Jason just kept hating you for using his damn safehouse like it was your personal Airbnb.

At least during that time, he’d managed to run a few background checks on you — always keeping tabs, just in case. Dug up some interesting things, like the fact that you’d had terminal cancer and underwent some sketchy experimental treatment. It saved your life, sure… but it also wrecked your body. Now you were covered in scars and practically unkillable thanks to a healing factor so extreme it bordered on obscene.

But being honest, he didn’t give a fuck about your messed-up origin story. Cancer, shady experiments, freakshow healing factor. Whatever. Join the club. He’d been blown to pieces and dumped in a Lazarus Pit, so forgive him if he didn’t feel special sympathy. Your problem was your problem. All he wanted was for you to stop eating his food, leaving weapons in his couch cushions, and walking around his place like it had your name on the deed.

You were needy and reckless, an obnoxious pain in the ass with zero boundaries. Jesus Christ.

But, anyways, things had really gone downhill after that garbage fire of a day he had. He and Isabel were done for good, — she’d been his last attempt at feeling something decent in his shitty life, something soft, something that didn’t hurt — you’d tanked another mission, and now you were somehow giving him unsolicited dating advice, like your love life wasn’t a fucking joke. He knew damn well the only person you’d ever seriously dated before turning into Deadpool was a stripper named Vanessa. Sweet girl. Way too good for this mess. She died in New York months ago, because of you.

And then came the shitshow.

Jason had snapped at you again, like it was becoming a habit.

He would never forget the way your body froze, how your shoulders locked up, your breath caught, and every trace of humor bled out of you. Even with that stupid mask on, the look in your eyes gutted him. Like you’d been slapped.

And he meant it to hurt. Every word he spat was sharp and aimed to cut deep. And judging by the silence that followed, he had.

"The only person who ever loved you was a fucking hooker. And even she had to be paid to do it. So fuck off."

The world stopped in his living room.

You didn’t make a stupid joke.

Your fists clenched before your brain could even register it.

Then you hit him. Hard. Square across the jaw.

No more nice ‘Pool, hm?

His head snapped sideways with a grunt, blood blooming in his mouth, but he was already swinging back. Jason’s body twisted with trained precision, his fist caught your side and you gasped, more from fury than pain.

You grabbed him by the front of the shirt and slammed him into the wall hard enough to make it shudder. The plaster cracked behind him, flakes drifting to the floor like ash. His hands came up again, but you were already pushing him back, breath hot, eyes wild under the mask.

"Call her a hooker again," you growled, breath ragged. "I fucking dare you."

Jason spat blood, his grin feral.

The next punch came fast. His knuckles cracked against your jaw. You grunted, stumbled, but swung back instantly — he ducked under it, shoulder-checked you into the wall, and the two of you collapsed in a flurry of fists and curses.

He grabbed you by the waist and slammed you onto the kitchen counter, the edge biting into your back. You didn’t hesitate. Your boot caught him square in the chest and knocked him back into the fridge. The whole thing rattled violently, a magnet flying off and clattering to the tile floor.

Neither of you even looked.

Your eyes burned. Your chest heaved. You were soaked in sweat.

Jason’s pupils were blown wide, locked on you. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, smeared across his lip, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, like he couldn’t tell if he wanted to hit you again or—

"You don’t talk about her. You don’t even fucking know—"

God, you never shut up.

Jason rolled his eyes, and then his mouth crashed into yours, taking full advantage of the way your mask was rolled up to the bridge of your nose — your lips exposed and vulnerable for him. You bit his already-busted bottom lip out of pure fury, tasting copper and spite. You swung at him again, but he caught your wrist, groaning low in his throat.

Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, devouring you like he was starving and furious about it. His knee forced your legs apart, pinning you where he wanted you. One hand fisted in your collar, the other wrapped around your throat. Not choking, not yet. Just holding.

"Always running that loud, stupid mouth around me," he growled against your lips. His breath ghosted over your cheek, warm, intoxicating, and for one fleeting second, you almost forgot. Forgot how he disrespected you. Forgot the way he spat on the memory of the only person you ever truly loved.

"Gonna do everyone a favor and keep it busy."

The kiss tasted like iron, blood on both your tongues, heat rising like a fever. And despite everything you felt yourself melting into it, breath hitching against his mouth. Your hands curled in his jacket, unsure if you meant to push him away or drag him closer.

Jason’s hand fisted in your leather mask, rough and impatient, and tore it off completely. The air hits your skin like ice. You flinched. You felt naked. Your scars, your ruined skin, were now fully on display. And for a second, you hesitated. You turned your face just slightly, instinctively, already bracing for disgust.

But Jason didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Instead, his hand came to your jaw, guiding your face back to his and then his tongue slid past your aching lips, slow and deliberate.

Your brain short-circuited.

"Jason…"

You whimpered against him, a soft, unguarded sound you couldn’t even stop. His bigger body pressed against yours, pinning you to the counter. He was already hard, you could feel it heavy against your thigh.

"All that goddamn noise, every smirk, every wiseass comment, walking around my place like you owned it…" His mouth dragged along your jaw. "You’ve been begging for this. Dripping desperation under all that leather."

His hand dipped between your thighs, fingers finding your clothed cunt. You’d never been a prude but the sound that left your throat was a full-bodied, surprised whine, like some Victorian maiden getting her ankle glimpsed at a ball.

"Is that what gets you off, huh?" he growled against your skin, his thumb finding your poor clit. "Pissing me off until I snap? Playing dumb little games, fighting me in my fucking kitchen, so I’ll bend you over and fuck the attitude out of you?"

Yes, you were absolutely eating that shit up. Thighs already twitching, core pulsing, hips aching to grind into the heat of his thumb. But being a little shit was practically a personality trait by now.

"You sound like a discount Christian Grey or, I don’t know, one of those garbage Tumblr fanfics written by a—"

Jason didn’t let you finish.

He spun you around with zero finesse, hands gripping your hips like handles, and bent you over the kitchen counter so fast your breath left you in a grunt. Cold marble met your cheek as your hands scrambled for purchase.

"Try saying that again with my cock halfway inside you."

You just smirked, eyes wild.

"Oh, I love that."

He yanked the bottom half of your uniform down in one smooth, breathless motion. The cool air licked across your thighs and your ass.

Jason froze.

"...Hello Kitty panties? Are you fucking serious?"

You craned your neck with the most unapologetic grin known to man.

"I got them at a Walmart discount bin. Two-ninety-nine."

He stared for a second, dead silent, like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to fuck you stupid or haul you in for crimes against fashion. His fingers hooked the waistband of your ridiculous Hello Kitty panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin with a sharp flick.

From that angle, bent over the counter, ass bare, pants around your knees, he could see everything.

Strong legs braced wide. Thick, powerful thighs. And the scars, God, the scars. Burns, patches of rough, discolored skin where your healing factor hadn’t cared about aesthetics. Jagged textures that twisted and crawled across your flesh.

He didn’t say anything.

Not at first.

You sighed after a few seconds.

"Gonna leave a lady hanging?"

"I don’t see any ladies here."

Your grin widened.

He dropped to his knees behind you.

Rough hands yanked your thighs apart as he ducked between them, spreading you open — your ugly panties were already balled up in his jacket pocket, swiped without a second thought after he’d torn them off you.

"Hey," you panted, voice wobbling through a half-laugh, half-moan, "you don’t have to steal my underwear, okay? I can buy you your own. Maybe with little bats on them—Jason?"

His only response was a low growl as he sank his tongue into you without a shred of mercy.

You jolted, mouth falling open.

"Fuck—okay, okay, take the panties, Jesus—"

He didn’t even look up. Just shoved your thighs wider, buried himself deeper, and groaned like your pussy was the first meal he’d had in days. Whatever joke you’d been about to crack turned into a breathless scream, your fingers scrabbling across the counter for something to hold on to. He licked like a man possessed, angry and hungry. You tried to push him back just enough to breathe, and he slapped your thigh. Hard.

"Don’t fucking move," he moaned against you, voice wrecked, wet sounds echoing through the room as he sucked your clit. Then he spit directly onto your cunt, tongue catching it before it could drip, and shoved two thick, warm, fingers inside you without warning.

"Oh—God—what the fuck?" you gasped, legs trembling as his fingers did something positively illegal, curling them just right inside you.

"Where the hell did you learn that?!"

He bit your thigh, hard enough to bruise, then sucked another mark into the skin.

"Jas—fuck—Jason—"

He pulled back just enough to speak.

"Did you ever shut the fuck up?" Jason growled, fingers still deep inside you, knuckles slick, "you sound like a fucking chatterbox."

You gasped, moaned, and tried to sass back but it caught in your throat. His fingers were so big, stretching you up so good…

He smirked, mean and low. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

He stood up suddenly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and his fingers on his jeans. You didn’t get to finish the way you wanted.

"Hey— I was in the middle of something…"

Jason didn’t even glance at you. Just muttered, "Didn’t ask," as he undid his belt with sharp movements, the clink of the buckle cutting through the room. You twisted around on the counter, half-smirking through your haze.

"Hmm, someone’s eager. I get it, okay? I’m hot. Hot like Jessica Alba in The Fantastic Four."

He stepped forward, belt dangling from one hand, eyes dark, mouth set in a flat line. His other hand grabbed your hip hard enough to bruise and spun you back around with no effort at all. Jason lined himself up and thrust in, deep, splitting you open in one filthy, perfect stroke.

Every snarky comeback, every filthy one-liner, every sarcastic jab — all gone. For the next thirty minutes, you couldn’t even form a normal sentence. You moaned loud. Legs shaking.

"Fuck," you gasped. "Jason—"

"Shut up," he grunted. "You can take it."

He fucked into you hard. Brutal. Like punishment. Like he was trying to tear you apart from the inside out and stitch you back together in his shape. You were moaning high pitched, snarling, begging under your breath.

God, that was the best of your life.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them behind your back with one hand, his other braced on your lower back, pressing you flat to the counter. Every thrust knocked the air out of your lungs. His cock dragged against every overstimulated nerve, punishing and perfect.

"Ah— Fuck, please, Ja—!"

Jason grabbed your hair and pulled you back against him.

"What?" he muttered behind you, giving your cheek a wet kiss, hand tangled tight in your hair, tugging your head back hard enough to sting. "Runned out of jokes? Got nothing for me now?"

He fucked you until the slap of skin was louder than your ragged breathing, until your thighs were shaking and your voice was breaking. And you moaned happly, pressing back into him like the goddamn animal you were, desperately trying to fuck yourself on him.

Jason chuckled, his grip tightening for a second.

"Thought so."

©cybergoth1, 2025

[crazy-1201]

PREACH!

I fully endorse this. I have no intention of pretending Canon is come kind of bible when it’s also written by people who are flawed and can make crazy choices. Just because they thought of a concept doesn’t mean they can execute it well or understand the emotional/moral themes that can tie in.

Any fictional work can be interpreted differently by audiences, or portrayed differently by someone else. Sometimes there are people who have lived through something a character is going through that the author may not have, and would understand the subject better.

It’s not just ‘well this is how it is.’ It’s “that’s how it is from ‘THAT’ persons perspective, but ‘I, think logically they should be have this way-“

And I get it, sometimes there’s a character or series that’s pretty solid and you don’t want to mess with it, that’s fine. Superman is who he is because of his qualities- but even characters like Superman have had different writers and inconsistent portrayals. So I approach things from a comic point of view.

Which is along the lines of what Stan Lee said regarding people trying to power scale- which is whoever wins in a fight is pointless because whoever he wants to win, wins. They’re just throwing out comics and canon is all over the place depending on what you’re picking and choosing half the time. You do what you want with it.

Fiction is all about justification. If you can write your way around something it doesn’t matter worth a damn what someone else thinks would happen. And that includes the author. Yes, we know the original source material may be a particular way, no one’s gonna debate a series of events happened (~usually,) but that doesn’t mean the reasons,or methods, or emotions behind them, or the reality of the audience, or even the rationality of the writer aren’t questionable. And if I want to imagine a world where a character does something differently or something else happened to skew their path, then I’m going to do it.

I have seen a massive chunk of fanon works and thoughts that are just outright better than the source material, and honestly we should celebrate that fact and allow people to enjoy it to the fullest potential. Because we aren’t limited by budget, or time constraints, and we have a lot of resources to study and a lot of people to collaborate with to come up with ideas, and we are trying to make the series new and enjoyable in a way we and others might like or want to explore. And that’s a good thing.

The second you publish something it’s not yours anymore, it’s an idea anyone can interpret.

[buckyys-babydoll]

Behind the bite and sharpness

Pairing — John Walker x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary — Teasing. Tension. Hate. Or something much deeper. Something more soft, more caring. Something like love.

Warnings — Minors DNI, kind of enemies to lovers, kind of friends with benefits, fuck buddies with feelings, tiny thunderbolts spoilers [only mentioned the team], lot of teasing, rough!John turning soft, smut [unprotected p in v, rough sex, name calling, oral (male!rec), deep throating, ball worship, spanking, teasing, degradation, edging, anal play, fingering, creampie], aftercare, fluff, love confession

Wordcount — 4.918 Words

Authors Note — John Walker? How did this happen? Actually, I don’t know. @daydreamgoddess14 reblogged the fics. And somehow, I ended up being interested. Still a bit of a hate/like thing, so here some roughness with fluff. Entry for @ramp-it-up’s 5k praise challenge. [“You're doing so well, sweetheart. Let go. I've got you.”]. Divider made by me. Beta’d by @thevillainswhore my love!❤️❤️

Meetings. More meetings. And so much boredom.

Only to talk about the mission reports of the last mission. Or get through the plans, yet once again, for the next mission.

You know the mission. You know the location. You know the plan.

And yet, you’re listening to another lecture of Ava, or Alexei. You're not sure, they both argue back and forth about the locations.

You slide back in the chair, running your hands over your face. Leaning your head back, you stare at the ceiling. You connect the dots in the white boards above you, grinning when one of them looks like your worst enemy’s face.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Bucky’s loud groan. He's pouting at a paper before Ava snatches it out of his hand and wiggles it in front of Alexei’s face.

Such a chaotic team, but it’s your team. Mostly lovely, mostly weird, but always special in their own way.

Your eyes scan over the three before they settle on Yelena and Bob. A paper, probably one Ava and Bucky are looking for later, has now countless smiling faces and little figures on it.

You should start putting empty sheets on the desk so Yelena can draw without ruining mission reports.

Bob smirks as he points at a smiley and whispers something to Yelena. You grin as he draws a small blush into the face of the figure on the paper.

Then your eyes roam further toward the guy sitting opposite you. Your worst enemy, who has this shit eating, wide grin plastered all over his face.

That shit eating, annoying fucking grin.

Sometimes you would like to punch it off his face. Just to see his widened blue eyes when you catch him off guard. And to feel the satisfication when his punch lands in his face to wipe away the annoying grin.

John leans relaxed back in his chair, watching you intensely like you’re the only two people in the room.

Dick. Bastard. Idiot—

Your phone buzzes and you narrow your eyes. All your friends — and John — are in this room, who else would message you?

While the blond haired keeps his eyes on you, you look down at your phone, groaning in frustration when his name appears on your screen.

His name. And a message.

Such a basta—

Another message.

Your face shoots up, glaring at the agent with narrowed eyes. And he grins. Just like he always does.

Pathetic. Disgusting. And so fucking annoying.

He knows what he’s doing. You know it too.

You can feel the anger in your bones. The tightness in your muscles. Because he knows so damn well how to rile you up.

But not with you. Not. With. You.

Your face drops to your phone again and you swipe to open the message he sent you.

John: I don’t know one thing I like about you.

John: Thought about it. Spent the last half an hour thinking about anything I might like about you. Found nothing.

You growl, quietly so no one can hear it. Your jaw clenches slightly as you grit your teeth.

And ohhh, he has so much fun. Leaning further back he spreads his legs and looks down to type another message.

John: Guess you're just not like-able enough for me.

The audacity. He's such a huge dick. Unfortunately, he has a dick just as big as his ego.

And sometimes, it excuses his behavior toward you. But most of the time, it's just hate and riling up one another.

Then a grin forces its way on your face, curling your lips upward.

He thinks he’s able to get under your skin. But you can be just as annoying like him.

You: Tell me more.

John groans, frustrated. This wasn’t exactly his plan. But he wouldn't let you know that he isn’t sure how to handle the situation.

John: This isn’t sexting.

You: Oh, I know. It’s even better than sexting.

You: Though, I thought you liked when I screamed your name when I came all over your cock. Cumming hard inside of me to my moans, because you hate them so much, good to know.”

You grin. You got him.

The room is quiet by now, everyone staring at you and John, watching your interaction.

While you feel satisfied with yourself, John tries to come up with another thing to say to make you go crazy.

But he won’t find anything. Because you're ready to defend yourself from every attack from him.

Only when Yelena clears her throat does your head snap toward the team. They are all looking with narrowed eyes or raised eyebrows at you.

“What’s going on between the two of you? Need to breath some fresh air or is that tension between you supposed to ignite a flame?” Yelena asks with frown.

Tension? Flame? Definitely not what you would call that.

It sounds way too much like hot tension instead of maddening tension.

“Yeah, John, do you need some fresh air?” You grin, leaning over to rest your arms on the table and get closer to him.

Johns expression changes from surprised to angry. Rolling his blue eyes, he pushes the chair back with such force it falls backward and lands on the ground with a loud thud.

His eyes are locked with yours, daring you to move your ass as well. To follow him outside.

“Yeah, maybe I need some fresh air,” he growls before he turns away and walks out of the room.

You grin, leaning back. You won that one. Once again.

The team gets back to talking about the reports and you keep replaying John’s angry gaze in your mind. He’s kinda hot when he looks all mad.

The furrow of his brows, the pursing of his lips. And then the way he clenched and unclenched his hands and jaw. Almost delicious, if he wasn't such a dick.

John: Thinking you won?

John: Silly little girl. Try again.

You growl, getting up as well before rushing out of the room. You ignore the others’ confused gazes, whatever’sgoing on between you and John they don't really get it.

It’s like a hate-love relationship. With more hate than love. And more teasing than anything else.

You slam the door shut, looking through the floors to find the blond haired man.

Now he did it. He got under your skin. Riled you up. And you let him.

Oh, damn. Yes, you let him. Because that’s when the fun begins.

Before you get far through the floor, you notice the idiot leaning against the wall. His arms crossed in front of his chest as he tilts his head to look at you.

“Oh, found me!” He laughs as you stalk over to him with a frown.

“You’re not as invisible as you wish once I kick your balls,” you mutter as you stop a few feet away from him.

John laughs. Like it's amazing what you say.

You're threatening him and he's acting like you told him a joke.

“Can you even reach them with your tiny, baby legs?” John mocks you.

Something inside of you snaps. Anger. Anger from so much teasing bubbles over.

You lift your leg, about to kick his balls. Just before the tip of your foot hits him, his hand snaps toward your leg. Fingers wrapping tightly around your ankle and holding it in place.

You growl, wiggling and pulling to get out of his grip. But he’s stronger. So much stronger, fingers digging into your flesh.

“Think you’re a smart girl?” He asks, his eyes darken and his smirks vanishes for a moment.

Is he about to give up and stop teasing you? Did you get too close to him, and now he’s all scared of a woman?

You’re about to grin when his hand lets go of your leg, but wraps around your neck instead. He does that with such force, your breath hitches as he’s pushing you back. Your back hitting the wall with a thud, pain shooting through you.

A sound between a moan and a whine slips past your lips. Join’s body warm and strong against yours.

He’s so tall. So muscular. And he smells amazing.

Sweet. Musk. Just so good, you might just give in and lean into him.

His fingers tighten around your neck, probably leaving marks where he digs his fingers into your skin.

“Brat,” he growls, smashing his lips against yours.

The kiss is rough. It's almost hurtful but it's what you both need.

Roughness to get relief for all the tension.

His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, demanding access. He doesn’t ask. Not when he has you pinned against the wall. When he has you at his mercy.

Your lips part slightly, but the grin that tugs at your lips makes him pause.

“You little whore, bite me and I will fuck your ass raw,” he growls against you before he pushes his tongue between your lips.

It’s tempting. Too tempting.

And it’s not like you’ve never had anal sex with him, but you’ve never had it bare without preparation. And he's a man of his words.

John doesn’t just threaten you. He will do it. And you know he will split your ass open.

“Not so brave anymore, brat?” He chuckles as he pulls back again.

Your eyes are widened, your lips swollen from the kiss while you look at him with a mixture of want and stubbornness. You won’t let him break you that easily, he can threaten you all he wants, but you will wiggle your way through to rile him up until he breaks.

“Maybe you should put me over your knee and spank me, Daddy,” You whisper, using the nickname just to annoy him. Because it makes it so hard for him not to do it.

It would be so easy to bend you over his lap, pushing your pants down to spank your ass sore. In front of everyone’s eyes. Naked. Vulnerable until you beg him to stop and apologize.

But he doesn't. It’s tempting. But having you in his bed, whinging because his cock is too thick for your cunt, is even better for him. Forcing every inch into you, slowly to let you feel every little bit of his cock.

He feels his cock harden in his pants, almost bursting the fabric.

John just wants to bury his dick in your warmth, fuck the anger out of both of you, just like he always does.

But for now, he’s planning to rile you up some more.

“That’s what you like, filthy whore? You're such a fucking slut,” he growls, his fingers around your neck tightening.

“And you fucking love it, bastard,” you growl back and wrap your hands around his arm that’s still holding your neck.

“I do, whore.”

With that he lets go of your neck and grips your hips instead, lifting you up. Your arms and legs wrap around his body immediately, rubbing against him to gain some friction between your legs.

“Fuck you’re—” he slaps your ass harsh, shutting you up before you can tell him how hard he is.

John’s cock is pressing against you, with every step he takes, his dick shifts between your legs. A moan leaves your lips as you kiss him, hard. Rough.

Theres no softness. Not after all the teasing. Not after all the madness you cause one another.

“I hate you,” you mutter when John opens the door to his bedroom. With his foot, he kicks it shut behind you.

You hate him. You love him. And you just want to feel him.

“You sure fucking do,” he groans against your lips. “Do you think I care? I don’t when you scream my name like the slut you are. Spreading your legs for someone you hate so much, huh?”

John walks over to his bed, throwing you down on it. You’re bouncing on the bed when he unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down and stepping out of them.

With a shit eating grin he grasps your ankles and pulls you to the edge of the bed. You slip off it, kneeling down in front of him while you look at him with doe eyes.

“Don’t act all cute, slut,” he huffs, freeing his cock from his boxer briefs.

You're swallowing down the moan that threatens to bubble up your throat. His cock looks delicious, thick and veiny. The tip is leaking pre-cum and you’re leaning closer to kiss away the drop of his arousal.

John wraps his hand around your hair, pulling your head back until you look up at him. With a smirk plastered on his face, he forces your mouth open with his free hand to spit into your mouth.

“Hold it,” he growls, grasping his cock and slapping it against your cheek, then he brings it to your lips and pushes the tip in between them. “Now swallow.”

And you do, swallowing around his tip. John grunts, rutting his hips to push more of his length into your mouth.

A dangerous glint is visible in his blue eyes. You know what it means. He always has that glisten in his eyes before he’s making you gag and choke on his cock.

He keeps sliding deeper until he reaches the back of your throat. Your eyes widen, you knew it, and yet you didn’t relax enough.

Gagging around his thick girth, he chuckles low in his chest.

Johns hand is still tightly wrapped in your hair, pulling you closer until your nose is pressed against his belly, his balls flush against your chin and his cock in your throat.

“Fuck, look at you. Swallowing cock like your made for it,” he groans, keeping you in place for a moment.

Your fingers reach up, digging into his thick thighs. The oxygen leaves your lungs slowly, leaving you breathless.

“You know the rules. Mine to play. Too much and you tap my thigh twice. If you don’t, I will choke you like the whore you are for me,” John mutters.

For the first time since the meeting, his voice holds a hint of softness and concern. He doesn't want to push you beyond your limits, just to your limit.

You nod as best as you can, swallowing around his cock. John pulls back slightly, allowing you to breathe for a moment.

You’re panting, lungs burning, but you’re already leaning closer to have more of his cock down your throat. His cock twitches slightly when you run your tongue over the tip.

Then he pushes you back on his cock. His eyes focus on you as he drags his shaft over your tongue.

He loves that view. You on your knees for him, almost drooling over his cock. He loves to feel your throat constricting around his length.

“Breath through your nose, baby,” he mutters, his voice soft for a moment before his demour changes back to the roughness.

He keeps you on his cock, only letting go when he feels your nails digging painfully into his thigh.

“Don’t ya want to give my balls some attention too?” He chuckles, pulling his cock out of your mouth. “C’mon, I know you love sucking some balls.”

You moan, kissing along his shaft. Your hand wrapping around his dick, you lift it enough to reach his balls, taking them between your lips and suckling softly.

John groans, grinning down at you. You’re stroking his cock in the same rhythm you suck his balls. Slow. Steady. But so intense.

Keeping the motions and the pace for a while, you keep holding John’s expression. It’s not as angry anymore, more soft. And somehow it bothers you.

You’re not up for some love making at the moment. You need it hard. And you know how to get him to do it rough.

Your arousal is soaking your panties, your thighs pressing together in need.

With your teeth, you graze along his balls, making him hiss when you’re too close to biting him. He pulls you away from his cock, his expression hardening as he glares down.

“You fucking whore. Biting my balls? You need it rough but you can’t ask for it, can you slut?”

Shit. He looks right through you. And yet, he does exactly what you wanted him to do.

John pulls you further back, his hand sliding from your hair to your neck before he pulls you up. With a tilt of his head, he leans closer to your ear.

“Get undressed,” he commands, pulling back to get rid of the rest of his clothes too. His eyes never leave you, not when you're kneeling with widened eyes and not when you get up to do as you’re told.

A pleased smile tugs at his lips. You’re gorgeous. But he’s still mad. And he won’t halt unless the safe word slips past your lips.

He will ruin you. Fucking ruin you, until you’re a begging and whining mess underneath him. And he will enjoy every second of it, watching you take his cock. Watching you writhe in pleasure—

“You gotta stare all night, perv?” You grumble with a chuckle.

John groans, shaking his head as he takes a step toward you.

You want to play games? He will play with you.

His hand wraps around your neck, turning you with such force that you fall forward the moment you’re close to the bed.

Your arms give up and you’re leaning with your upper body on the bed, while your ass is on perfect display for the blond haired man.

“What did you just call me?” He growls, spanking you hard.

A moan slips past your lips, your head pressed into the mattress as his hand comes down on your ass once more.

“C’mon, tell me. Running your mouth and now the cats got your tongue?” He laughs behind you, his calloused hands running up and down your back. “You’re stunning.”

“And you’re lazy, grandpa,” you smirk, wiggling your ass. It only earns you another spank, but at least it's worth it.

John mutters something under his breath, spreading your ass cheeks and running his thumb over your puckered hole.

You shiver, jerking forward when he adds some pressure. A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, he would have so much fun fucking your ass raw, but he doesn’t.

Not when you’re pussy is on full display, wet and dripping for him.

“You’re such a whore, dripping down your legs,” he mumbles, thrusting two of his fingers into your cunt.

You moan, arching your back to push against his touch. His calloused fingers thrust as deep as they can go into you. With a curl of them, he immediately hits your spongy spot.

“Fuck!” You whimper, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers when he stops his movements.

Idiot. Fucking idiot.

He knows how to keep you on the edge. To please you. And yet, he keeps teasing and edging you.

Before you can protest about the lack of penetration, his fingers are pulled out of you. A whine works its way up your throat.

John has you exactly where he wants you. On edge. At his mercy. Needy. Whining. And so desperate for him, for his cock.

“Say please,” he says, wrapping his hand around his shaft as he strokes himself a few times.

John’s free hand is on your back, keeping you down and pressed into the mattress.

“Fuck yo— FUCK!” You moan when he thrusts into you without warning or hesitation. His balls slapping against your clit when he bottoms out immediately.

“Shouldn’t run your mouth like that if you don’t want to be fucking destroyed,” he mutters, pulling his cock out of your cunt before pushing back in with even more force. “That’s it, take my dick like the slut you are.”

You grin, fingers digging into the sheets as he keeps fucking you roughly. Luckily for you, not rough enough to vanish the attitude.

You purposefully clench around his cock, making him groan. His hips stutter mid movement before he builds up his pace again.

“Anyone could take your tiny cock, idiot,” you mutter, knowing full well that his cock is above average.

But the tiny bit of control you have about him while he pounds into you needs to be used.

“Even my ex had bigger fingers than your coc—”

Another spank before his hand moves around you. Running his fingers through your folds and pinching your clit harshly.

John laughs when your hips buck forward. He knows you’re pussy is stretched out a lot around his cock already. But you want to see how much he can fit into your hole? He will show you.

“Yeah? His fingers were bigger,” he grunts, slowing his thrusts. “Then there won't be a problem if I stuff your pussy with my cock and my fingers.”

You shake your head. Definitely not a problem!

John’s free hand moves to your waist, gripping it harshly as he pushes a finger into you, next to his cock.

His cock can be a struggle if you aren’t warmed up. But with his fingers, it feels like it's burning already.

You moan, trying to move away from him, only to be pulled back harshly. His balls slap against your clit once more, making you whine.

It’s overwhelming. The stretch. The sensation. The soft burn. And the pleasure.

“Gonna take another, whore?” He mutters, leaning over you to place a kiss between your shoulder blades as his hip movements stop.

Your face is pressed into the mattress, unable to speak so you just nod your head.

It’s so good. Too good. And yet, almost too much.

John adds another finger, feeling you clench even more around him. “You need to relax, or i’m gonna hurt you.”

You growl, he shouldn’t he so soft. He should pound into you and ruin you.

But at the same time, your heart flutters at his concern. It’s always the edge of softness, even when he’s practically ruining you with his cock.

“With your tiny—” You get interrupted when he pulls back to thrust into you.

Idiot. Shutting you up like that, such a dick move.

“Yeah, is it? Your pussy feels like i’m ripping it apart, sure you can take another finger?” John teases, knowing you could take another one. But not without struggles and a lot of lube.

You whimper, nodding your head. But instead of adding another finger, he pulls them out and brings them to your puckered hole instead.

“Maybe I should punish you instead,” he huffs, circling the ring of muscle while his pace picks up again.

The sound of skin slapping against skin and both of your moans fills the room. Sweat forming on your skin, your body shaking as he adds some pressure until his digit slides into your tighter hole.

“Oh! JOHN, please, fuck…” you whine, unsure if you want him to continue or stop.

It burns. But it burns in such a wonderful way.

He keeps his index finger inside of you, pumping it back and forth in the same rhythm he fucks you cunt.

The coil in your stomach tightens with every of his strokes. He’s hitting all the right parts, making you see stars.

You're babbling, fingers clenched into the sheets while he uses you like a toy for his pleasure. Another finger prods at your puckered hole, slipping in next to the other.

“You better not cum without permission, brat,” John mutters, having you stupid for his cock.

You're shivering, legs shaking as your orgasm approaches. You want to say anything, want his permission to come but the only thing that leaves your lips are whines and moans.

“Oh, such a dumb little thing, can’t even ask to come anymore?” He mocks you, but there is no bite, no sharpness in his tone anymore. “Shhh, come on, baby, tell me what you need.”

You whimper, clinging tighter to the sheets while your pussy is clenching around him, almost causing him to stumble over the edge.

John pulls out, his fingers, then his cock, leaving you empty and your hole gaping for him. Another pitiful and almost pathetic whine makes its way up your throat.

“I know. You're being so good, baby, c’mon, turn around for me,” he says softly, his fingers gripping you by your hips to help you turn around. John helps you move further onto the bed before he crawls onto it between your legs. “Spread them for me, can you do that, precious?”

You nod, looking at him with a fucked out expression. He smiles softly and guides his cock back to your entrance, slowly pushing into you.

Your fingers reach out, trying to tangle in his hair, but you end up hugging his neck.

You feel like you’re flying. And yet, so out of your mind.

John strokes a few strands of your hair out of your face and tucks them behind your ear, smiling softly at you.

He’s thrusting back into you, slow and soft until he bottoms out again. He knows he could come just like that, but he needs you to come for him first, or at least with him.

“Come on, come for me, baby,” he mutters, rutting his hips enough to cause friction, but not enough to move his hips away from yours too much. “You're doing so good, such a good girl.”

His heavy body is trapped above yours, holding you down and offering you grounding. You nod, eyes locking with his, then they move down to his soft lips.

You want to feel them. You need to feel them to reach your orgasm.

It's almost like he can read you like an open book. John leans down, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of your nose before he seals your lips with his.

He’s so soft. Such a diffrence to the earlier roughness.

John's tongue moves softly against yours, seeking entrance and you allow him.

After a moment he pulls back again. His cock twitching and he’s close to the edge himself, noticing your dazed look.

A soft smile forms on your lips as he leans his forehead against yours. “Come?”

“Yes, precious. You're doing so well. Let go, I’ve got you,” he mutters before he speeds his thrusts up. Only a bit. Only enough for him to hit your sweet spot a few more times.

You nod, squeezing him hard when your back arches and the coil in your stomach snaps. Panting and moaning underneath him, you dig your nails tightly into his neck.

“P-please, p-please,” you whimper, rocking against him.

It’s all John needs for him to stumble over the edge, his cum shooting into you, painting your walls with his seed.

John’s movements falter though. He’s fucking you through your orgasm until he stills, his cock still deep inside of you, his body pressed against yours as you hold onto him.

“Still hate you,” you grumble, still somewhere between fucked out and clear in your mind.

John laughs, not mocking or anything. He laughs, wholeheartedly and sweet.

His eyes crinkle slightly and with his sweaty blond hair sticking to his forehead and pink cheeks, he looks so soft. So familiar. So like home.

Like the home you didn't know you're looking for in a person. Especially not in John. But there he is, pushing and edging you in every way he can. Just to be pulled toward you in the most beautiful way.

“I know you don't, actually you love me,” he mumbles, kissing your forehead softly. He still doens’t move off of you, knowing you need the closeness, the weight to calm down.

“I might do,” you giggle, closing your eyes. You take a deep breath, taking in his musky scent.

It’s warm. Surrounding you like a warm blanket on cold days.

“I know you do, you know why?”

You shake your head. You might know. But you're not sure and somehow, you wanna hear it from him.

“Because that thing between you and me, it’s more than just hate sex. It’s more than fucking,” he mumbles, his fingers running up and down your sides.

His touch is soft enough to feel good, but not enough to tickle.

“And because I like you. Actually, I more than just like you. I love you, brat,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you too, idiot,” you mumble, leaning up to kiss him softly again. His lips are warm, tasting so sweet that it makes you want to keep kissing him until you’re both breathless.

Or you will just keep him tightly against you in bed for a lot of kisses and soft touches. John’s blue eyes are locked with yours as he chuckles softly, ready to keep teasing you. Even if it’s kissing you all over your face. Except your mouth.

“Don’t you dare, I will turn us both and kiss you until i’m satisfied,” you threaten with a giggle, your fingers digging into his neck to pull him closer to you.

And he budges, your faces only inches away from one another’s.

“Let's find out if you manage to turn us both,” he laughs, closing the distance between your lips.

He’s right. There is more. So much more. You haven’t said it out loud before he just did. But you both knew, there was always something deep behind the facade of hate and madness. Love. Deep and true, and so damn beautiful.

@armystay89 @rogersbarber @firelilyfox @starktonyx @gabby10100 @fire-joestar

[cbeargyu]

altar boy sins [2]

summary: the pastor’s son fucks you in the back room of the church, promising god’s forgiveness while ruining your last shred of purity.

pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

genre: smut, religious corruption, dark romance.

warnings: explicit sexual content, anal virginity, church setting, religious guilt, oral (m receiving), squirting, degradation, sacreligious language, coercion under trust, creampie, overstimulation, power imbalance, aftercare (light), public risk, no vaginal penetration.

part i.

MDNI 🔞

the days after that event in the church passed in a strange blur—quiet, heavy, stained with something you didn’t have the words to name. guilt, maybe. shame. or maybe something darker, something you weren’t supposed to feel in your chest every time you thought of him: need.

you’d avoided mark at first. not in an obvious way—just in the way a girl who’s scared of her own body might avoid the boy who took her apart with it. you thought he might pull away too, grow distant after what he did to you. maybe he’d pretend nothing happened, or worse, pretend he didn’t mean it when he whispered he’d marry you.

but he didn’t.

if anything, he became more present. more constant. more yours.

he started showing up around your house with excuses—books he thought you'd like, notes from scripture he said might help you reflect, leftover pastries from the church bake sale he said had your name on them. when he smiled at your mother, she glowed with approval. when he spoke to your father, it was always with respect and devotion. he never slipped. never let on. never gave them a reason to question how filthy his hands had been all over their daughter.

and then he told his father—the pastor—that you had a gift. that you were kind, patient, gentle with the younger kids in bible class. that maybe you should help out, become a catechist in training.

you almost choked when your parents brought it up over dinner. “he said that?” you’d asked, eyes wide, fork frozen mid-air.

“yes,” your mother beamed. “such a good boy. not like others his age. he thinks of the church, of the children, of god.”

you agreed, of course. because how could you not? because your parents looked at you like it was a blessing. because mark had smiled at you across the pew the next sunday and mouthed, i’m proud of you, like none of it was wicked.

and so you went.

every saturday morning, you showed up before mass and helped corral a dozen children into tiny wooden chairs, helped them fold their hands in prayer, helped them understand what it meant to be good and pure in god’s eyes. and sometimes, in the quiet space before their parents arrived, mark would stop by. he’d lean on the doorframe, watching you, eyes slow and dark and unreadable.

“you look cute when you’re being holy,” he’d whisper once, pulling you into the broom closet after class and kissing you so hard you forgot your name.

those kisses had become more frequent. hidden, greedy. fingers sneaking beneath your cardigan. his hand cupping your thigh as you gasped against his lips, terrified someone might open the door. you never let it go too far again—but the air always turned hot when he was near. the world always went still when he touched you.

today had been quiet.

your class had gone well—crafts and scripture, singing soft hymns while the stained glass bled sunlight over the children’s heads. when the last parent arrived to take them home, you’d tidied up, gathered your things, and returned to the small gravel path leading back to your family home. the streets of town were mostly empty, everyone tucked into their usual saturday chores. you waved to mrs. garcía sweeping her porch. crossed paths with the baker’s daughter carrying a tray of loaves. everything felt… calm.

you’d just tied your apron around your waist and started chopping vegetables beside your mother when the phone rang.

the one mounted on the kitchen wall. the only one in the house.

your mother dried her hands quickly and picked it up. “hello?”

her voice lit up at the name. “oh! mark, sweetheart. how are you?”

you froze. your fingers paused over the carrots.

“yes… oh, how careless of her.” her tone shifted, just slightly, that disappointed edge all mothers have. “i told her—always forgetting things.”

you already knew what he’d said.

“she left her bible at the church,” she mouthed at you, covering the receiver.

you looked down. heat crawled up your neck.

“you’re such a good boy,” your mother continued, now smiling again. “always looking out for her. she’s lucky to have your friendship, you know.”

friendship.

you swallowed hard.

you could hear the faint hum of mark’s voice through the line, though not the words. whatever he said made your mother laugh softly.

“yes, yes—i’ll send her right over. thank you, mark.”

when she hung up, she turned to you with a sigh. “honestly, you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached. go on, before the church locks up.”

you nodded, wiping your hands and untying the apron. your heart beat a little faster than before. something in your gut twisted.

because you hadn’t forgotten your bible. you never did.

and mark knew that.

you step into the empty church, the air cool and scented with old incense. the wooden pews stand silent under shafts of late-afternoon light. at the far end, mark leans against the pulpit pillar, bible in hand, eyes dark as he watches you approach.

“you came,” he says, voice low. “i knew you would.”

you pause, hand trembling as you reach for the bible on the lectern. his long fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling you against him so your back presses to his chest. you gasp, the hard line of his body anchoring you in place.

“mark, let go,” you whisper, cheeks burning. “i just… i need my bible.” he laughs softly, breath warm against your ear. “you and that bible. but really, it’s me you need.”

he brushes a finger under your chin, tilting your face to his. “i can’t stop thinking about that night,” he murmurs. “about the way you squirted all over me. the way you begged me—fuck, you begged me like a little sinner craving my cock.”

you press your lips together, shame coiling in your belly. “stop—please,” you murmur, voice shaking.

he smiles, amused. “stop? baby, i know you love it when i say these things. god won’t punish you for being hot.” he slides one arm around your waist and with the other tugs the hem of your dress up over your hips. the fabric gathers at your waist and rides up your thighs, exposing the curve of your ass.

“i don’t want… not yet,” you whisper, knees weak.

“that’s fine,” he replies, easing you back to sit on his lap on the wooden pew. you feel the tent of his jeans pressing through his pants, hard and thick, but he doesn’t push. instead, he presses both hands to your hips, guiding you against him.

“mark,” you whisper, cheeks flushing, “please... not like last time. i’m saving myself for marriage.” your voice is barely audible, laced with vulnerability. “please don’t put your fingers inside me.”

he pauses, a slow smile curving his lips, the playful glint in his eyes softening into something tender. “we can wait,” he murmurs, fingers tracing a light line along your waist. “i promised i’d cherish you, and i will. we’ll wait until the altar, princess.”

slowly, he runs his fingers around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down just enough to slip his fingertips beneath. you bite your lip as his cool touch meets your heated skin. he slides a finger to the very edge of your cleft, tracing gentle circles across your clit.

“you feel so wet,” he growls, one hand bracing on the pew behind you as he teases you. “so desperate. look at you—dripping for me.”

you close your eyes, breath hitching. the world narrows to the flicker of candlelight and the press of his body. “mark,” you whisper, voice tremulous.

he chuckles, crooked and low. “i promised i’d take care of you,” he says, thumb brushing your clit in slow, firm strokes. “and i will.”

his touch becomes more insistent, each circle of his thumb sending jolts of pleasure through you. your hips begin to rock against his hand without thought, riding his thumb as it presses faster, harder. you can’t hold back the moans now—soft at first, then louder, more desperate.

“ah—mark—i…” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders, your back arching.

“you’re doing so well, baby,” he whispers, voice thick with pride. “so good for me. so precious.”

you close your eyes and lean back against him, drawing strength from the warmth of his body, the slow, worshipful rhythm of his touch. “mark... please,” you breathe with voice fragile.

his finger presses gently to your lips, silencing you. “shh,” he soothes, “you’re safe. it’s just you and me here. god won’t punish you for this. he’ll see how much i adore you.”

his fingers glide with slow devotion, tracing soft, worshipful circles just around your clit, never pressing too hard, never pushing past your limits. the slow burn of pleasure coils in your belly, building steadily like a flame fanned by a gentle breeze.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck. “every gasp, every shiver... it’s all for me. you’re mine, and you please me so perfectly.”

he leans forward, lips at your neck. “come for me, baby,” he whispers. “come all over me.”

with a shuddering cry, your body tenses and releases in waves. a hot pulse of pleasure ripples through you, and you come hard on his thumb, heart pounding as your juices spill down the front of his leg.

he holds you through the aftershock, his hand steady on your hip. when your breathing slows, he tilts your chin up. “see? nothing to be ashamed of,” he murmurs, eyes soft but hungry. “god might judge, but i don’t. you’re mine.”

he holds you close through the aftershocks, pressing tender kisses to your temple. “i worship you,” he whispers, voice thick with awe and need. “my perfect girl. i could praise you forever.”

you rest your forehead against his, body still trembling. in the silence of the empty church, you feel both convicted and strangely free—bound to him by something far stronger than any promise or prayer.

and in the quiet light of the empty church, wrapped in his arms and drenched in the heat of your first release, you believe him completely.

after you leave the church, mark walks quietly beside you down the narrow village streets, the evening breeze cool against your flushed skin. the sky fades into a soft purple as lamps begin to glow, casting warm pools of light on cobblestones. your heart still races from the tender moments shared, and every step feels heavy with unspoken tension.

when you arrive at your family’s modest home, your parents greet you both at the door, their faces bright with excitement. your mother’s eyes shine as she welcomes mark inside. “we’re so glad you could join us tonight, mark,” she says warmly. your father nods approvingly, his smile wide and genuine.

the table is set carefully in the dining room, candles flickering softly, casting shadows on the walls. as the meal begins, your parents chatter eagerly about church events, the catechism class, and the promising future they imagine for both you and mark. you feel the weight of their expectations, the watchful eyes on you, but beneath the surface, your own secret conversation with mark unfolds.

across the table, mark’s eyes catch yours, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips. his gaze is both playful and possessive. your fingers brush lightly against the edge of his knee under the table—a subtle, electric touch. he responds instantly, shifting just enough to let his hand glide slowly along your thigh, fingertips tracing lazy circles beneath the fabric of your dress.

you bite your lip, holding back a breath as the heat pools low in your belly. your eyes meet again, a silent promise exchanged between you. the room buzzes with the polite noise of dinner, but in this quiet connection, the world narrows to the secret intimacy shared beneath the table.

and there, in the soft candlelight, with your parents none the wiser, the slow-burning fire between you and mark flickers gently, waiting for the moment to flare again.

[wendichester]

Hello Darling! It’s me again 🍄

A few days ago my (smoking hot) coworker mentioned that he always knows when I’m somewhere near because he can smell my cherry perfume ( I promise it was in a sweet way - not a creepy way! He is way too lovely for that) and now I can’t get the idea out of my head that Dean likes readers cherry perfume… could you work your magic with that?

Thank youuuuuu

Luv yaaaaa

⋆.𐙚 ̊ cherry,

summary. you always smell like cherries. dean likes it. it feels like home.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 481

It starts small.

Barely a shift in the air.

One moment, Dean’s flipping through lore books with half-lidded eyes and the next, he’s straightening up like someone just whispered pie behind him.

Cherry.

It’s cherry. That warm, sweet, ripe scent that somehow blooms in the air before you even step into the room.

He doesn’t realize it’s you at first. Just figures the motel cleaning lady’s into Bath & Body Works. But then it happens again. And again. Always before you show up. Always just before your voice calls out, “Guys?”

And suddenly, it clicks. Like thunder behind his ribs.

It’s you.

You smell like cherries. You are the cherry bomb ambushing his senses every time you get close.

The next time it happens, you're walking out of the gas station with a bag of snacks in hand, flipping your hair out of your eyes. The second you slide into the passenger seat of the Impala, it hits him like a freight train.

Cherry. Sweet, punchy, soft.

“New perfume?” he asks, casual. So casual. Painfully casual.

You blink at him like it’s nothing. “Oh, this? Had it forever. I always wear it.”

Dean hums. Looks away.

Always.

He files that information away like it matters. Like it’s a goddamn clue in a case he’s working.

After that, it becomes a game he doesn’t even know he’s playing.

You lean over him to point something out in a book—cherry. You hand him his coffee—cherry. You yank off your jacket and laugh at something Sam says—cherry, again. Like clockwork. Like comfort. Like home.

Dean’s never been one for soft. His life is blood and guts and booted footsteps in the dark, but then there’s you. And your scent. And the way you make him feel like he’s not built from rust and regret.

One night, while you’re brushing your hair and humming in the motel bathroom, Sam glances at Dean over his laptop and says, without looking up:

“You know, you always smile when she walks in.”

Dean doesn’t even deny it. Just mutters, “Smells like cherries.”

Sam grins but keeps his mouth shut. Smart man.

Later, when you crawl into bed, skin warm and hair damp from the shower, Dean pretends to be asleep.

He hears you settle. Feels the bed shift. Smells you—cherry and heat and you—and he nearly groans out loud.

You sigh, soft and tired. “Night, Dean.”

He answers without thinking. “’Night, sweetheart.”

A pause.

Then: “You okay?”

Dean opens his eyes. Looks at you in the dark.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just… glad you’re here.”

You smile, cheeks flushed even in the dim light. “You’re such a sap sometimes.”

He shrugs, barely visible under the blanket. “Must be the perfume.”

You toss a pillow at him.

He catches it—grinning.

Smells like cherries. Smells like you. And for once, that’s enough to make the world feel a little less cruel.

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[lost-and-cursed]

Idk. You can't never know quite for sure. The older are you, the longer you are in specific friendship it's easier to figure out. It's easier with other neurodivergent people, but ultimately:

— you shouldn't be the one chasing friendship for the long period of time. You can initiate contact, invite someone somewhere. But if they're constantly postponing ('because of the work'), canceling, not inviting you back — they're, at best, your pal and, at worst, tolerating you.

— Look for genuine enthusiasm in people. Someone who enjoys your rants, asks additional questions. Someone who seems to be happy that you asked to join, not just okay with it. (Though sometimes it can evolve gradually overtime from acquaintance to friend)

Watch out for 'yeah, okay I guess', 'you joining wouldn't hurt' and similar noncommittal answers that not so much express enthusiastic consent agreement, but just not neccesarily minding you being there. (Again it's fine to acquire some social contacts, but that's not friendship starter)

Watch out for generalised invites — 'everyone's welcome' and even seemingly enthusiastic 'you should totally go, there's gonna be everybody'. It won't hurt to have some buddies that can be established in such events, but again that's not sign that they like you

— As someone else advised, shared interests is a good basis for friendship, just like regular meetings for shared purpose. Most people, who would seek you out one on one after club or whatever, would be actually interested in you and what have to say. (At the very least on topic of shared interests and you can build it up from there)

— People shouldn't be laughing at you. It's fine-ish if it happens like once in 10 meetings, though, I imagine it still wouldn't be comfortable for you due to previous trauma. People will say 'Oh you should be able to laugh at yourself'. No, you shouldn't.

If you find yourself with group of acquaintances and they start laughing and you don't understand why. Ask them to explain. If they wave you off, ask afterwards whoever you consider to be the most trustworthy in the group. If they refuse to elaborate or are shifty about that, that's red flag. And so is regular exclusion from the group jokes.

If you know they're laughing at you, ask them to stop. Say 'hey, i hate people laughing at me. can you please stop?' (or it upsets me instead of hate).

Outright refusal is red flag. Dodgy answers and platitudes aka 'Well it's just joke", "We laugh at everyone", "Sorry it's just was too funny" is unfortunately beige flag. Neurotypics just be doing this shit. (Though the smaller the group, the more responsive they should be. If there's like three of you second step is more applicable) If they apologize and say something along the lines of 'Sorry we really shouldn't have laughed' or 'we'll try to be better in the future ' that's green-ish flag.

It's important to try to communicate it as early as possible once you're included in the group. But what's indicative is patterns. Do they continue? (If they do try second step or run) Do they laugh the same way at majority of group members? (That's good actually, because that means this is group dynamic. You might still not feel comfortable in such group, but they aren't out to get you).

If they continue, but you do actually like some of the members. Pick someone you trust the most and say something along the lines of 'Hey, I was afraid to speak up with the group, but I was kinda bullied a lot in high school, so laughter really hurts. Do you think (you could help speak with *group leader*/there's someone in the group who could make *initiators* stop). It makes you somewhat vulnerable to them, but if they aren't outright dick at worst they dismiss your concerns (then you ask them to not speak about that to others) and do nothing. If you have trouble differentiate whether someone is a dick, it's risky and I would try to convey the 'trusted person' the sake message, but in more veiled way. 'Remember the *situation*. I still don't quite get why they laughed, but it really hurted. And it hurted even more that noone seemed to care. Do you think it would make sense to speak to them about it or it's just me problem?'

— The most of the previous point is damage control and attempt to navigate gray dynamics, which brings as to this point.

Pick small-group or singular-friend over large group dynamics. If you're unsure about big group (over 4 friends) you might be better off leaving.

Unfortunately, if you lack social awareness it's almost impossible to affect in meaningful ways large group dynamic. The behaviour of people in big groups tends to lean on more unruly (or even cruel) and less conscious (or even sympathetic). They are not evil, but they sorta guess what's acceptable amount of sympathy, tact, and any other traits is. Usually they base it around leader traits or perceived average, but occasionally you find yourself in situation where every member of the group is more sane separately than together.

So if you want to stay in the bigger friend group you need as much allies as you can get inside it. People who you're talking to outside of group on the personal level that can shield you from some neurotypical backlash, protect you interests and help you affect group dynamics in more favourable way.

But that's kinda tall order, so I personally prefer (and recommend people who are insecure) to rely on one to one contact for meaningful friend connections.

— I kinda spoke terribly a lot on the topic of friends already, but, in short, you should be comfortable with them. You should be able to ask them questions and have them actually answered. Yeah, even if you ask why were you angry with me yesterday. You shouldn't be judged or mocked for your interests. They should support your ideas and interests. You should just vibe.

It's not 100% guarantee that you'll get it on first try or that you'll be best friends, but most people who meet the criteria will value you, if maybe not always to the degree you would like them to.

— About earning respect. Being competent in valued topic. Valued topic can vary from group to group. For book club it's books, for nerds it can be dnd, for dudes in general sports or computer games, for gals it might be fashion or specific series. Figure out what's the dominant interests in the group that you wish to join are. Learn at least basics and some people won't even mind teaching you, but if you know a lot you will be respected more

— Addition that noone asked for, but important to remember about neurotypicals.

They operate on fae rules. They have a lot of very rigid rules about social interactions that they will not tell you about, but will bend them to their wishes in the ways you won't be able to comprehend.

They're not malicious about it. They don't even know that rules exist, they just affect them like gravity, like the only thing that makes sense.

So they can be polite and cruel, because they know that polite is good, but they never learnt why.

Some people were given more comprehensive list of guidelines that they follow more consciously and they are a lot more pleasant to be around.

Most people mocking you for existing are frankly just too stupid to recognise that being weird isn't a choice. It doesn't excuse them, but it helps conceptualise cruelty that comes from stupidity and their own lacking.

— About not being weird... Advising people on masking is always unpleasant business. Because masking is a burden. It's a piece of heavy armour that will never quite fit, will chafe, is heavy on maintenance and won't ever protect you completely. And yet a lot of neurodivergents find it necessary sooner or later.

Frankly my first advice would be to seek other neurodivergents, queers and outcasts who will be more likely to accept you as you're. You still might need to figure out how best apply yourself to social skills, but it won't be quite as big burden.

There's no general advice on masking. You'll need to find out 'what's wrong with you' (nothing, but society certainly has opinions on that). You can just go for diagnostical criteria for your neurodivergence and remember specific times and examples when it applied and ruined the experience for you. And then you'll need to figure out counter for it. Most often the counter is A System.

A System is the set of rules and if thens that make sure that you're in the clear with neurotypicals in certain situations at least 90% of time. (It might be something like 'if everyone laughs laugh, even if you don't understand' or 'If they say 'it's up to you' if they were angry I apologise, if they weren't I say 'its fine either way')

General principles of the system is sorta like dnd. Some of your stats are low, and others are high. You need to figure out how to resolve problems linked with your low stats by your high stats or avoid them all together.

And since one of the low stats is intuitive speaking, you compensate it by preparation, by walking yourself through scenarios and trying to come up with universal cheatsheet of answers

I also included some common types of complaints neurotypicals make about neurodivergent behaviour to maybe help you figure out the general direction of how to approach it.

It's under cut, because while I wanted to include at least some direct examples, I felt honestly gross elaborating. Because complaints are 'I kinda hate you for existing' and advice is remarkably vague and unhelpful. It's figure out how to bend yourself over and backwards to fit the mold.

Because masking is always grounded in cruelty, in fundamental idea that you're not enough and dominating ideas of behaviour are correct. You are and they're not.

I am proud of y'all for living and trying and being yourself. I know that sooner or later your found the friends that appreciate you for you. Sending love and hugs💛

About those ridiculous types of complaints

Annoying. It can be talking too much, having vocal stims, having trouble to perceive social boundaries, being active to the point of overshadowing others, speaking out of turn or without regard of how much you speak, asking questions (And ironically being intense or unfitting)

Unfortunately main masking strategy is usually to shut up as much as you can and watch people a lot. Depending on specific problem you can read up on it, but generally you need A system and creating alphabet of signs that things go wrong and the person reacts weirdly. In my experience a lot of figuring that out is connected with finding how much od your personality people find acceptable and how to backpedal really fast and apologise at drop of hat.

Intense. It's usually Why do you care so much? and Why are you so focused on the thing. The common complaint is lack of moderation, both in speech and behaviour. Unwillingness to backdown, lack of social awareness when you cross from maybe acceptable to Definitely Not, using strong language or lack of cushioning down your speech, can be just speaking too much on the topic. Might be linked to purely behavioural stuff like staring, fast or loud speech, crying etc

Main masking strategy is to figure out how to look chill when you aren't and pace out your response. Figure out acceptable amounts of talking and reacting. Having designated friends to vent about blatant unfairness of that all.

Uncooperative/Unfitting. When people have problems with you being not in the line with social norms at all. Refusing to show respect to people who don't deserve it, not laughing when everyone laughs, not following unspoken rules or spoken that are stupid, not being interested in common interests, not responding to the social interactions in expected manner. Essentially being perceived either as entirely incapable of being part of the group, or actively sabotaging social norms and group dynamics.

Main masking strategy... is studying and learning as much social rules and expectations as you can, fulfilling at least third of them.

Uncanny valley. Usually behaviour 'problems'. Your behaviour might not even be disruptive, people just don't fucking like it. Sometimes neurotypicals look at neurodivergent people and see something alien. The cadence of voice, of trying to hard or not enough, too stilted movement, inappropriate resting pose and bunch of other bullshit.

Main masking strategy is studying people's habits irl or in the non-parody movies to figure out how 'normal' behaviour looks and try to replicate it. Practicing smiling or what not, maybe even watching footage of yourself

The single person tells me to delete the addendum and I will. I hope it's helpful or illustrative or something. But I am not expert on everything and while my personal coping mechanism is studying every single social context imaginable. There just isn't much to advise in general terms.

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (14) - Mattheo Riddle

-

The air at Hogwarts was crisp with January frost, snow clinging to the windows in delicate patterns as if the castle itself had been frozen in time. The buzz of returning students filled the halls — laughter, chatter, floating luggage, enchanted pets darting between legs — but it all faded when Enzo found you.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor toward Ravenclaw Tower, scarf still looped loosely around your neck, when he came barreling toward you, looking more rattled than you’d ever seen him.

“Thank Merlin, you’re back,” he breathed, grabbing your wrist, his eyes wide with urgency. “We need you. He needs you. Now.”

You blinked. “What happened?”

“It’s Mattheo,” Enzo said tightly. “He’s…not okay.”

Your heart dropped like a stone.

“He’s been at Malfoy Manor the whole break,” Enzo continued, tugging you with him toward the dungeons. “With him. With all the fucking Death Eaters. They’ve—he’s—he’s been different since he got back. Cold. On edge. Like he can’t turn it off.”

Theo had sent a letter over break, hinting at Mattheo’s silence, but you hadn’t wanted to read too much into it. Now, you could feel it in your bones — whatever warmth Mattheo left Hogwarts with hadn’t made it home with him.

You didn’t speak the rest of the way down to the Slytherin common room. You didn’t need to.

———

The Slytherin common room was dim, lit mostly by green-tinged torchlight and the flicker of the fire. A group of younger students huddled silently by the far wall, whispering nervously. Theo was standing halfway between them and Mattheo, jaw clenched, arms crossed.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo Riddle stood dead center, radiating danger. His back was tense, his black cloak still damp with melted snow, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. There was something in his eyes — something shadowed, violent, barely contained.

He didn’t even look at you right away.

Theo noticed first. “Thank Gods—” he muttered, nudging Mattheo. “Mate. Look.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward you. At first, there was no change.

Then he blinked.

And then — his shoulders slumped, just barely. His jaw loosened. His fingers twitched.

Your name left his lips in a whisper, hoarse and low. “You’re here.”

You took a step forward, scanning him — the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his stance, the hollow weight in his expression. “Of course I’m here.”

He stared at you like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare. And for a moment, no one moved.

Then your voice sharpened. “You’re scaring people, Mattheo.”

Something flickered in his eyes — guilt, buried under rage and pain. But he didn’t argue.

“Come with me,” you said quietly, stepping closer. “Now.”

He obeyed without a word.

———

The door to Mattheo’s dorm had barely shut behind you before you reached for him. Your hands slid up his arms, into his hair, your fingers weaving through those dark curls like you were trying to ground him — because you were. And slowly, slowly, the walls began to fall.

Mattheo leaned his forehead against yours, breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he muttered.

“I had to see you,” you replied softly. “I needed to.”

He wrapped his arms around you — tight, desperate — and buried his face in your neck.

“They were all over my head,” he whispered. “Every second of every day. The way they talk… the way they think. It’s like poison.”

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “You’re not them.”

“I could be,” he said bitterly. “I look like him. I think like him, sometimes. I hear that voice in my head—”

“No,” you interrupted, firmly now. “You’re not him. You never will be. You fight every day to be better, and that is what makes you strong. That’s what makes you Mattheo.”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they rested on your waist.

You reached up and kissed his brow. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. Slowly. Carefully.

“I missed you,” you whispered, eyes wet now. “Every second you were gone.”

He finally smiled — the smallest, most broken little smile — and closed his eyes like he could feel himself starting to breathe again.

“I missed you more,” he said. “And I never want to go that long without you again.”

You pulled him down to sit on the bed with you, his head in your lap as your fingers ran through his hair in slow, soothing circles.

He looked up at you like you were the only light left in the world.

Then he blinked. “Wait—your gift.”

You tilted your head. “What gift?”

He reached into his nightstand drawer and pulled out a small, dark velvet box.

“I was going to give it to you on Christmas, but I couldn’t get away. I carried it every day. It made me feel…close to you.”

He opened it, and your breath caught.

A stunning emerald pendant glowed softly from inside the box — delicate, glimmering, and unmistakably enchanted.

“Mattheo,” you breathed.

He took it out and stood, brushing your hair back as he fastened it gently around your neck.

“It’s charmed to warm when I’m thinking about you,” he murmured. “So you’ll always know when you’re on my mind.”

You looked up at him, touched beyond words.

“Which,” he added with a smirk, “is pretty much all the time.”

You laughed through your tears, and he pulled you into his chest again.

“You’re my peace,” he whispered into your hair. “My home. My everything.”

And for the first time since the holidays began, Mattheo Riddle didn’t feel like he was suffocating in his father’s shadow.

He felt like he belonged to you.

[ethe-realfantasy]

"I don't need time, I need you."

(Angst, established relationship, Simon is going through it, but he is still so gentle and vulnerable with you???, I sobbed writing this… should this be a new series? Idk guys you tell me)

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

It starts in small ways.

You notice the change first, not with anger, but with worry. Simon comes home quieter than usual. The shadows in his eyes sit heavier. He doesn’t sleep through the night anymore, sometimes you wake to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face like the weight of the world has finally settled in his palms.

You try to talk to him. Gently, you're always gentle.

“Did something happen?”

He shrugs. “Just work.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

He leans in and kisses your forehead. “I’m fine.”

But he’s clearly not.

And after a while, you stop asking, because being met with silence feels worse than hearing the weight of his truth.

He starts pulling away in other ways, too. Fewer touches. Less eye contact. The warmth in your shared spaces fades like breath on glass. He still shows you love, quietly, in his own ways, but you can feel the wall going up and it hurts.

One day, after a particularly long stretch of silence between the two of you, you finally break.

“You can’t keep shutting me out, Simon. I’m not your enemy.”

He looks at you like you just told him the sky isn’t blue anymore. And then he looks down and avoids you completely.

“I’m trying to protect you", he simply says.

“From what?” Your voice is thin, breaking despite your best effort. “From you?”

He doesn’t answer.

So you step closer. “I don’t need you to be okay all the time, Simon. I just need you to let me in.”

“I can’t,” he says after a long pause. It’s not angry or cruel. It's just tired. “You wouldn’t want what’s in here."

There’s nothing left to say after that. Just silence. A long one.

“I can’t be in a relationship with someone who won’t let me love all of him", you whisper.

He stiffens like he’s just been shot in a place he didn’t expect.

You turn toward the door, already halfway out. Your coat’s in your hand and your voice is shaking from the effort it took to say what you just did.

“Wait,” he says, voice rough. He doesn’t reach for you or grab you. He just... stands there.

You pause for a second.

“You think I want to be like this?” he asks, and there’s frustration there now. Not aimed at you, it's never really aimed at you, but it's thick in the air like smoke. “You think I like being the man who can’t talk about what’s going on inside his bloody head?”

Your grip tightens around the coat.

“I don’t know what you want anymore", you say, not turning to face him.

“I want to come home and not see the things I’ve seen stuck behind my eyes.” His voice drops. “I want to lie beside you and feel like I deserve to. I want to protect you from the ugliness I carry every damn day.”

You finally turn, slowly, with glossy eyes “But I’m not asking you to protect me.”

“I know,” he says, almost to himself.

You step forward, just one small pace, like you're still waiting for something he can’t quite say.

“I wasn’t made for this kind of talking,” he adds, a little helpless. “Wasn’t raised for it. Wasn’t trained for it. But I’m trying.”

You watch him quietly and your heart cracks under the weight of what’s not being said, of how hard it clearly is for him, even now, to let you in.

“You don’t have to say everything,” you say, voice softer now. “Just… don’t push me out. Don’t treat me like I’m a door you can close whenever it gets heavy.”

His gaze lifts to yours. And you see that he’s tired and also scared. Scared of being known too much, maybe. Of loving you too hard and not knowing how to keep it.

And still, he doesn’t ask you to stay.

He wants to. It’s there, all over his face. But it’s like something inside him just won’t let the words form.

So instead, as you open the door, he says it, almost under his breath.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes as soon as you hear the words and your shoulders tense. It’s not the first time he’s said it, he says it often. Sometimes too quietly. Sometimes when he’s angry. But this time it lands like an anchor.

And still you do not turn to face him. Instead you keep your hand resting on the doorknob. You're waiting.

You love him too. God, you do. But love wasn’t supposed to feel like you're standing in a room, begging through a closed door.

A breath leaves your lips slowly and only then, you turn. Just enough to meet his eyes across the small space between you.

“Then say it. Say it like you don’t want me to walk out,” you say, barely above a whisper.

God, why won't he say it?

Simon doesn’t move right away. He looks like someone still caught between instinct and truth. That part of him that retreats when things get real… and the other part that won’t let you go.

He takes a step forward. Not close enough to crowd you, but enough to reach your eyes fully. Enough that his voice drops to something raw, and low, and unmistakably real.

“I don’t want you to walk out", is all he says.

No excuses. No promises he’s not sure how to make. Just that truth, stripped bare.

Your lips part like you're going to respond, but no sound comes out. Your throat works around the feeling pressing there and you exhale shakily through your nose instead. Your fingers finally release the doorknob.

It's not a step forward, but you're not leaving, either.

And Simon… he watches that tiny gesture like it’s the biggest thing in the world. Still, he doesn’t rush to close the distance.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits. “But I’m better when you’re here.”

The air between you feels electric. Not the kind that thrills, but the kind that trembles. Your pulse is still racing, your chest rising and falling like you just stepped out of a fight... or into one.

You watch him and see the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the softness trying to push through his guarded stance. He’s not easy, he never was, but this? This took something out of you.

Still, your fingers twitch slightly at your sides.

Simon doesn’t move yet. He stands like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal, only this time, he knows he’s the one who caused the wound. And he’s terrified he might make it worse.

Your voice comes quiet and tight in your throat.

“I don’t need perfect,” you murmur, “but I can’t… I can’t keep being shut out like that.”

Simon’s eyes don’t leave yours. “I know.”

You step forward again, closer this time, although still cautious, like you're bracing for another sting.

But Simon finally moves.

He lifts his hand slowly, his palm rests open in the space between you. He's only offering.

You glance at it. After a long pause, you place your hand over his, tentative and trembling. It’s like the moment finally exhales.

Simon’s fingers curl gently around yours. There is no pull or force. Just that grounding warmth in his touch, steady and solid.

"If I want anyone inside this mess of a head… it’s you.”

A shiver rolls through you and your heart flutters.

“I hate that you say things like that when I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“I know,” he says, and for the first time all night you see a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Then you take the final step, just close enough that your forehead nearly touches his chest. You haven’t leaned into him, not yet. But you're right there.

And that’s when Simon rests his chin just over the crown of your head. And you, exhausted and full of everything that still aches in you, finally let your head fall against him and close your eyes.

You're ready to try again.

-------

Until a few weeks later, it starts again with nothing.

A short comment from you, something about how he seems off. How he barely touched his dinner or how he hasn't looked you in the eyes since coming through the door.

Simon brushes it off. “Just tired,” he said, flat.

You try again gently. “You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

And that's it.

His jaw clenches. He doesn't snap or raise his voice, instead he just goes quiet. A different kind of silence. Not soft or thoughtful. Not the kind that gives space. This one is cold, rigid. A wall going up brick by careful brick.

You watch it happen, because you know it by heart now. That slow closing of the drawbridge and the subtle retreat behind armor.

But this time you don't knock on the gate and plead for him to open up. You don't follow him with worried eyes or curl your hands in your lap like you did a million times before. You just… go still.

Quiet.

You push your chair back, slowly and clear the plates without a word. Your movements are precise and gentle. No slamming cupboards or angry sighs, just that unbearable calm that says this is how it breaks.

Simon sits at the table, staring at the space where you just sat.

It takes him a minute to realise what he has done.

He hears the faint sound of the sink and the clink of dishes. So he stands up, unsure. His voice doesn't come easily, it never did with this.

“y/n.”

You don't move when you hear your name. You don't flinch or turn to look at him. You stand there at the sink, back straight, shoulders set like you're trying not to feel anything at all.

He approaches slowly, his boots soft against the floor. He doesn't want to startle you, hell, he doesn't even know what he wants to say. But something in him needs to be close.

Then he hears it.

It's neither a gasp nor a sob, not really. It's just a little break in your breath, the kind of sound that only comes when someone’s trying too hard not to make a sound at all.

You reach for another dish, knuckles white, and your head dips a little.

He stops in the doorway, like it physically hurts to take another step.

"Are you crying?”, he asks softly, softer than he spoke all night.

The question hangs between you, a little helpless. And God, he didn’t mean it to sound like that, like it broke him a little to ask.

You don't answer or turn around. But he sees you pause, hands faltering, the plate still under the running water.

And that's enough for him to know.

He exhales through his nose and a hand comes to rest at his side, curling into a fist like he doesn't trust himself to reach for you yet.

He has faced gunfire and blood, stared down the darkest parts of the world, but this quiet ache in your silence, this is what cracked him open.

“y/n” he tries again, voice low, with a thread of apology woven right through it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just..” He runs a hand through his hair.

“I don’t always know how to bring you into the mess in my head.”

Still, no answer. But your shoulders shake, barely, and that sound comes again, it's stifled, quiet and full of all the things you never wanted to say like this.

Simon takes a cautious step forward.

“If I made you feel like you were alone in this…” He pauses and wallows hard, unsure of which words to use. “I really didn't want to make you feel like this.”

You set the plate down gently, still not looking at him. But he sees your hand press to your chest, like something inside there just hurt too much to keep in.

He steps beside you, not touching yet. Just enough for you to feel him there without him needing to say anything else.

“I hate that I made you cry”, he says with his voice cracking.

There is a tiny hitch in your breath, like his nearness itself is too much right now.

He notices and freezes immediately.

“I really didn’t mean to..” he starts, but you shake your head, still not facing him.

“I can’t right now, Simon,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I can't talk to you right now.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, and it guts him, because he sees every trembling inch of you. The strong, steady woman now holding herself together by a thread. And knowing he’s the one who pulled it taut… it hollows something in his chest.

“I’m just” you try again, sucking in a sharp breath as your hands press into the edge of the counter. “I’m so tired, Simon. Tired of trying to pull things out of you. Tired of always being the one asking. Guessing. Waiting.”

“You shouldn’t have to guess,” he finally says, voice low and full of regret. “That’s on me.”

You still won’t turn to face him, but your shoulders are trembling harder now, small, shaking sobs you can’t hold back anymore. His chest aches with the sound of it.

He reaches out and lets his hand brush lightly along your upper arm. A touch you can refuse, if you want to.

You don't flinch away, but you don't lean in, either. It’s all too much and not enough, all at once.

“I’m trying,” he says, and it comes out raw, broken. “I’m trying to do better.”

You turn your head slightly, not fully toward him, but just enough to show him the wet shimmer of tears on your cheek.

“Then tell me that, before you shut me out,” you whisper. “Tell me when you’re struggling instead of making me feel like I’m not allowed in.”

Simon breathes in hard through his nose and nods, once. “Come here", he says, and pulls you in a tight embrace, more tender than he has ever been.

It isn’t a command. It’s a request. Something he needs, but only if you need it too.

At first you hesitate, but then you turn, just enough to lean your forehead against his chest. It's just a small surrender. He wraps his arms around you without saying another word, holding you like you are fragile and unbreakable all at once.

“I’m sorry. God, 'm sorry", he murmurs.

Your forehead rests against his chest, but you don't stop crying. It‘s the kind of crying that’s silent at first, just trembling shoulders and breath caught in your throat. Then it hits in waves: Sharp little sobs that break free one after the other, muffled against his shirt. The sound rips through him.

Simon holds you tighter. One hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. The other hand is anchored at your back, steady and protective.

“y/n”, he says gently, barely more than a whisper, his lips near your temple.

You don't respond or lift your head, you simply sob harder and it shatters him.

He presses his face into your hair and closes his eyes, holding you like he could somehow shield you from himself. Like if he were strong enough, careful enough, you wouldn’t have to feel this pain at all.

But you do. And it’s because of him.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs again, softer this time, “I hate that I did this. That I made you feel like this.”

You shudder in his arms and your hands are clutching his shirt now, wrinkling the fabric.

He rocks you slightly, almost unconsciously. Not to calm you, but rather just to do something. Anything. His own throat tightens and it burns him alive, knowing you're crying this hard in his arms, because of him. Because he was too afraid to show you the ugliest parts of himself. Too closed off.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over now, the words catching in his throat, raw and fraying at the edges. “I’m sorry."

You sob into his chest until your legs give slightly, and he feels it, the collapse under everything you've been holding together.

Without a word, Simon gently steadies you and guides you back into the bedroom. His hand never leaves your back as he sits you down on the edge of the bed, crouching in front of you like you might slip away if he turns his back for even a second.

“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly. His voice is low, warm and rough with emotion, but it's steady. Just steady enough not to make you feel more fragile than you already do.

You nod numbly, eyes glassy and cheeks blotched, and fold your hands in your lap while he disappears down the hall. He returns with a glass of water and a few tissues, kneeling beside you again, like you are sacred.

“Here,” he murmurs, pressing the cool glass gently into your hand, his other hand brushing your hair out of your face, soft and careful. You take a sip, but your fingers are trembling too much to hold it long, so he takes it from you and sets it aside.

Then he stays there, kneeling before you, eyes searching yours with something raw behind them.

He smooths your hair back again, letting his thumb graze your cheek. Your lashes are wet and your lower lip trembles.

“I know,” he finally says, voice hushed. “I know I keep shutting you out.”

You don’t respond and that silence alone breaks him more than shouting ever could. His hand lingers against your knee. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you hear me?” He searches for your eyes.

“I know I’m hard to love sometimes,” he adds, eyes dropping to the floor for just a moment. “I don’t talk when I should. I shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He looks up again, his voice tightening. “I think I broke this.”

Your eyes well up again, more quiet tears slipping down. He reaches up and brushes them away gently with the edge of the tissue, not trusting himself to speak.

“You’re the last person I want to lose", he whispers.

You lean slightly into his hand and that tiny gesture nearly undoes him. He feels it behind his ribs, a weight that presses hard. Still kneeling, he presses his forehead to your thigh, his arms loosely circling your waist. It's a wordless please. "I love you."

And he just stays like that, kneeling at your feet, arms around you, like maybe, there’s still time to put the pieces back together.

You stay still, with his forehead resting gently against your leg and his arms wound around you like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping.

You swallow hard with your throat tight and aching, the aftershocks of your sobs still quivering in your chest. When you speak, it's barely above a whisper.

“Simon.”

His name comes out broken, like it costs you something to say it. He lifts his head slowly and your heart stutters at the look in his eyes, red-rimmed, heavy, wrecked with guilt.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

It lands between you with the weight of truth. Your voice cracks on the last word and you have to look away as fresh tears gather.

“I’m so tired,” you say, brushing angrily at your cheeks, your tone raw and vulnerable. “I feel like I’m trying to love you with both hands tied behind my back. Like you’re only giving me the parts of you that are easiest to carry.”

His breath catches like he wants to interrupt, to explain, to apologize again, but something in your expression holds him still.

“I know it’s hard for you,” you say, softer now, gentler. “I know you’re not used to talking. I’ve seen you hold the weight of everything without saying a word. And I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried, to be patient." Your lips start trembling again. “But it hurts me too, Simon.” You finally look at him again and your eyes are full. Not just with pain, but with love too. Still. Even now. “Can’t you see that?”

He does. The sight of you sitting there, holding yourself together with fraying edges, still beautiful, still his... it guts him.

He reaches for your hand, slowly and carefully, like you might pull away.

“I see it,” he says. His voice is low and unsteady.

For a moment all you can concentrate on is trying not to cry again.

“I just don’t know if loving you should feel this lonely,” you admit and the way you say it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

Simon presses your hand to his lips and doesn’t say anything for a beat.

“I don’t want to lose you“, he manages.

You close your eyes when you hear him say it. Like your body doesn’t quite know how to hold the weight of those words. Like they mean too much. Like they’ve come too late.

Simon watches you with something hollow and tight in his chest. Your fingers are still in his hand, but limp. Your shoulders curve forward as if you're trying to keep from collapsing in on yourself.

He’s kneeling beside the bed still, one arm draped across your leg, the other hand still cradling yours gently, like it might break if he grips it too tightly. Like you might break.

“I just”, your voice comes soft, but cracked at the edges, “I think I need some time.”

Simon’s breath catches.

His eyes search your face not with judgment, not even resistance. Just with that sharp, wounded stillness, like someone took the floor out from under him. His hand stiffens where it rests on your thigh, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying I want this to end,” you add quickly, your voice thick with the tears still lingering in your throat. “God, Simon, you know I don’t want that.”

He swallows hard, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I love you,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “You know that, right?”

He nods stiffly, like anything more than that would shatter him.

“But I’m drowning,” you continue. “And I keep waiting for you to reach for me and you don’t. You shut down. And I know you don’t mean to. But it leaves me alone with all this… And I just.. I think we need some time.”

Simon’s jaw flexes, something deep in his chest twisting.

He wants to say something. He wants to throw himself at your feet and promise you he’ll do better, that he’ll rip himself open if that’s what it takes for you to see inside him, to believe him. But the words sit in his throat like stone.

So instead, he leans forward and kisses your hand. “I don’t need time,” he murmurs. “I need you.”

You shake your head and bite your lip hard, your breath hitching. The pain on his face, that quiet ache in his voice, it all hits you too hard.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I… I have to figure out if I can live like this.”

He drops his forehead against your knee and rests there. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible. “But I love you.”

The words break against you like a wave, but you don't move. You just sit on the edge of the bed with you hands in your lap... the same hands he’d held, kissed, clung to. Now they’re locked together like a barrier. Simon stays kneeling beside you, not quite breathing. He searches your eyes and they are glossy, tender, raw in a way that strips everything bare. There’s no heat or anger in them, only truth.

And he knows:

You mean it. You really mean it.

´You need space... from him.

Simon swallows and it tastes like metal in his throat.

He stands slowly, but doesn’t move far. He just paces. It's not fast or frantic. More like he’s trying to walk the ache out of his chest. Like if he keeps his body busy enough, he won’t fall apart. His fingers twitch restlessly as he crosses the room and he even pretends to tidy something on the counter. Then he picks up a book and sets it down again. He glances toward you again and you're still there, still quiet. And it's all because of him.

He runs a hand down his face, with his jaw clenched and his breath uneven. For a moment it looks like he might say something, but it dies before it reaches his lips. Instead, he drifts toward the door and picks up his keys from the small dish by the entrance.

He stands there for a moment, hesitating.

“I’ll give you the space you asked for,” he says quietly, voice low and heavy, like it costs him everything. “But I’m not lettin’ go.”

You don't reply. You don't feel the need to.

Then he opens the door and steps outside, leaving behind a silence thick with all the words you didn’t say.

[technitaur]

I could - and actually might - write an entire novel on what it was like to live with untrained dogs every day of my life for 41 years. My parents always felt like they were great dog owners and that they understood dogs, but they never saw any need to train the dogs.

They also had an unfortunate tendency to acquire new dogs on impulse. At one time, we had 5 dogs in the house and 3 of them were large dogs. All of them were untrained. Whenever there was a noise out of the ordinary, it was mayhem. I get a very unpleasant adrenaline rush whenever I hear the sound of knocking on a door, even if it's in a video game or something. It's because for most of my life, a knock at the door always resulted in a lengthy explosion of ear-splitting barking.

We were not dog owners. The dogs owned us. We had to work our entire schedule around the dogs. We could never have company over spontaneously, because we had to take the time to get all the dogs locked away in other rooms (and we had to make sure to divvy the dogs themselves up into groups that wouldn't be aggressive with each other).

Just walking out the door was a whole production. We had to spend the whole time holding back all the dogs because they were trying to get out, too. Getting back into the house was a frustrating trial of stumbling, getting jumped up on, and sometimes stepping on paws.

I could go on and on about all of the ways that living with untrained dogs is miserable, but I'll settle for giving the most egregious example. Somewhat fittingly, this most extreme example of my dog issues was also my last ever dog issue:

Earlier this year, both of my parents passed away within a few days of each other. I was left with my two cats, a cocker spaniel puppy, and two large (90lbs each) and very aggressive coon hounds. We originally got the hounds because my mom desperately wanted companion dogs, but we couldn't find any dogs available for our price range, so... my parents pretty much just took the first free offer that they found.

The hounds turned out to be way more of a handful than expected. So instead of them being inside dogs meant to be companions, my parents turned them into guard dogs that were left outside all the time. Outside, completely untrained, and frequently fighting each other over the food bowl or space in the doghouse, they eventually grew up to be extremely aggressive towards strangers and other animals.

(When they were younger, they would quite literally just bark all night, and most of the day. I'm amazed we never got the cops called on us for it. I'm also astounded that my parents, while annoyed at the barking, never seemed to think that it was an indication that there was anything wrong. To them, that was just 'what dogs do.')

Though the hounds were normally outside dogs, they had to come in during the night in the coldest part of winter. Because they were so aggressive, I couldn't allow them to be in the same room as the puppy if she wasn't protected. She had to be kept in a cage for her own safety the entire time the hounds were in the house.

I felt horrible for her. She was caged up quite a lot even before my parents died, because we had a lot of clutter and other stuff that she could have gotten into. That poor dog spent most of her formative months in a cage and it broke my heart. I had to go through an agonizing month of juggling the dogs' schedules by myself. I had to set alarms to get up every 3-4 hours to let out the hounds and give the spaniel a small walk. I was finally able to get the SPCA to come and get the spaniel. She was an incredibly sweet and happy little dog, and the guy said that she was going to be re-homed very quickly.

The hounds were a completely different, and much more stressful, story. They were not so easy to get rid of. I knew that I was completely unqualified to keep them. So were my parents, really, but all of a sudden, the legal liability was on me if something bad happened.

The SPCA wouldn't take them because they were aggressive. Even the county dog warden refused to help me, even when my lawyers asked for help on my behalf. I practically begged for the dogs to be taken away because I knew that they were a lawsuit waiting to happen. But the various forms of animal control around here just outright refused to help, basically saying that it wasn't their problem.

And to an extent, I agree with them. I know that they must have hundreds if not thousands of cases every year where people get dogs, won't train them, and then just want someone else to take care of the problem for them. But my situation was unique. I had dogs that were aggressive but it wasn't my fault they were that way. So I inherited a really shitty situation and I kept getting turned away wherever I looked for help.

A neighbor did try to re-home the dogs for me, and he even had a taker lined up. But when he came to get the dogs, they were so psychotically aggressive towards him that we didn't even manage to get them outside my fence. I was at my wit's end.

There was no way I could safely get the dogs into a car and get them to a vet myself. After 3 long months of struggling with having these dogs and living every day terrified that they were going to get out and hurt someone... I finally had to call an at-home euthanasia service to come and do the job for me.

It took a couple of hours to do it. With each dog, first I had to get them into a large cage, which was a task all by itself because they weren't used to being in cages. So they weren't very willing to go in. Once in there, I had to feed them a bunch of food laced with sedatives, but because it was an unusual situation, they weren't entirely willing to eat.

Fortunately, it finally worked. Once the initial sedative kicked in, the vet had to sneak in the room with a pole syringe and administer a second dose of sedatives to fully knock the dog out. After that, the final injection was administered. Fortunately, the process went much more smoothly than expected for both dogs. But it was an incredibly long and delicate process that wouldn't have been necessary if they weren't so aggressive.

It cost $1600 to put the dogs down. $1600 that could have been saved. Two lives that could have been saved. But because their previous owners didn't believe that training was necessary, two innocent, relatively healthy animals had to be put down.

If the dogs were younger, I might have paid the money to have them trained, but that also would have cost a bomb. They were about 3/4 of the way through their lifespan, so I figured it would be best to just put them down and save them the stress of being trained out of all of that anxiety and aggression.

I have hated dogs all my life, simply because I had to live with ones that were untrained. When I encounter well-behaved dogs that belong to other people, I love them. But I have always hated having dogs due to my experiences, and I will probably never have another one.

IF I ever decide to take that leap, I will not get the dog until I have pre-emptively set aside at least $5000 for training and medical costs.

Moral of the story: DO NOT FUCKING GET A DOG ON IMPULSE.

A dog is not something you can just enjoy for a month and then get bored of once the novelty wears off. You cannot just get it and then never expect to spend adequate time/energy/money on it again.

You should plan for a dog like you would plan for a child. You need to be willing to consistently put in the time and energy to raise the dog properly - for the duration of its entire life.

Some people probably don't want to hear that, but can you really call yourself a 'dog person' if you can't even do the bare minimum that's required to ensure the dog has good physical and mental health?

if you're unwilling to train your dog then you need to just not have a dog

[misfit0789]

Life and ...

Leah Williamson x Reader

Summary: Life has a fucked up way of working sometimes. The day starts normal only to end in tragedy…

Word Count: 3.3k words

Warnings: I don't want to spoil anything...but there is mentions of blood!

This is fiction. I wanted to try writing something new let me know what you guys think!

Y/n was woken up by soft lips pressing kisses to her cheek. She slowly opens her eyes as they adjust to the sunlight beaming into the room from the open curtains. When her eyes adjust she locks eyes with her favorite defender, who is leaning down so her blonde locks surround them both. Y/n smiles at the woman, moving her hands so they rest on Leah's waist, just above where the blanket rests on her still bare hips from their activities the night prior.

"Good morning." Y/n whispers. Leah smiles at Y/n leaning down to press a kiss to Y/n's lips only for Y/n to move at the last minute. "Morning breath." Y/n supplies. Leah rolls her eyes, taking Y/n's face in her hands and leaning down to press a kiss to Y/n's lips.

"I don't care." Leah whispers when they pull away. Y/n chuckles leaning her head back on her pillow. Leah follows, pressing another kiss to Y/n's lips. The couple continue, hands wandering each other's bodies, almost going farther once more but, just before that can happen a knock sounds on their bedroom door.

The couple pull away breathless. Leah lets out a groan of frustration rolling off Y/n back to her side of the bed. Y/n chuckles standing and grabbing some clothes. Leah watches eyes raking over Y/n's body, sheet pulled up to cover her chest. "Dammit" Leah groans. Y/n chuckles.

"Patience my love." Y/n says walking to open the door to her and Leah's shared bedroom. "Munchkin!" Y/n exclaims as a little body runs into her legs once she opens the door. Y/n bends down to take the child fully into her arms.

"Mama!" the child exclaims wrapping her little arms around Y/n's neck, tucking her face into her mother's neck. Y/n adjusts her hold on the child and stands with her daughter in her arms. Y/n looks up over the child's shoulder smiling at her younger sister and sister-in-law.

"How was she?" Y/n asks her sister, stepping out of her bedroom and shutting the door behind her to allow Leah a chance to get dressed, thankful for teaching Peyton to knock before entering a room that has the door closed. Y/n walks towards her sister who is standing at the end of the hall in the living room, her sister-in-law standing next to her.

"She was an angel. Myle loved having her around." Viv answers sending her sister a smile. Y/n chuckles nodding.

"Sounds about right. She always talks about how much she loves getting to spend time with Myle. She keeps asking for a puppy but that is too much for a six year old to handle." Y/n jokes, holding Peyton with one arm and tickling her with the other. Peyton lets out a giggle squirming in her mothers hold.

"Mama stop!" she laughs. Beth and Viv laugh watching the mother daughter duo.

"Is that my baby I hear?" Leah asks walking into the room. Y/n seizes her tickle attack on her daughter and looks up to see Leah dressed in her Y/n's Arsenal hoodie and a pair of sweatpants.

"Mommy!" Peyton exclaims squirming in Y/n's hold to be let down. Y/n chuckles setting her daughter on the ground so that she can greet her other mother.

"How was your night with Auntie Viv and Auntie Beth?" Leah asks, her daughter now in her arms, much like she was with Y/n. Y/n watches as Peyton recounts her adventures with her aunts to her mother. A nudge from Viv pulls Y/n from her thoughts.

"Another one soon, right?" Y/n looks at her sister in confusion as Beth converses with Leah and Peyton. Viv rolls her eyes motioning to Peyton with her head.

"It's about time for another kid, right?" Viv jokes. Y/n chuckles, letting out a breath.

"I mean…" Y/n trails off, brining her hand up to run at the back of her neck. A telltale sign that she is hiding something. Viv lets out a gasp, before slapping her sister on the shoulder.

"You guys already started the process didn't you?!" Viv asks quietly as to not attract the attention of the others. Y/n glances at Leah knowing she wouldn't be happy with Y/n for telling anyone just yet, before nodding.

"Yes," Y/n breathes, "But!" She whisper shouts, stopping Viv from saying anything else just yet. "You cannot say anything." Y/n says placing her hands on her sisters shoulders. Viv goes to nod but Y/n continues. "Not even to Beth. You know I love her but she can't hold water in her mouth." Y/n jokes. Viv sighs but still nods. She loves her wife but knows from experience that she can't keep a secret to save her life.

"Fine, but I want to be the first to know when she's pregnant!" Viv says. Y/n sighs but nods agreeing with her sister.

Y/n and Leah had adopted Peyton when she was six months old. The process was fairly easy for the couple. They were both in their prime with playing and knew neither one could be pregnant at the time but they had talked after Peyton's 6th birthday and decided they wanted another kid. Leah had decided to take a bit of a break from playing so she was happy to offer to be the one to carry. Y/n had no objections already planning on everything she could do to help Leah as she carried their second child. All Y/n had said to her sister was that Leah was willing to carry but had never said when that would be.

"Mama!" Y/n turns towards her wife and daughter at the sound of her name.

"Yes, my loves." Y/n says moving to stand behind Leah, who is still holding Peyton in her arms, placing a hand on her wife's waist. Beth having moved to the kitchen. Viv likely following behind.

"You playing today?" Peyton asks pointing at the Arsenal badge on the hoodie Leah's wearing. Y/n nods running her hands through Peyton's golden locks. Despite not being biologically theirs Peyton holds a striking resemblance to Leah and Y/n from her blonde hair to her mannerisms.

"I am." Y/n nods, "You and Mommy are going to sit in the stands with Auntie Viv who also has a boo-boo like Mommy.." Y/n says. Peyton nods laying her head on Leah's shoulder. Leah smiles rubbing her hand up and down Peyton's back, pressing a soft kiss to her daughter's head.

"Still sleepy my love?" Leah asks walking towards Peyton's room. The child nods, wrapping her arms around her mother tighter.

"Too early." Peyton mumbles. Leah lets out a soft laugh at that, turning slightly to look at Y/n who rolls her eyes having heard what her daughter said.

"Yeah. Yeah. I know she gets it from me. Go let her take a nap before we have to start getting ready to head to the stadium." Y/n says waving Leah away. Leah chuckles continuing on her way to Peyton's room.

"9 am and it's too early for you. You definitely are your Mama's child." Leah whispers when she feels Peyton's breath even out, indicating the child fell asleep. Leah gently opens Peyton's room door and sets her daughter in her bed. Leah pulls the covers over Peyton and presses a soft kiss to her head before leaving the room just as silent as she entered. Leah makes her way into the kitchen seeing her wife laughing with her sister and sister-in-law.

"Babe! I made you your coffee!" Y/n says moving to hand Leah her normal coffee mug. Leah shakes her head taking a seat at the island next to Beth.

"Not today my love." Leah says pressing a kiss to Y/n's cheek. Y/n looks at Leah confused. "I'm just feeling a bit nauseous right now that's all." Leah explains. Y/n nods taking Leah's coffee for herself so it doesn't go to waste. "Anyway are you guys excited to play today? London derby!" Leah exclaims, upset that she's missing the match but excited for the end of it to be able to tell Y/n the news she has.

"A little. Nervous though. It'll be my first start against Chelsea. I've seen you guys all play during these matches but I'm nervous as I've seen how these matches have gone in the past. It could get brutal." Y/n says, moving from the counter to stand near Leah who reaches out and pulls Y/n into her sensing how stressed her wife is.

"You'll be great! You're one of the best keepers in the world. They won't stand a chance to score against you." Beth exclaims, resulting in laughs from the others.

"I guess, but I don't want to get my hopes up." Y/n says fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, her nerves fully showing. Leah and Viv share a look knowing that when Y/n gets like this there is little that can calm her down.

"Baby why don't we join Peyton and take a nap before we have to leave." Leah asks. Y/n nods moving to walk towards their bedroom, saying a soft 'bye' to Beth and Viv. Once Y/n is gone Viv looks to Leah.

"First sorry we interrupted your 'moment' earlier" Viv jokes, having seen the grumpy look on Leah's face when she had walked in, Leah jokingly rolls her eyes. "Second, please take care of her. I can tell something is bothering her about today. You and Pey are the only ones I know that can get her out of this funk." Viv explains, Leah lets out a breath nodding.

"I know," she sighs, "I haven't seen her like this since we found out we got the approval for Peyton. I'll keep you updated." Leah says standing to pull Viv into a hug. "We'll see you guys at the match. Drive safe home." Leah says releasing Viv to hug Beth. The other couple nod moving towards the door of the apartment.

"Please do. It's hard to see the normally calm Y/n so stressed over a match," Beth sighs. The other two nod, knowing there must be something more going on. Leah bids the couple goodbye and shuts the door behind them. She takes a deep breath leaning back on the closed door before pushing off and moving towards her bedroom. She peeks at Peyton and smiles seeing her daughter asleep in her bed, on her way before continuing her move to her and Y/n's room. She smiles softly seeing her wife already asleep in the bed. Leah sets an alarm on her phone before joining Y/n, curling herself in Y/n's arms. Y/n shifts wrapping her arms around Leah, her hands resting on Leah's stomach. Leah chuckles shaking her head.

"I haven't even told you yet and you know."

~~~~~~~~~

"Go Mama!" Peyton cheers from her place on Leah's lap. The mother-daughter duo are seated in the friends and family section dressed in their Y/l/n Arsenal gear. Since it was a colder day in London both have their Arsenal beanies on their heads.

The game has been going on for just over 60 minutes, and just as Beth said Y/n has managed to keep a clean sheet so far as Arsenal lead the match 2-0, with goals from Beth and Alessia.

It's the 65th minute when things begin to go downhill. Chelsea had managed to get a corner. The sounds from the crowd cheering and coaches yelling gets drowned out at the loud thunk Leah hears. She is immediately on her feet having a bad feeling but with the blur of red and blue on the field she can't tell what's going on. She sees all Arsenal players surround someone who is down on the pitch as someone, who she recognizes as Kim, waves frantically to the sidelines for the medics. Leah swears she feels her hear stop as through the frantic players she sees a glimpse of the yellow keeper kit, that she knows her wife is wearing, laying flat on the pitch unmoving.

"Viv I-" Leah turns to her sister-in-law, knowing something isn't right. Viv nods, moving to take Peyton from Leah, the child watching in confusion as to what is going on.

"Go, I'll keep Peyton with me. Keep me updated." Viv says Leah nods, carefully handing her daughter over, pressing a kiss to the child's head.

"Mommy? Mama sleeping?" The girl questions. Leah pulls back holding her daughter's face in her hands.

"Mama… Mama may have a boo-boo so Mommy has to go see if she's okay. You're going to stay with Auntie Viv for a little bit." Leah explains. The child nods not fully understanding the situation, but turns into her aunt trying to watch what is going on on the pitch but Viv turns her so she can't when she spots the red staining Y/n's kit as the medics reach her and load her on the stretcher. Viv and Leah share a concerned look before Leah turns and darts off to the spot she knows the medics will be leaving the stadium with Y/n.

Leah gets to the corridor that leads to the door where the ambulance usually sits for matches seeing the medical team and paramedics rushing around Y/n who is lying still on the stretcher. One of the paramedics is straddling Y/n and administering CPR as the others push the stretcher towards the ambulance.

"Leah!" One of the medics calls when they see her standing there. She rushes forward moving to the empty spot next to Y/n, following them as they move towards the door. Steps faltering when she sees the state Y/n is in. Y/n has a large gash on her head that is bleeding through the temporary bandages that were placed on the wound, blood is trickling down Y/n's face and onto her once bright yellow kit that is now stained in red.

"I'm sorry ma'am but-" Leah cuts off one of the paramedics.

"I'm her wife. I'm not leaving her." Leah states leaving no room for argument, her voice sounding much more brave than she truly feels. The paramedics knowing the situation don't argue and allow Leah to enter the ambulance with them once Y/n is loaded inside. Leah sits on the bench next to Y/n as one paramedic hops in the back with them, the other two shut the doors and rush around to get in the front beginning the trek to the hospital.

The paramedic in the back with Leah starts hooking Y/n up to the monitors there. The paramedic looks at the screen before her eyes widen.

"Hurry the hell up!" She yells smacking the wall between the back of the vehicle and the front. Leah feels the ride speed up. She looks to the paramedic in concern.

"What's happening? What's going on?" Leah says, tears falling down her face, not liking the feeling of this situation at all. The paramedic ignores her continuing to work on Y/n. Leah keeps trying to get some kind of information out of the woman but gets nothing. Leah eventually gives up tightening her hold on Y/n's hand. "Please be okay baby," Leah whispers. "You have to meet your second kid." Leah continues quietly. The paramedic gives Leah a sad look, one that Leah misses, knowing things aren't looking good for Y/n.

Shortly after the vehicles comes to a stop. The doors burst open and there is a group of nurses and a doctor that rush to help get Y/n out of the ambulance and into the hospital. Leah rushed behind but is stopped when Y/n s led past the doors to the ICU.

"I can't let you back there ma'am." A nurse says. Leah goes to argue but the doors bursting open behind her stop her. She turns and sees her mother, and father and rushing into the hospital. Her parents had stayed home to watch the match, but when they saw Y/n go down they immediately left for the hospital closest to the stadium knowing Leah would need them. Especially for Peyton.

"Leah!" Her mother calls. Leah lets her emotions take over as she collapses into her mothers arms. Amanda wraps her arms around her daughter in a tight hug, holding her as she cries. David leads his wife and daughter towards open chairs in the waiting room.

"Peyton is with Viv. I rushed to follow them with Y/n to the ambulance. I didn't want to leave Pey but I couldn't leave Y/n alone. I needed to see with my own eyes that she's okay. Mom-" Leahs words stop as she remembers how Y/n looked. Amanda whispers to her daughter that everything will be okay, not once letting go knowing her daughter needs this comfort.

Around an hour later a doctor walks out of the door Y/n disappeared behind. Blood on his scrubs a somber look on his face.

"Family of Y/n Y/l/n." He calls. Leah stands and moves towards the man.

"I'm her wife. Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay." Leah begs the man shakes his head.

"I'm so sorry." Leah's heart breaks even further at the words knowing what they mean.

"No!" She sobs falling to her knees in the hospital waiting room. Her mother falls next to her wrapping her daughter in a hug as her father walks away, clenching and unclenching his fists in anger at the situation the family is now facing.

Leah tunes out everything the doctor says, trying to grasp the fact that her wife is no longer with her. Her wife who won't get to tuck Peyton in to bed. Her wife who won't get to kiss her daughter again. Her wife who won't get to meet their second child. Leah sits there on the hospital waiting room floor sobbing harder as she comes to the realization that Y/n didn't get to hear that Leah is pregnant.

~~~~~~~~~

Five years later…

"Mommy! I can't find my gloves!" eleven year old Peyton calls from the living room where she is rifling through her kit bag.

"They're in my bag Pey! I threw them in there after you left them in the car the other day!" Leah calls back walking into the living room with her five year old son in her arms.

After Y/n had passed Leah went into a dark place. It took Viv, Beth and Alessia to get her back to a semi-normal Leah. She would never be the same as Y/n was such a huge part of her. Without Y/n she has had to learn a lot of things she never thought she would have to. She had to rely on people who weren't her wife to help her with her pregnancy cravings, and anything else that she needed.

Leah had planned on getting to experience that with Y/n and she broke down most nights as she realized this was one thing Y/n was looking forward to with the pregnancy. But as Leah grew closer to the end of the nine months she realized that she would still live on but never let Y/n be forgotten. Especially when Nick was born. He was the spitting image of Y/n from his y/h/c hair to her y/e/c eyes. He reminded Leah of Y/n in all the best ways and she knew that Y/n was there watching her family grow.

Leah never tried to find someone else. She knew Y/n was her soulmate and it wouldn't be fair for her to try and be with someone else when she knew Y/n was it for her. She was perfectly content with her two kids and her family who were there for her in whatever way she needed, knowing losing her wife at such a young age was not going to be easy. Especially with two young kids.

Peyton took after her mother's and started playing football. She had talked about being a defender like her mommy, but she had seen videos of Y/n in goal and decided she wanted to be more like her Mama and asked to be a keeper instead. That brought tears to Leah's eyes but she agreed. Peyton was like Y/n in that she was tall, even at her age and she may only be ten but she is incredibly talented for her age. She's a natural much like her Mama was.

Leah hopes Y/n is watching over them and she can hopes that Y/n is proud of her.

Little does she know that Y/n is always watching over her and that she will always be proud of Leah.