#idk lmk if i need to tag other stuff

[agayconcept]

.

[themissingnumbers]

[@blue-tearss - previously, yet again.]

WARNING: At this point this entire thing is getting pretty intense in general. Warning for descriptions and illustrations of gore (specifically face and eye trauma), and a general emphasis on horror.

As the knife comes down upon him, Red does not fight back.

Red takes it.

Each swing. Each cut. Each slash.

over and over and over and over and over and

Biting pain.

The burn of an old blade.

It stings. Gods, it stings.

But to hurt is to be alive. To bleed is to be real.

He's something that is living.

Even if 'something' is not human.

Even though he's not sure what it could be anymore.

So he lets the knife glide through his skin.

Lets himself be flayed and mangled and marred.

Lets the blood flow from his wounds, and from his throat.

Because he knows it, sees it, tastes it in Blue's code.

How familiar this dying face is to him.

It makes it all the more hilarious.

Red's face, shoulders, and chest are a sanguine mess of ragged lacerations, staining the front of his shirt with the hue of a dark, dull purple, colored like rotten blood from a lifeless body. Even through the blue dye in the air, he refuses to be colored like everything else- colors of the Missing One prevailing, even with the lack of the man's typical palette corruption.

As if in tandem with the sudden absence of those horrible flickering bars that typically crawl across Red's skin and hair, Glitch City... calms. The mass eating at Blue relents when his assault ends. There's a distinct heaviness to the air, though. Each piece of the world that craved to rip and tear and consume, now twitching, bubbling, boiling underneath them. A dreadful kind of suspense.

A predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

It is waiting.

Red runs a hand down his face, over flesh marred beyond recognition, fingers tracing the dips and exposed muscle even though it burns more and more under the contact.

A single in-tact eye burns into the other.

Somehow, he still.

fucking.

SMILES.

"Y'know, I never thought I'd end up on the receiving end," he croaks, voice half-drowned by the blood that flows freely into his mouth.

"I'd always wondered what the motherfucker upstairs had been through. Thanks for giving me something educational to take from this, pal."

He spits his words at the other, underlined by the awful wet noises of viscera catching in his throat.

He steps forward, aiming to meet the other in the middle. Blue can see him trembling, shaky, unsteady on his feet- it hurts, oh Gods it hurts. It hurts more than he can describe. This pain is unfamiliar. Even if he welcomes the lack of numbness, it still hurts. It hurts. Each step he takes is more and more akin to a shambling corpse, a zombie freshly risen and struggling to hold itself upright. It hurts. It hurts.

"It's a little funny how you say you're not desperate while tryna hack me to pieces, y'know," he continues, voice growing all the raspier.

Frankly, he should be impossible to understand at this point. But there's something supplemental under his gargled mutterings- whispers on whispers from every side, quiet, but just loud enough to make each and every word clear.

"Whaddya think, that I'm stupid, or are you just in denial that badly...? I mean, when I get bored, I don't go out of my way to slaughter some doppelganger of the guy I hate most, in th' boring ol' way I did it every time before... Where's the fun in doin' something different if ya go about it the exact same, huh? You're BORED, but you aren't lookin' to change a single fuckin' thing, just attacking some pooooor defenselesss motherfucker that ya don't even know anything 'bout, don't got any grudges t' hold against...

But heyyy, heheh, it's allll in a place where your actions don't matter, cus it ain't even yyour world, must be sooo much easier, no aftermath t' worry about, that must be what yyYOU think, hhahaha..."

As he goes on, each word is more drawn out, quieter and quieter and weaker and weaker, yet biting with a sharpness that stabs deeper than Blue's blade. He babbles and slurs as if drunk- probably going delirious from the blood loss.

But he keeps chuckling, low, soft, and quiet. Barely a giggle under his breath...

Until it begins to crescendo.

Laughter slowly rising, Red tilts his head back, until he's thrown himself into a loud fit of cackling, RIGHT in the other's face, 'til he's wheezing, barely able to BREATHE through his manic laughter, 'til he looks like he could fall backwards if he doesn't catch his breath.

Suddenly, he snaps his head forward- and there IS an audible snap, like bones loudly clicking into place in a single grotesque movement- bringing himself eye to eye with the other. Sickly dull purples flicker into that distinct violent RED with a flare of corruption, cutting through everything with a vivid, bloody color.

"This place is HELL," he snarls, suddenly speaking clear as day, the amusement still glimmering in his one good eye, "but you fail to understand something important; this is MY Hell. And 'infested?' Does not even BEGIN to describe it."

His hand surges forward, grabbing Blue's knife-wielding hand by the wrist. His nails dig in, his fist closes around Blue's, forcing the other to tighten his grip on the handle. Red blood, running down his arm and to his hand in a deluge, mixes with blue, running and swirling together like mismatched paints dropped into a sick palette.

"What happened to MY Blue? You're asking the wrong question. Didn't anyone tell you to do your research before traveling, buddy? You should be asking what happened to ME. Because BLUE is free. BLUE is exactly where he is supposed to be. Far, far away from HERE. Living. Breathing. S A F E. I wouldn't wish him here for ANYTHING- shit, I wouldn't wish this on ANYONE. In fact, I genuinely feel fucking BAD that YOU managed to stumble into this shithole, y'know? You're tryin' awful hard to kill my pity, but I really am giving you the benefit of the doubt for how STUPID you're acting."

His hold on Blue's hand strengthens. With a harsh pull, and a grip threatening to either draw blood or break bone, he wrenches the other's fist down-

Forcing him to point the blade directly at his stomach.

He leaves the tip of the knife digging through his shirt and poking his flesh, only just gently enough to avoid breaking skin.

"But lookie here, yeah? Check THIS out, hahaha! If you're ACTUALLY as bored as you say, you must REALLY wanna see something new, right? If you wanna keep using me as your new punching-bag motherfucking PLAYTHING... Start HERE, would you? I bet you'll LOVE what happens next."

In a staggered motion, he releases Blue's hand where he left it. Knife still pointed forward, straight at Red's guts, but now with the freedom to let the other decide his next move.

"Still, though... Hey, let me be CIVIL and give you some actual advice," he continues, and he's heaving again, struggling with every breath, excess blood spilling from between his teeth. The surge of strength falters, and he slumps forward, putting one hand over his chest, gripping his shirt until his knuckles go white. His other hand lingers, the one he'd grabbed Blue with, shaking worse and worse with each passing moment. Red feels sick, his heart and a dozen other horrific things brewing inside of him pounding faster and faster against his ribs, restless and angry, ready to explode out of that cage of bone, simmering just below the surface. It's a nauseating feeling that's synchronized with the greater behavior of Glitch City, all while he struggles to stay awake and keep his mind clear.

"If you have ANY sense of self preservation still about you..." he drawls with an uneasy laugh, eye unfocused as he tries to stare at Blue, "then I suggest y'put that fucking thing away and start looking for an exit before shit gets REALLY ugly. But whatever ya do next, well... it's up to you...!"

Even with his lips tattered, torn off his face, Blue can feel how Red's grin widens.

"Just don't say I never warned you."

[moonlightperseus]

okay like i want to preface that i do not have anything against the storylines that they are doing, i’m straight vibing with this season, having fun. i just want to say it’s a little frustrating to me that 911 keeps tacking on these buck and/or eddie centric “surprise” scenes at the end of an episode because then it becomes the big talking point of the episode after the fact and a lot of the other stuff that happened in it falls away to the sides a bit

[no1ryomafan]

I like to say I’m okay with my interests having very small/pretty non existent fandoms because that means no stupid drama even if I wish the things I liked were more acknowledged, it’s better to take them in a vacuum then mainstream cause some of the stuff I like if it got bigger would be more mixed, possibly even controversial-

and I still stay true to that but I also remember how my interests could’ve been decently popular yet all of them got screwed over in some fucking capacity somehow regardless if that was intentional or not and I low key get a little mad.

LIKE JUST AS A POINT OF REFERENCE (I’m listing these all in chronological release order):

Big O: flopped in Japan but when it was brought over to the states it apparently did well enough to get a season 2, but cn were fucking stupid and aired the second season on adult swim rather then its original home network toonami, which is likely why it fell into obscurity when it could’ve been up there with other old animes if people saw the entire thing because a lot of anime popular from toonami are remembered

Kikaiders anime: Was like only popular in Hawaii but the anime was dubbed and aired on adult swim- only problem is they gave it a 12:30 am time slot and even if it first aired in summer a lot of people probably skipped out on it- also I have a hunch that even tho big o on adult swim definitely got less traction it and kikaider afaik aired around the same time, and big o time slot came first. People if they did know big o got moved probably only watched adult swim for that then shut off the tv for kikaider, which further shows putting big o on adult swim was not a good idea. (Oh and the fact this was a anime reboot for a toku even if it was somewhat more accurate to the manga probably didn’t help the reception in Japan, next to how little interest there seemed to be for it given it was so short)

Shin Jeeg: Literally flopped so hard in Japan that it wasn’t even considered getting a dub besides Thailand and Italy, Italy being the only place Jeeg is fucking remembered. It’s no wonder this one probably the most forgotten among my interests despite being a dynapro mech and a reboot directed by fuckinv Kawagoe.

Casshern Sins: I have zero clue what japans reception of it was but probably not high when it’s “an edgy reboot”. As for the west it did got aired on toonami and is LITERALLY the only anime I like that is legally watchable on crunchyroll but it became forgotten cause it aired on toonami when people stopped caring for it, and crunchyroll only tends to show what’s popular so you’d only find this show from really digging.

Getter the only thing I’m not listing here next to it’s still decently remembered-big o is too, but at the same time it goes under a lot of mecha fans radars-but also cause I’m perfectly accepting of “the times it aired on tv it was super old and only part of it got dubbed, then the rest of it were ovas before not getting anime content for fucking years” like that’s a fair reason to be forgotten- but everything else just feels like I’m cursed 💀 (and I wonder how the cycle will continue when I gain yet another old anime robot interest because it will happen- eventually)

[atthebell]

feel free to ignore this but kinda curious. do you follow like half of qsmpblr? i see you complaining about your dash sometimes and at least on my front my dash is fine but also to be fair I follow like. ten people who post qsmp max

i follow like probably 60+ qsmp blogs (some overlap with how many also post other mcyt/i followed before qsmp, and i think this is a low estimate, i'm not actually checking). i tend to follow almost anyone who doesn't annoy me/doesn't post too much non-mcyt stuff/hasn't said heinous shit, because i like seeing as much stuff as possible, mostly fanart but also liveblogging for qsmp especially. so yeah i follow a lot of people and that unfortunately means i see a lot of stuff i don't like, which is always the case for mcyt. i am far more picky than i think most people, as i really will not tolerate misogyny of any kind and certain things people do will make me block them immediately, but i also like having a variety of content on my dash.

tbh the big issue is the one i talk about a lot, which is a lack of media literacy and interpretative skill. im kind of a snob when it comes to theorizing and media analysis, and most people in this fandom are very bad at it. which isn't necessarily their fault, literacy in general right now is at a low and age is definitely a significant factor, but because i'm very invested in well-done interpretation (and it's something i literally went to school for), it makes it difficult to see such awful misreadings of the text.

i also hate angst, at least the way fandom rn does it in such a hopeless and non-narrative way, so that makes the dash a drag. no, i actually don't want my blorbo to suffer endlessly for no reason. like, to each their own, but it feels suffocating when it comes to qsmp fandom, because every time anything happens it has to mean dire, traumatic circumstances for the characters, or an all-out relationship ending, when we've seen time and again that that's not how these characters work. idk, i like escapism in my media to some extent, and it doesn't feel very escapist to want to watch people suffer endlessly. and i think the angst the actual story creates is satisfying in a way fandom angst usually is not. canon usually has a catharsis; fanon does not. this isn't universal, but it tends to happen this way in mcyt at least.

[piplupod]

quick post bc im fucking frustrated to tears rn over this (was just logging in to update my writing sideblog lmao) - the most infuriating and terrifying thing abt my current situation is that despite the lifelong abuse, i still cannot keep my fucking mouth shut sometimes

I've been doing what I can to keep myself up to date with what's happening news-wise without pushing myself into dangerous territory mentally/emotionally, and STILL I fucking suffer because I could not keep my mouth shut around parents TWICE now within the past couple days. and then i get into hot water with them and shit gets bad again and i lose whatever meager amounts of respect or trust or whatever semblance of human decency and kindness they had decided to give to me bc I'd "earned" it by being silent and agreeable.

all i said today was that i think Domino's might be a company to boycott bc my mother mentioned getting pizza for my brother's upcoming bday and then there was just a whole fucking awful thing and I just am so fucking angry w myself. it was so much easier and safer when i never had access to the internet bc i never knew anything that they didnt agree with so i could never say anything wrong in that regard. like at least i Know things now and can actually have opinions, but ... idk. sometimes I feel like it isnt worth it if I keep fucking myself over like this because I can't just hold my tongue.

[cappeyheel]

Heel's semi-final reference sheet..

[girl-bateman]

Intense nausea at work, feel like pure shit 🤢

[voxtism]

i’m thinking about collective trans suicidality again. i used to self destruct as an act of rebellion, i suppose, but it was just convenient for the fuckers who wanted me dead. i think the most punk thing we as trans people can do is live, even if it’s only to spite the asshats who convinced us of the lie that we’re better off dead. i already consider transgenderism as an act of punk rebellion. and i know we deserve to live. and quite frankly i am sick of my friends being convinced otherwise. if you see this i love you and we have to stay alive to become old trans people and grow up together, okay?

[glass-clown]

[ID: A screenshot of tags by @faelovers that reads, "It's interesting seeing this as someone with a big interest in dolls and closely follows the market trends and companies, cause like if you follow these brands and their releases you know that toy companies have been struggling. The manufacturing costs are increasing and kids are less interested in physical toys and for a while collectors have been very disappointed in releases from Mattel specifically, while their rival company MGA has been very successful recently with the collector and tween market for their Bratz revival and with their Rainbow High brand which took a lot of inspiration from the success of Mattel's success with Monster High in the 2010's. This movie seems very much made to appeal to nostalgia and the 'kidult' market interested in Barbie again. After a long time of her being either the lame sister to Monster High or a brand collectors are giving up on, these corporations are really wanting adults to buy into their brands and Mattel's only play atm is nostalgia and the Barbie name brand because Barbie products haven't been on par with their competitors for a long time. This is so boring and corporate but I've been following these trends since I was like 12 lmao. Autistic gals got to be boring about something." /END OF ID]

is the creativity in the room with us right now .

[nereidprinc3ss]

whiny and spoiled

in which reader is being a brat but spencer just can't help himself from taking off her clothes and going down on her anyway!

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: MUNCH!SPENCE (aka canon compliant!) oral fem receiving (duh lol) reader referred to as a girl, bratty reader, idk if this is soft dom spencer or if this is just pure unadulterated munch spencer who will eat pussy at the drop of a hat, overstimulation kinda, sexy and hot, will make u bust a/n: requests are tentatively open in that i may not complete them but i will surely consider them!! thank you guys for all the positive feedback, it's so motivating and i love that you seem to like my stuff so much! please lmk if you like this and what you'd like to see more of in the future! so many ideas and WIPs

You’re lounging on Spencer’s bed when he gets home, fiddling with one of his Rubik’s cubes and kicking your feet in the air absent-mindedly. 

You look up as he opens the bedroom door and gestures for you to remove your headphones, looking a little bemused at the scene in front of him. 

“How was work?” you ask, eyes tracking him as he shrugs off his bag and comes to kiss you in greeting. 

“It was fine,” he dismisses, hands braced on the mattress as he leans over you, looking you up and down. “Why are you wearing boots in bed?” 

“Because I didn’t feel like dealing with the laces.” 

“Take them off, please. You have no idea how much bacteria and filth you’re introducing to the place I sleep.” 

“Probably no more than I do with my hands,” you shrug, shaking the Rubiks cube in his face for added emphasis. He plucks it from your hand and sets it on the bedside table. 

“I’m asking politely,” Spencer says, raising his eyebrows slightly and standing up straight, probably wondering if this is the thing you’re going to push him on tonight. You chew your lip, cocking your head as you regard him. 

“I want to keep them on. They’re my good luck charm. People leave the scary girl wearing the stompy boots alone.” 

He circles to the foot of the bed. 

“Are you saying you want to scare me away?” 

“No. But I don’t need the boots to scare you,” you tease. 

You squeal when he grabs your ankles and pulls you down the bed, beginning to unlace one of your shoes. 

“Do these actually intimidate people?” he asks absent-mindedly, focused on loosening the laces. 

“I mean... I don’t know. Maybe some people,” you splutter after a moment, slightly flustered. 

“Hm. I guess I don’t find you all that scary to begin with,” Spencer admits, tugging the first boot off and tossing it to the ground before getting to work on the second one.  

“Shut up. I’m totally scary.” 

But you’re losing your steel as he looks down at you, eyes raking over your body. There is a hungry sort of sparkle in his eyes now—one that has become familiar and sends a thrill through you. 

“Maybe to people who don’t know you very well.” 

Your eyes narrow. 

“Don’t patronize me.” 

The second boot is removed and joins the other on the floor. His hands begin running up and down the front of your legs. You shiver.  

“I’m not patronizing you, honey. I’m just being honest.” The movement of his hands ceases as he seems to consider something. “Do you want me to be scared of you?” 

You swallow, eyes darting over his face and looming frame, wishing he would keep touching you. 

“No,” you find yourself saying. “But fear is respect. Everybody likes being respected.” 

“I don’t know if I agree that fear and respect are the same,” he muses, smiling ever so slightly, “but I respect you very much.” He resumes moving his hands, higher this time, over your thighs and under your skirt. “I just can’t imagine such a sweet girl being perceived as intimidating.” 

“I am not sweet,” you mutter, distracted by the way his hands skim so lightly over your skin—flipping your skirt over your stomach.  

“Right. You’re terrifying,” he amends gently, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your tights. “Up.” You lift your hips, allowing him to tug the sheer fabric down your legs and carefully off your feet. “The pink underwear are really scary,” he teases, snapping the fabric against your hip. 

“Shut up,” you repeat breathlessly, face heating. “You’re the one that got them for me.” 

“I did, didn’t I? They look good on you.” Finally, he looks up from the pink lace to your eyes. “Can I take them off?” 

“You don’t always have to ask, you know,” you breathe. Sometimes, the answer is obvious enough. 

“I like hearing you say yes.” 

You flush, because what he really means is that he likes when you get desperate. 

“Yes, you can take them off.” 

A smile flickers over his face as he slides the underwear down and off, making sure to take his sweet time. Every brush of his thumb on your calf, every delicate pass over your ankle gives you anticipatory chills.  

“Before I’m dead?” you ask, slightly strained. He tsks, tossing them on the bed. 

“Someone should do something about that attitude of yours.” 

“My attitude is your fault.” 

“Because I like giving you what you want? Sue me.” 

“Spencer,” you grit. 

He slings your ankles over his shoulders. 

“See? You’re not scary. You’re just whiny and spoiled.” 

And before you can defend yourself, or at least make a sufficiently withering reply, he’s leaning down, licking a broad stripe between your legs that for once renders you speechless. Any comment on the tip of your tongue dies as the tip of his becomes all you can think about, melting into a content moan while you rake your fingers through his hair. He sucks lightly on your clit until you’re rolling your hips and then he releases, moving to press kisses to your inner thighs. “Are you going to be nice now?” 

“Mhm,” you promise, wanting only for him to keep pleasuring you in that mind-numbing way of his. 

“Are you just saying that?” 

Another kiss. 

“No! Mean it,” you whimper. 

“Good girl,” he says, rubbing your outer thigh.  

The next kiss is planted on your clit, before he’s taking it into his mouth again and leaving you a whiny mess. You throw your head back and your eyes flutter shut, melting into the bed and not bothering to hold back your sounds. 

“Fuck.” Your voice is small, a gasp as he begins to flick his tongue over the bud, each brush against the sensitive spot making your hips stutter. He rubs your leg soothingly but doesn’t let up—you look back down to watch as best you can through your hazy, half-lidded eyes. “I love you,” you murmur. 

He laughs against you and the vibrations only make you feel higher, whining and bucking slightly when he begins to lap at your slick entrance—kitten licks so light they’re torturous. 

Spencer obviously has a goal in mind; there’s no hesitation and the teasing is minimal. He just wants to make you feel good. And it’s working. The man eats pussy like he’s in love with it.  

His name is rolling off your tongue when he kicks into full gear, firm, fast circles around your clit that make you dizzy and hot.  

“Oh, my god—” you cut yourself off with a languid, shameless moan, rolling your head to the side but keeping your eyes glued on him. He groans in approval as your hands card through his hair, moving one hand to slide affectionately up and down your stomach as the muscles there tense and flex.  

“Fucking obscene,” he mutters, pausing for another filthy, wet kiss to your cunt. “Taste so good, angel girl.” 

“Mm... wanna cum,” you beg, rolling your hips and hoping he’ll get the message. 

“You will.” Spencer takes a long, luxurious lick as if to prove his point, pulling a desperate mewl from your parted lips. “Because you always get exactly what you want, don't you?” 

“Mhm,” you agree, eyes screwing shut, but the reply quickly devolves into a stream of little ah’s that are so sweet Spencer has trouble reconciling their sanctity with their pornographic nature. And the way you unconsciously, innocently begin to pull him closer, trying to press yourself further into his mouth—well, it’s like he said; fucking obscene.  

Sometimes Spencer likes to tease you at this point, to pull away and say sweet and dirty things that always bring forth your most adorable, embarrassed, desperate whimpers. But you taste so good, and you are whiny and spoiled, and you make such pretty noises when you’re all soft and needy like this and he can’t bear to pull away. Not when you deserve to cum. And it’s thoughts like these that are the reason you’re a spoiled princess, he muses peripherally. Because he’s fucking whipped for you. 

“That’s so good,” you exhale, “just like that, please—fuck!” 

He knows you’re going to cum, and there are many things he could do, many things he could say to fuck you over for his own enjoyment, but now he wants more than just about anything he’s ever wanted to work you apart and taste you cumming on his tongue. So he keeps running a reassuring hand over your stomach, trying to remind you to breathe as you approach your peak. 

You finish, a slow wave of ecstasy washing over you, chanting his name as your hips sporadically roll and stutter into his face, and he’s making out with your soaked, messy pussy in a way that would never lead one to believe he’s ever been shy or squeamish or hesitant in any way.  

“Spencer,” you yelp, incandescent warmth radiating in soft waves from your core and slowing your movements as your hips twitch in an attempt to escape the continual onslaught of his mouth. 

“You can take it for a minute, honey,” 

A defeated, half-pleasure half-pain whine lets him know he’s won as he continues to kiss your throbbing cunt, but soon small, weak moans are slipping unbidden past the barrier of your lips. You realize he’s going to make you cum again and there’s nothing you can do about it but tighten your hold in his hair, groan, and ride his tongue as he eats you for all that you’re worth. 

The second orgasm is softer, blurrier, and equally perfect as the first. It threatens the already tenuous hold you have on your consciousness, strand after strand snapping until you’re barely hanging on. 

“Spencer,” you repeat, slurring as you try to shut your legs. “Please, can’t, baby.” 

“You could,” he says, sitting up and closing your useless legs for you, massaging the weak muscles. “You’ve done more.” 

“Mm-mm,” you disagree, chest rising and falling as your breathing slows. “Don’t wanna.” 

“That’s okay, angel. I’m not gonna force you.” 

You sigh, obviously satisfied. “That felt really good.” 

“I bet it did,” he chuckles, finally moving to lay down next to you. Immediately you curl up to him, and he smooths your skirt back down before tracing soothing patterns on the leg you’ve slung over him. “You’re so cute.” 

“Don’t go spreading it around.” 

“Never,” he promises, mocking but in good nature. The two of you lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, as you consider his decidedly unsatisfying answer. 

“You’re not even a little scared of me?” 

He smoothes your hair away from your eyes. 

“No, honey, I’m not. But I’m sure other people find you utterly terrifying.” 

You open your eyes to regard him ruefully, before they narrow again. 

“You have a little something...” you begin, gesturing to your mouth. He snorts. 

“Oh, do I?” 

[giveafike]

kinda obsessed with the prompt of ben x fem tennis reader being together for a lil while and being the cutest couple , breaking up bc the distance hit them too hard after two straight months of different tournaments/locations, then seeing each other for the first time at a 1000 tournament, going out to dinner with the same group of people and end up going back to bens hotel room to clear the air and obvs end up in bed together realising they’re gonna have to get thru the distance cos they can’t be without each other now 😭

TLDR: tennisplayerfem!reader and ben break up bc you can't handle being away and then surprise, you can't handle being not together. Losers.

Word count + info: 10k. Am I mentally ill? This is supposed to be a blurb.. Dialogue (angst, texts, calls, conversation).

Warnings + Content Ahead: SFW! Breakup and kinda mean stuff said (nothing physical description wise). Otherwise, it's all good! (i think)

Azzie Notes ✚: SHOOT ME IN THE HEAD. AM I OKAY??? 10K?? ON A BLURB?? idrk what angst is fr chat lmk if i did that one fr idk....im a LOVER girl ok IDK HOW TO DO THIS SAD SHIT - in saying that, was part of my dialogue in this lwky..loosely based off of my ex...........maybe...

I fear I loved this prompt so bad and like...I love to yap..so...

Socials + Updates: twitter ( @azziegivesafike) - feel free to follow and msg me about non requests there, I'll be posting life updates, story + req updates and spoilers/teasers alongside other things, so it'd be nice to have a community over there!

————————————————————————

Shattered - B.T.S.

In the beginning, being with Ben is the kind of whirlwind you've only seen in movies, a connection that feels so natural, yet thrillingly unexpected. Well, in hindsight, that might've been a lie. It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but instead, a slow, magnetic pull that drew you together, like the tension building in a long rally. You met on the circuit, both hungry, ambitious, and dedicated to your own success. But from the start, Ben had this way of getting past your disciplined, guarded exterior with that relentless charm of his.

He’s everywhere, it seems—posting highlights from your matches on his stories, sneaking your name into press conferences, tagging you in his silly “lazy Saturday” shots where your game is always playing in the background. He flirts shamelessly, flashing that grin across the court, his voice lifting over the crowd to make some cheeky comment that leaves you stifling laughter. Your friends see it before you do: Ben is crazy about you, and soon, so is everyone else.

He flirted shamelessly and relentlessly, everywhere and anywhere, often catching you off guard in ways that left you flustered despite your best efforts to stay cool and professional. With that, you started to look out for the way his eyes would find yours in a crowd while you sat in the stands during his matches or how he would nudge you at practice with that easy, casual touch like he’s done it a thousand times before; like you belong by his side.

Once, when he's asked in an interview if he’d dedicated his recent win to anyone, he grins and looks straight across the room, making everyone laugh. “There’s someone special right now, but no need to say names, she knows.”

It’s sweet, funny and more than a little bold. Later, when you called him out for it over one of your first late-night calls, he shrugged, entirely unapologetic, telling you with that stupid drawl of his, “What? Ain’t no point hidin’ it. The world knows who my lucky charm is.”

Soon, it was you reaching out for him, your hand slipping onto his arm, leaning against him during walkouts, letting your barriers fall. And every time he catches your eye, every time he manages to make you smile, he looks at you like he’s won the lottery. His heart stammers a little each time you shove him playfully or roll your eyes at his antics. Whether it was on the bench or during changeovers, Ben would rest his hand gently on your lower back, a touch that makes you feel, just for a moment, like you're the only two people in the world.

When the rare break in your schedules comes around, you steal hours together. You grab a coffee, turning a "quick run" into a day spent together and wander around a city you barely know, or stumble upon a hidden café with pastries too flowery for your tastes. He made everything feel easier, like no matter how intense life gets, you’ll always have that balance with him. Around Ben, you can be softer, and more vulnerable; he brings out a side of you that isn’t just about winning and competing but about laughing, sharing, and letting go.

People noticed the way you look at each other, the easy affection that passes between you, the more daring and intimate PDA, sharing kisses and lingering stares. Soon, fans were shipping you openly, posting photos of you courtside, or whispering to each other when you lean close and murmur something that makes him laugh. On tour, you’re one of those “it” couples, a little slice of joy in the relentless pace of your careers. And in those early days, you both believe that together, you can take on anything. In those early days, you believed you could take on anything together. You and Ben were partners, equals, and even in the midst of a gruelling season, there had always been time for him, always a reason to smile. It felt perfect, like a love story you had stumbled into but were both entirely committed to.

But that honeymoon phase comes crashing down real quick.

As seasons shift and tournaments stretch across continents, the cracks start to show. At first, it’s just a few hours difference, but then come the miles and oceans, and the texts dwindled, conversations cut short, replaced by more missed calls than made and vague apologies. You both had tried, in every way you knew how. But eventually, the memories weren’t enough to bridge the distance. You’d catch yourself staying up just to wait for his call after practice, only to fall asleep disappointed, staring at a dark screen. And every time you woke up to a hastily sent sorry, something came up text, it felt like another tiny fracture.

Ben wasn’t the only one caught up in the chaos of your schedules; you had your own demands, too. The strain went both ways. In an attempt to keep things alive, you’d push yourself to keep up with his time zone, adding another city to your Clock app, setting alarms accordingly to his lunch and dinner times, staying awake far too late, eyes heavy as you sat alone in your hotel room, scrolling through old photos just to feel closer to him. When the call finally did come, your voice was barely more than a whisper, tired and distant, and Ben couldn't bear the exhaustion in your tone, his heart aching as he hushed you to sleep, meaning neither of you would stay on long.

It all piled up slowly, almost imperceptibly, until the weight felt crushing. Conversations became one-sided, it’s like chasing the sun itself, moments of silence replacing the laughter that had once felt endless, and that spark, the one that made you feel unstoppable together, felt further away with every day that passed.

Then came the day of your match, a game that should have been easy, one you’d normally have breezed through. But you were dragging, exhaustion wrapping itself around your every heavy, drooping step, and somewhere in the depths of your mind, a bitter thought took root:

If only he cared.

You knew it wasn’t his fault, but still, the frustration boiled over. Would things have felt different if you weren’t so alone in this? If you didn’t have to wonder when, or if, he’d remember to call? If he scheduled calls to your time for once? If he could just postpone everything for 20, 20 measly minutes for you?

A ball zips right by you, snapping you back to reality.

Lying in your hotel room that night, you stared at the ceiling, replaying the best moments of your time together like an old movie reel. In those moments, it had felt perfect. You’d believed you could take on the world, side by side, partners in everything. But now, with miles and silence separating you, you wondered if those memories were all that was left of what you once had.

But even with that ache, even with the emptiness filling the room, one thing is clear as day: loving Ben, for all its messiness, for all the distance and loneliness, had never felt like a mistake but God, was it hard. You pondered on those same irritating thoughts that itched at you until your fingers found your phone and hit the FaceTime Call button. Part of you wanted him to not pick up, knowing that you had nothing kind or sweet to say, but a small part of you wanted to dish back what he deserved.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice tense, worn. His drawl feels distant like he’s talking to you from across an ocean.

“Hey.” You can feel the iciness in your voice, colder than you intended.

“Long day?” he asks, though his expression is already tense, wary.

“Yeah. Almost lost today,” you say flatly.

Ben’s gaze flicks down. “I saw the score,” he says, his voice cautious. “Guess it was a tough match, babe.”

“It shouldn’t have been,” you snap. “But maybe it’s hard to focus when I’m barely sleeping… or constantly waiting for a text that never comes.”

He blinks, his eyes narrowing. “So this is on me?” The familiar accent is a little rougher around the edges. “You’re losin’ matches ‘cause I’m not callin’ you enough? That’s what you’re sayin’?”

“Don’t play dumb, Ben. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about” You feel the bitterness twisting in your chest. ““You’re barely here, Ben. Half the time, I don’t even know if we’re still together or if we’re just two people sending pointless messages every few hours. Half the time, it feels like I’m talking to a ghost.”

He lets out a frustrated laugh, shaking his head. “You think it’s any easier for me? I’ve got my own stuff, my own schedule, darlin'. I’ve got my career to think about too, you know, this ain't just about you.”

Your jaw tightens. “Yeah, well, at least when I'm on the court, I don’t exactly have the luxury of tuning you out, Ben. I’m not the one who forgets to call after saying I would. I don’t have time for half-assed texts and waiting around for you to call when you feel like it.”

“Oh, don’t go there,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “You know what it’s like. The fans, the interviews, the time spent on court-”

“Yeah, I get it, Ben. But last week, you bailed on a call to go sign autographs. Priorities, right?”

He takes a deep breath, visibly holding back. “C’mon, babe, you don’t mean that.”

But you press on, unable to stop yourself. “You’re too busy with whatever ‘big thing’ you have going on, right? Maybe if you cared enough to focus on your game instead of your ‘commitments,’ you wouldn’t have dropped that finals match. Just maybe.”

He flinches, his expression turning dark. “Oh, that's low from you, Y/N. You really wanna go there?”

“Yeah, I do,” you say, your voice unwavering.

He pauses, his face hardening. “If you were out here on the ATP tour, you’d understand how rough it really is. You wouldn't even get past a challenger. It ain’t the same league as the WTA.”

You laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “Oh, don’t even start with that. Rougher than the WTA? Is that supposed to make me feel better? Maybe come and join WTA then, you wouldn't manage it out here either, Ben.”

He snaps, his voice cutting like a whip. “You know how much I’m fightin’ to make a name for myself out here. Just ‘cause you got a few more shiny titles doesn’t mean you get to talk down to me like this.”

The sting of his words hits like a slap. Your face flushes, a mix of anger and hurt bubbling up. “So, that’s it? Just because I’ve actually earned my success, I’m some kind of… what? Nag?”

“I didn’t say that,” he shot back, voice tight, his eyes narrowing as he looked away. “But maybe you’re doin’ too much. Bein’ all… dramatic, blamin’ me for stuff I got no control over.”

“Right, okay, so I’m being dramatic,” you scoff, your voice edged with sarcasm. “I’m the one asking for too much because I want something real, something you clearly can’t give.”

He laughs, bitter and raw. “Maybe you just want too damn much.”

You feel the tears prickling behind your eyes, but you clench your jaw, holding yourself together by sheer force of will. Your voice trembles as you speak, the words thick with a pain you can’t contain. “I just want you to care, Ben, or at least pretend to care and make it believable. I want you to care enough to be here when it matters. But you’re so wrapped up in yourself, you don’t even see it.”

His face hardens, his jaw set, but his eyes hold a flicker of something unspoken. “You think I don’t care? I’m out here pushin’ myself every day, for us, for this future we’re supposed to be building 'n shit. But it’s like no matter what I do, it ain’t enough for you.”

A sharp knock sounds from his end, followed by muffled voices. He glances away, then back at you, irritation flaring in his eyes. “Look, I gotta go. Dad’s waitin’ on me; he already gave me an extra ten minutes to talk.”

You feel your heart twist, an ache of disappointment settling in. “Oh, of course,” you mutter, your voice dripping with bitterness. “Go ahead. I’m sure your training’s way more important than anything I have to say.”

He turns back, his eyes blazing with frustration. “Maybe it is right now,” he spits. “Talkin’ to you like this, all it’s doin’ is makin’ things worse. We're not getting anywhere like this-”

The words cut deeper than you expect, and you can barely hold back the surge of anger and heartbreak choking you. “Fine. Go, then. At least one of us can prioritise something.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he looks away. “You’re bein’ unfair, 'n you know it.”

“Am I?” you whisper, your voice tight and choked. “Or am I just done waiting for you to show up?”

You stare at each other, an endless silence stretching between you, sharp and seething, words too heavy to be unsaid. Then, with a frustrated shake of his head, he mutters, “I can’t do this right now. I’ll talk to you later. When you’re not actin’ like this.”

Before you could respond, he hung up, his face disappearing from your screen, leaving you alone with nothing but the cold light of your phone. Your hands shook as you stared at the blank screen, tears finally spilling over.

With trembling fingers, you took a breath, letting a cold, steely calm settle over you. You typed out a simple, blunt message, leaving no room for second-guessing, no room for soft words or explanations. Just the truth, as raw as you felt.

“We’re done. I can’t do this anymore, Ben. I’m sorry.”

Your thumb lingered for a second before hitting “send,” and as soon as the message went through, you blocked him on every platform, cutting off any way for him to respond, to apologise, to convince you otherwise.

But as you tossed your phone aside, a crack appeared in the calm you’d forced on yourself. The tears came suddenly, your breath hitching as a tidal wave of heartbreak surged through you. You buried your face in your hands, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could somehow contain the emotions clawing their way to the surface. You tried to stay quiet, muffling the sound in the dark, but the weight was too much, every sob raw, grieving and heavy, pouring out the frustration, the loneliness, and the love you’d tried so hard to salvage.

By the time your tears subsided, you felt utterly drained, hollowed out in a way that made everything around you feel distant and surreal. The city lights flickered outside your window, the glow indifferent to the storm that had torn through you. And in that quiet, broken moment, with only the shadows as company, you lay there, letting the exhaustion seep through your bones until sleep claimed you.

When sleep finally came, it was restless, fractured. You tossed and turned, flashes of memories from better days with Ben haunting you, the sound of his laugh, the way he’d smile, gummy and wide, his nose scrunching with that easy confidence. You woke up more exhausted than when you’d closed your eyes, feeling like you hadn’t rested at all. But you forced yourself out of bed, pushing yourself through your pre-game routine, your emotions locked away, frozen under layers of determination.

As you walked onto the court, the crowd buzzed with excitement, but you barely registered it. You were a storm, calm on the surface but seething underneath. Every shot you took was hard and brutal, the ball slicing through the air with an intensity that made your opponent flinch, the impact echoing through the stadium. You played as if your life depended on it, your body moving with sharp, lethal precision.

Your serves were relentless, your groundstrokes vicious, each one faster, sharper, as if each shot were a way to expel the anger and hurt still simmering in your chest. The crowd murmured, noticing the shift in your energy, the way you were pushing yourself, almost recklessly. A couple of times, your shots zipped past your opponent’s hand, barely missing, almost daring her to try and reach for it - "try me". You were untouchable, unstoppable, playing like you had something to prove.

But there was no smile, no hint of joy in your movements, solely mechanical. The usual lightness in your footwork was gone, replaced by a cold, ruthless efficiency. You’d already decided: this match was yours. You weren’t here to give an inch, weren’t here to let any lingering emotions cloud your focus. The crowd might have wanted excitement, but you were giving them precision, a display of control and fury that left no room for doubt.

You won, of course. Your opponent barely had a chance. But as you walked off the court, sweat trickling down your brow, fists clenched, you felt no thrill in the victory. Just the dull ache that lingered, a hollow space where your lightness, your smile, used to be. The heat of the court only made your head throb. The applause faded into background noise as you strode away, head high, shoulders tense. You’d won, but it felt like a hollow victory. You had no one to text after your game, anyone to call you baby - you had done it to yourself, were you really that desperate for a man to validate you? You were sick of feeling this way, sick of the exhaustion, the anger, the loneliness that clung to you even after everything you’d given today. At least, for now, you’d proven something, to yourself, to him, even if he’d never know, or care.

In the month that followed, you threw yourself harshly into your schedule, determined to erase any trace of him from your routine, your heart. Matches, training, travel, interviews, photoshoots, more matches, each day bled into the next, filled with an almost mechanical sense of purpose. If you weren’t on the court, you were working out, perfecting your strokes, spending hours on serves and footwork. Anything to exhaust yourself to stop the thoughts from lingering too long. Your routine was relentless, your focus razor-sharp.

But even in this frenzy, despite it all, reminders of him still slipped through. You’d scroll through social media, and every so often, an ATP post would pop up: Ben at a tournament, Ben celebrating a point, Ben grinning with that easy charm that used to make your heart ache. He looked different now. His curls were longer, spilling out from over his sweaty headband, and his frame had hardened, leaner, with muscle that seemed to outline his strength in sharper lines. His chubby cheeks had slimmed down into something harder, replaced by the quiet confidence of someone who’d grown, adapted, maybe even suffered a little.

And you could almost feel it, the quaking, gaping pain of missing him, but you’d swallow it back down, pull yourself together, and look away.

Your own press conferences became something else entirely. You were more composed, a bit sharper with your words, confident in a way you hadn’t been before. Where you used to smile shyly or laugh softly, now you leaned in with humour, a hint of flirtation, your charm more self-assured. You handled reporters’ questions deftly, especially the ones that tried to pry about Ben. The same questions came up over and over:

“So, do you still keep in touch with Ben?”

Each time, you’d respond with a practised, cool smile. “Right now, I’ve got all the support I need from my team and the people I have with me.” You’d turn the conversation to your work, your skill, and your grind on the court, dismissing the topic with subtle elegance, always steering it back to your goals, your game, and your people.

Yet, away from the cameras, the facade cracked, if only slightly. Sometimes, after a long match or a particularly brutal day of training, you’d find yourself scrolling through your old photos or feeling tears prickling your eyes, this messy situation taking a bigger toll than you would like to admit.

In his hotel room, Ben watched your interviews alone, a faint crease between his brows. There you were, in all your brilliance, flashing a confident smile at the camera, handling the press with a wit and boldness that felt both familiar and strange. He could see the way you’d grown, the way you’d steeled yourself, and it stirred something in him, a pang he couldn’t ignore. It was like watching someone he knew intimately and yet… not at all. The way you answered questions about him, and your subtle redirection to your career and team, it stung. Maybe it was petty, but he missed the way you used to talk about him with such pride, with that lovestruck glow. He loved seeing how shy you would get at the sheer mention of his name. Your hair was different, your skin glowing, you had more confidence, even if it came off a bit cocky but he still felt like you were his, just as much as he was yours. Ben didn’t know how to reach out, didn’t know what he’d even say. There was a distance now, both physical and emotional, that seemed impossible to bridge. He’d scroll through his own phone sometimes, finding old messages, ones before distance got the better of you both, photos of the two of you, half-written scripts in his Notes app he couldn’t bring himself to deliver. If he flew out tonight to you, what would he even do after? He’d think of calling you, of reaching out somehow, but the memory of your last fight, the bitterness in your voice, the way you’d shut him out… it held him back.

One evening, as you sat alone in the players' lounge, your forehead pressed against the back of the sofa, you felt that familiar ache pulse through you, the one that came every time you thought of him. It was then that Coco came by, her familiar, steady presence filling the room as she settled down across from you, cross-legged on the seat in front of you. Over the past year, it was Ben that introduced you but, you and Coco had grown even closer, bound not just by shared victories and losses but by the pressures only someone like her could truly understand.

Coco tilted her head, her gaze warm but unwavering. “Alright,” she said, cutting through the silence. “What’s really going on? Are you… over him?”

You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair as you tried to gather your thoughts. “I wish I could say yes,” you murmured. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried to move on, focus on the game, on everything else, but… he’s still everywhere. Even when I’m doing well, even when I’m focused, it’s like… something’s missing.” Your voice dropped to barely a whisper. “It’s like I can’t fully shake him.”

Coco nodded, her expression both sympathetic and knowing. “I get it. You two had something real, something intense. But maybe this time apart is what you both need. I mean, look at you. You’re stronger now, on and off the court. Maybe that’s part of this whole journey, you know?”

You managed a faint smile, though your heart still felt heavy. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. It just… doesn’t always feel like enough.”

She reached out, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Trust me. If he’s the right guy, he’ll figure it out, too. Until then? Focus on your game. Focus on you.”

Her words stayed with you, offering a small but steady comfort in the days that followed. You have been throwing yourself into training, pouring everything into the sport, trying to find solace in each match and each moment of growth. Somewhere out there, he was doing the same, and maybe, just maybe, this was what was best.

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t completely smother the small spark of hope, that someday, somehow, your paths might cross again.

It was similar in the men’s locker room, Ben slumped forward on the bench, his elbows propped on his knees as he stared blankly at the floor, holding an uncapped bottle of water. Frances Tiafoe, who’d been eyeing him from across the room, exchanged a knowing glance with Taylor Fritz before making his way over.

“Alright, bro, spill it,” Frances said, tossing a towel over his shoulder as he leaned in. “You’ve been lookin’ like you’re living in some sad dog for weeks.”

Ben gave him a sidelong glance. “There’s nothin’ to talk about.”

Taylor rolled his eyes as he joined them, settling down on the other side of Ben. “Come on, man. We’re not blind. Ever since she blocked you, you’ve been… different.”

Ben scoffed, looking away, his voice low. “She didn’t just block me, man. She… she threw down, real hard. Said some things I thought she’d never say.”

Frances let out a low whistle. “Was that rough, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, rubbing a hand over his face, his frustration mingling with regret. “It all just blew up. We were on a call, talkin’ like usual, and suddenly… it was like everything we hadn’t said just came out. She starts throwin’ things at me about how I’m not there, like… like I don’t care enough or not workin' hard enough. And it pissed me off, you know? I work just as hard, and it’s not like I’m sittin’ around, right?”

Taylor nodded, leaning back against the lockers. “So, what’d you do?”

Ben shrugged, his expression pained. “I pushed back, told her she couldn’t keep actin’ like she’s the only one workin’ for this. Told her ATP is just as tough, maybe even more competitive. Didn’t mean it that way, but she took it wrong. She thought I was tryin’ to downplay her game.”

Frances shook his head, giving Ben a sympathetic look. “Man, she must’ve felt hurt.”

“Yeah,” Ben muttered, a bitter laugh escaping him. “And next thing I know, I get this text. ‘This isn’t workin', we’re done.’ Blocked me on everything. Cold as ice, man. It’s like she flipped a switch, just… shut me out completely, as easy as shuttin' a door.”

Frances gave him a gentle nudge. “You still care about her?”

Ben’s gaze softened, a faint smile breaking through his frustration. “Yeah, man. She’s… she’s my girl. Even if she’s not my girl right now, you know?”

Taylor chuckled, nodding. “So, what’re you gonna do about it? Sit around here moping, or actually make a move?”

Ben sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “What am I supposed to do? She’s made it pretty clear she’s done with me.”

Frances grinned, crossing his arms. “Bro, just ‘cause she blocked you and sent a text after you called her game easy, doesn’t mean it’s over. She’s mad, yeah, but she’s probably missin’ you just as much. You just gotta show her you’re willin’ to do what it takes.”

Taylor nodded in agreement, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “And it doesn’t have to be some big romantic gesture, man. Sometimes, it’s the small things. Something to let her know you’re still thinkin’ of her, still care. You know where we're at next, right?”

Ben chuckled, shaking his head. “And do what? Just show up at her hotel room? She’s liable to call cops on my ass for that shit, bro.”

Frances laughed, shrugging. “So what? At least she’ll know you tried! Don't go doin' that though. Look, I’ve been with my girl for years now, and sometimes, you gotta be willing to look like a fool to show her you care.”

Ben leaned back, their words sinking in. He could still feel the sting of the things she’d said, the accusations she’d thrown at him like he didn’t care, didn’t work just as hard. But he couldn’t deny that he’d made mistakes, too. He’d let his pride get in the way, said things he regretted, and let the frustration of it all get the better of him.

Frances nudged him again, his grin widening. “Think about it, man. You got two choices: sit here, feeling sorry for yourself until she finds some other guy, or actually do something about it and get her back, even if that means standing in the rain with a fuckin' speaker.”

Ben finally cracked a smile, looking between his friends. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

“Hey, maybe,” Taylor said with a shrug. “But at least we got girlfriends. And you? You got a chance to get yours back. Just gotta decide if she’s worth it.”

Ben sat there, mulling over their words as a new determination started to burn within him. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers, and maybe there was a lot he’d have to figure out. But if there was even a chance to fix things, to bridge that gap that felt so wide, he wasn’t about to let his pride hold him back.

As he left the locker room that night, he felt a resolve solidify within him. He’d find a way to reach out, to let her know that no matter how far apart they were, she was still the one he wanted. Because when it came down to it, she was worth every bit of the fight.

A week went by before a 1000 game flew in, and both ATP and WTA were present if not, nearby for the games. You couldn't care less what was at stake, anything was a win if it kept you occupied. The courts were almost empty, shadows lengthening as the sun beamed high above. You bounced the ball steadily, the rhythm calm, your focus laser-sharp. The only sounds were the muted thud of your shoes on the court, and your breath falling into sync with the beat of your earbuds. Nothing but you, the court, and the quiet.

But then, that voice broke through.

"Aw, c'mon, man!" A laugh, deep and full of that unmistakable Southern drawl. Your grip faltered, the ball hovering mid-toss. That laugh, it was a sound you hadn’t let yourself think about for months, one that held too much of him.

Ben.

Your pulse jolted, the memories flooding back, warmth and bitterness tangled in the knots of your chest. You gritted your teeth, tossing the ball high before slamming it against the court, the crack of impact sharp in the quiet. It almost felt satisfying, like you could obliterate the tension he brought, shatter it with sheer force.

Almost.

You readied another serve, the ball bouncing harder than necessary as you forced yourself not to look. But you could feel his gaze, that familiar weight of his eyes lingering on you. The pull was magnetic, almost maddening, and despite every ounce of resolve you’d built up, your gaze betrayed you, slipping over to catch a glimpse of him.

Ben, laughing with Taylor, curls tousled longer than before, his hoodie slung carelessly over those familiar, ridiculous short shorts. The same hoodie you'd worn too many times to count, drowning in its warmth during late-night snack runs and lazy Sundays. The sight tugged painfully, a cruel reminder of the little things you’d pushed down, tried to forget.

He caught you looking, and his laughter faded, his gaze holding yours for just a second too long. You gripped the ball tighter, the ache settling heavy, and forced yourself to turn away, channelling the flurry of memories into another sharp serve, a fierce crack reverberating across the court. You didn’t look back again.

Hours later, your body was tired, your mind a bit clearer. You were scrolling through your phone in the lounge, zoning out, when Coco dropped down beside you with that familiar, mischievous grin.

"Hey, you!" She nudged you, hands on her hips.

You eyed her warily. "What’s up, Coco? Awfully perky for...5:30p.m."

“We’re having dinner tonight. Big group. Wanna come?” Her tone was casual, a little too casual.

Your guard went up immediately as you dropped your phone to your lap. “Who’s ‘we all’?”

Coco shrugged, twirling a loose curl around her finger. “Me, Frances, Arthur… maybe another WTA girl or two. Just a fun little dinner. Nothing formal.”

You narrowed your eyes, reading the glint of mischief in hers. "Coco, don’t mess with me. He's not gonna be there, right?"

She tilted her head, pretending to look innocent, but the sly smile gave her away. "Well… he might show up, but that's on his own accord. I didn't mention anything to Ben and it’s not like anyone’s setting anything up! It’s just dinner."

Your stomach twisted, a sigh slipping from your lips as you looked away. “I don’t think so. Not after… everything.” Your voice softened the weight of old arguments and unsaid things hanging between the words.

Coco’s face softened, her hand finding your shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying you have to sit next to him or anything. It’s a big table. You can stay on the opposite end and ignore him if that’s what you need. But everyone misses you, it’s been ages since we all got together. We all need to see your pretty face off the court too, ya know?”

You hesitated, rolling your eyes, the ache of missing them settling somewhere deep, the sense of family you hadn’t felt in months tugging at you. After a long pause, you finally nodded, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing for a match. “Fine. But I’m serious, Coco, no funny business. If he starts anything, I’m out.”

Coco grinned, throwing her arm around you. “Girl, trust me. If anything, you’ll be giving him the funny looks. Just friends, no drama. Now, let’s go get you out of those sweats.”

Meanwhile, in the locker room across the court, Ben was doing his best to act indifferent as Frances nudged him for the third time.

"C'mon, man!" Frances said, leaning against the lockers with a knowing grin. "So you are coming to this dinner tonight, right? Don't make me beg again, I'll start singing.”

Ben tried to play it cool, leaning back with his arms crossed. “I don’t know, man. You really think it’s a good idea?”

Frances rolled his eyes. “Look, you’ve been moping for months. She’s not gonna make a scene in public, and especially not with all of us, and who knows? Maybe she’ll talk to you, be all civil. It’s worth a shot.”

Ben let out a huff, rubbing the back of his neck. “Civil? You remember the last time we spoke, right? She has me blocked on everything.”

Taylor, stretching nearby, smirked and chimed in. “Man, you got nothin’ to lose. At the very least, you’ll see her. I saw how you were after you caught a glimpse of her training earlier. Besides, Frances and Coco will keep her from killin’ you.”

“Kay, thanks,” Ben muttered, though a flicker of hope sparked under the sarcasm. He didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t shake the longing to see her again, to maybe fix even a sliver of what had been broken.

Taylor nudged him, grinning. “Hey, listen, if I wasn’t taking Morgan out tonight, I’d be there just for moral support. But hey, maybe next time it’ll be a double date. Me, you, Morgan and your soon-to-be girlfriend, just like old times.”

Ben shook his head, the thought both terrifying and oddly thrilling. “You’re jokin’, right? She’d probably throw her drink at me before she’d sit through a double date.”

“Only if you act like an idiot,” Frances pointed out, laughing. “Just be yourself, man. You can handle the heat on the court, you can handle this. And maybe tonight’ll be the thing that finally breaks the ice.”

Ben sighed, running a hand over his face before finally surrendering. “Alright, alright. Fine. I’ll go. But Frances, don’t expect me to be all… chatty.”

Frances clapped him on the back, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “Yeah, you say that now. But I know how you get around her, man. Just don’t chicken out. Remember, we got your back.”

Ben couldn’t help but smile nervously, feeling a strange mix of dread and anticipation tighten in his chest. He wasn’t sure if this dinner would be a chance at redemption or just a painful reminder of how far they’d drifted, but one thing was clear, he was tired of hiding from whatever was left between them.

You walk into the restaurant and let Coco lead you to a long table, feeling an odd mix of nerves and determination fluttering in your stomach. Your outfit is cute but simple, just a sweater and leggings; just enough effort to feel put together without trying too hard. You take a seat between Coco and Arthur Fils, with Frances across from you. There’s an empty chair across from Arthur, and for some reason, that empty space makes your heart beat a little faster, feeling torn between wanting and avoiding Ben there.

As everyone settles in, you catch Coco’s eye and mutter, “Please tell me he’s not actually coming.” She just shrugs with an easy smile.

Moments later, as the group banters along, about to order drinks, Ben strolls in, catching you entirely off-guard. He’s slightly out of breath, apologising to the group with that familiar grin, explaining he’s late because he’d just finished showering after practice. You can’t help it, you nudge Coco under the table, whispering through gritted teeth, a frustrated, “Great.”

Coco just gives him a casual greeting, and you force yourself to turn back to the table, focusing your attention on ordering a glass of wine, pretending not to notice him as he takes that empty seat across from Arthur, just barely within your view, diagonally. But as he sits down, you feel his eyes on you, and for a brief moment, you glance up and catch him staring, his face almost dazed.

You’re caught off-guard by the look in his eyes. His breath seems to hitch, his big brown eyes wide and you can see a faint blush creeping up his neck as he stares at you, almost like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. There’s a softness in his expression that you weren’t prepared for, a kind of awe that makes your stomach twist with memories and longing. But just as quickly, you look away, turning your attention to your wine as Frances elbows Ben with a teasing hiss, “Be normal, man.”

Throughout the night, you manage to keep to yourself, mostly talking to the other WTA players or Arthur whenever he cracks a joke. You keep Ben at the edge of your vision, resolute in ignoring the way his gaze keeps drifting back to you.

Every once in a while, Ben attempts to draw you into the conversation, maybe a lighthearted comment or a direct question, but each time, you meet his gaze with a steely look, making it clear with just one glance that you’re not interested. When he tries again, you let your eyes meet his for a moment, long enough to show him you’re serious before turning away, cutting off his effort entirely, almost to say "not interested". Across the table, Frances raises his brows, murmuring with a barely hidden smirk, “Damn, she is good at this,” as Ben slouches slightly, clearly trying not to look embarrassed.

As dinner winds down, the plates are cleared away, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a moment alone. Inside, you take a deep breath, facing yourself in the mirror. You’d been bracing yourself for tonight, but nothing quite prepared you for how it would feel to see him sitting right there, looking at you with those big sweet brown eyes and a pout, filled with that same soft pleading that used to make you melt.

But tonight, all it did was remind you of those late nights waiting by your phone, checking it over and over for messages that came slower and slower until they just…stopped. It reminds you of the countless hours wondering if you mattered as much as you thought you did, replaying his empty promises and half-hearted reassurances that seemed to fade with each passing day. He couldn't expect you to take him back with a pout and some half-assed joke. But damn, was it a good attempt, he knew how to make you crumble, even if it wasn't his sole intention.

You force yourself to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you look in the bathroom mirror examining yourself with a sigh, applying a bit of lip balm with fingers that tremble just slightly. Anything to distract yourself, to remind yourself that you’re strong enough to face this without breaking, reminding yourself to keep that mask on. You straighten your posture, determined to push all those memories back down where they belong, buried.

But just as you step out of the bathroom, Ben is standing right there, leaning against the wall as if he’d been waiting for you. His eyes soften the moment they meet yours, and he opens his mouth, his voice just a whisper. “Can we…talk? Just the two of us?”

The look he gives you, hopeful, no, desperate, stirs something deep inside you, and you clench your jaw, wanting to say no, wanting to walk away without a second thought. But as much as you’d like to ignore it, part of you still aches for some kind of closure, maybe even just one honest conversation.

With a reluctant sigh, you nod. “Fine. Outside.”

As you head out the restaurant’s door, you quickly fire off a text to Coco:

me n Ben talking outside. brb.

You stuff your phone back into your bag, clutching it tightly to your shoulder as you step into the cool night air. Wrapping your arms under your chest, you try to keep yourself shielded from more than just the chilling breeze.

Ben falls into step beside you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. There’s a moment of silence as you both find your footing, the quiet thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. You glance sideways, catching him opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, only to close it, his shoulders shifting awkwardly.

“So… how’s the tournament going for you?” he starts, his tone casual, a little too casual.

You blink, trying not to roll your eyes, feeling the irritation growing. Really? But you bite back and just sternly say, “Ben.”

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing up at the streetlights overhead. “Sorry, yeah, that was- uh, okay.” He lets out a breath and shuffles closer, his voice almost a murmur. “I just… I wanna make this right. Another chance- Just thought maybe… you know, talkin’ would be easier if…”

“Ben, stop.” You sigh, tightening your grip on your bag strap. “Stop being weird. Just… just say what you have to say, and let’s get this over with. Let's not make this longer than it needs to be, I've got shit to do tomorrow.”

He glances at you, brows knitting together. For a second, he looks almost frustrated, like he’s holding back something sharper, something rougher. But he lets it pass, letting out a long, resigned breath. “Fine. I’ll just ask one thing.”

You arch an eyebrow, scepticism thick in your voice. “One question. Shoot.”

His voice comes out softer, edged with a hesitant curiosity as if he knows it’s a stupid question but can’t help but ask. “What hotel you stayin’ at?”

You let out a dry chuckle, shaking your head. “The Merrion.”

His eyes widen slightly, a small, stupid smile breaking on his face. “No way… me too.”

You sigh, looking up at the night sky, feeling the inevitability of whatever this night is becoming. Of course, he’s at the same hotel. Only Ben could make the universe align like this. And only Ben would think of a stupid question like that. He shifts his weight, stepping closer, his gaze steady.

“Look,” he starts, “it’s just a short walk back, twenty minutes or so. Just… give me that time. Just enough to walk back. Let me talk. And then you can go to your room and go to bed. How 'bout it?”

There’s a hopeful edge in his voice that you can’t ignore, and for a moment, your resolve falters. It’s ridiculous, this is exactly the sort of thing he would come up with, some half-baked plan to get you to keep listening, to keep him around just a little longer. You want to roll your eyes, to brush him off, but something about the way he’s looking at you, those earnest, brown eyes so damn full of longing, makes you sigh.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But if you get weird again, I’m out. No small talk, you know how much I hate it.”

A small grin creeps onto his face, and he falls into step beside you, a little closer than necessary, his arm brushing against yours as you start down the quiet street. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, just walks alongside you, letting the silence settle around you both. But then, in that familiar southern drawl, his voice comes softer.

“Y’know, I've been thinkin’ ‘bout us a lot… probably more than I should.”

You keep your eyes on the sidewalk ahead, willing yourself to stay unmoved. “And?”

He swallows, his gaze tracing your profile, softening with each word. “I messed up,” he admits. “I know I did. I shoulda… been there more, answered more, I dunno. Shoulda been better at handlin’ it.”

You nod slightly, keeping your face blank. “Mhm, you should've.”

There’s a flicker of frustration in his expression, but he doesn’t let it throw him off. “You think I didn’t feel it too? That whole time, it felt like- hell, like I was losin’ you, like somethin’ was slippin’ right outta my hands, and I couldn’t do nothin’ to stop it.”

You feel the tension in your shoulders loosen just a fraction, though you keep your arms folded as a kind of armour. His words settle into the silence, raw and rough, and you can feel him glancing over, waiting for some kind of response. But you keep your gaze forward, biting back the little stirrings of emotion that are beginning to creep in.

He keeps talking, voice low and steady, drawing you in without giving you a chance to look away. “I’m not tryin’ to make excuses, alright? I know I coulda tried harder. But it’s like… the more I tried, the harder it got. The distance, the time zones, the schedules… it all just made me feel like I couldn’t keep up. And I just didn't know how to juggle it and that's my fault.”

You shake your head slightly, finally glancing over at him, the faintest of smirks tugging at the corner of your mouth. “So this is your way of apologising?”

He laughs, a little sheepish. “Guess I’m not real good at it, huh?” He nudges you with his shoulder, a familiar, easy gesture that makes your arms slowly loosen. His hand brushes your arm, just for a second, and a warmth blooms where his fingers graze your skin as if your body’s memory of him can’t help but respond.

“Look,” he says, his voice dipping softer, “I just… I miss you so much. Like hell.”

The honesty in his tone hits you hard, unravelling the cold exterior you’ve worked so hard to keep up. He keeps his eyes on you, watching your face carefully as if gauging your reaction. You feel your resolve slipping even more, your arms slowly falling to your sides, your heart aching as you fight against the wave of warmth that’s threatening to break through.

“Ben…” you start, barely a whisper, but you don’t know what to say, feeling torn.

He moves a little closer, his eyes wide, pleading, like he’s trying to hold onto every inch of you he can. “I know I messed up, okay? But I don’t wanna lose you. Not for good. Please, Y/N. Give me one more chance, you won't regret it 'n if I fuck up bad, you can do whatever, however; I deserve it but please. Just one more chance.”

You press your lips tight together, feeling your heart tighten as his words sink in, as he stands there looking at you with that same vulnerability you’d once fallen in love with. For a second, you forget the hurt, the sleepless nights, and you’re left with just him, the version of him that’s open, sincere, the Ben you’d once held so close.

The walk to the hotel stretches out as he keeps talking, spilling out and laying his heart bare with that easy, boyish charm that only he can pull off, and little by little, you feel your icy exterior start to melt. He talks about his time away from you, how he admired you from videos, watched highlight reels, his endless hours at night going through photos and texts; the whole lot. He cracks a joke, and despite yourself, you smile, trying to hide it but failing. He nudges you again, grinning as he sees the hint of laughter breaking through your guard.

He apologises over and over, more earnestly each time, his voice steady and low, and you can hear the regret, the guilt, the need to make things right. By the time you reach the hotel entrance, you’re feeling something dangerously close to hope, your heart betraying you, making it harder and harder to keep up the facade.

You glance over at him, catching the way his eyes soften as he looks at you as if you’re the only thing he can see. He’s staring, the blush from earlier creeping back up his neck, and when his hand brushes yours one last time, you don’t pull away.

You stand just outside the hotel, a faint chill brushing past as the streetlights cast a warm glow around you. You shift on your feet, glancing up at him, your eyes soft but determined.

“Can I talk?” you ask, breaking the quiet, your voice barely above a whisper. The first thing you had actually said this entire time.

Ben raises an eyebrow, leaning in with a playful smirk. “Talk? What else have we been doin’ for the last twenty minutes, girl?”

You roll your eyes and reach out to smack his arm, earning a chuckle from him. “Fine then. Can we go up to your room?” you add, a small, daring smile tugging at your lips.

Ben’s eyebrow quirks higher. “My room, huh?” His gaze narrows, teasing you with that familiar glint. “What exactly ya got planned, sweetheart?”

You swat him again, harder this time, and he laughs, raising his hands in mock defence. But then you drop the smile, your voice softer. “I wanna talk about what I did, Ben. I messed up too.”

The teasing fades from his expression as he studies your face, searching. After a pause, he nods and gestures toward the lobby. “Alright, then. Let’s go talk.”

In the elevator, silence hangs thick in the air, tension as familiar as it is unspoken. You don't even notice, spending your time stilling your breath and running through everything you want to apologise for. When you reach his room, you head over to the small couch by the window and settle in, tucking your legs under you and giving him a steady look.

“Ya gettin’ comfortable already?” he jokes, leaning against the wall, his eyes dancing with that old spark that makes you ache.

You try not to smile, steeling yourself for your confessional. “Can you be serious for a minute?”

His smile fades as he walks over, sitting across from you, his gaze intense and focused. You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything you’ve held back.

“I shouldn’t have put so many expectations on you,” you begin, your voice wavering. “You’ve got your own life, your own competitions, your own dreams. All this constant travelling, the different time zones… it’s not fair to expect you to be there every time I needed you at the drop of a hat. You get burnt out too- God. I never even asked how you were before I'd launch into my own day.”

You bite your lip, blinking back tears as they start to blur your vision. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve been more understanding, given you more grace.” Your voice catches, barely a whisper now. “And what I said… on that call… it was cruel, Ben. I was mean and unfair, and you didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it. At all. I wouldn't want myself back after all I had said and done.”

As a tear slips down your cheek, Ben’s face softens, and he reaches out without hesitation, his hands cupping your face as he brushes the tear away. His thumb lingers on your skin, his gaze is unwavering, and then he leans forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to your temple, another to your forehead, and a final one at the crown of your head, his hand resting tenderly against your hair.

You let out a shuddered breath, your hands covering his as you finally let everything pour out. “I miss you so much,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I miss everything about you… the way you laugh, your ridiculous voice…” Another tear rolls down, and you don’t try to hold back. “I miss the way you’d talk about cars or food for ages, and you’d make everything feel so normal, even when my life was a mess. Without you, it’s like this haze I can’t shake. I just… I miss you. I barely recognise myself these days.”

Your body shakes with the sobs you’ve tried so hard to bury, and Ben doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you close, wrapping you in his arms like he could shield you from all the pain, all the regret. He holds you there, one hand smoothing over your hair, his lips pressing soft, tender kisses to your forehead and cheeks, murmuring gentle words against your skin.

“S’all right, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here. I’m right here with you.”

You cling to him, burying your face into the crook of his neck, as his hands trace soothing circles along your back. Your sobs gradually quiet, but your breaths are still shaky, each exhale unsteady.

“I’m so sorry, Ben,” you manage, voice barely audible.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Hey now,” he murmurs, his tone warm and grounding. “We both made mistakes. Ain’t just on you, alright? Takes two to mess up, but it takes two to fix it too. We can fix, can't we?”

You nod, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, feeling a little of the weight lift, softened by his words.

Ben tilts your head to hold your gaze, his own eyes glassy. “Can’t tell ya how many times I thought about callin’ ya or flying to ya,” he admits, his voice low. “How many times I’d pull up your name, wonderin’ what you’d say if I told ya all the things I wished I’d said. But I was… hell, I was scared, darlin’. Thought maybe I’d screwed up too bad, and you’d moved on.”

You shake your head, a small, breathy laugh escaping. “I couldn’t...I could never.”

He strokes your hair gently, his lips brushing your forehead once more. “Guess we’re both a couple of fools then, huh?”

You laugh softly, the sound wet and trembling as he pulls you back into his arms. You lean into him, letting yourself feel the warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, grounding you. Wrapped in the quiet, tangled together, you both hold on a little tighter, feeling the rawness of your honesty and the comfort of finally, finally being close again. In the safety of his arms, you feel, for the first time in so long, a sense of peace, letting the unspoken words settle around you like a quiet promise.

Ben’s hand rests on your cheek, his thumb tracing small circles as he learns your face all over again, making your heart flutter. His fingers move slowly, grazing down to your jaw, then up again, threading into your hair. You let your eyes close for a moment, his gentle touch working its way through the tension of the night, and a small, contented sigh escapes you. For the first time in weeks, you feel relaxed and content.

“Gettin’ comfortable, huh?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, though there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He leans in, giving one final push to a stray strand of your hair before tilting his head toward the bed across the room. “C’mon, darlin’. This couch is barely holdin’ us together.”

You hesitate, but Ben’s already moving, holding out his hand as he stands up. His grip is strong, guiding you as you follow him to the bed, and he lets out a soft chuckle as you settle beside him. His arm drapes around you, pulling you close as you lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against you. The warmth is so consuming, cocooning you immediately.

Ben smiles down at you, a playful glint in his eye, and as his fingers find your hair again, he starts twirling a strand between his fingers. “So,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on the top of your head, “ya still gonna keep me blocked, huh?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Fine,” you reply, unlocking your phone with a playful huff. You find his name, well, technically his new contact name since you’d deleted him in a fit of anger, and type a single white heart emoji, pressing send.

The vibration of his phone buzzes beside him, and he pulls it out with a grin, holding up the glowing screen. “There it is. Knew ya couldn’t resist me,” he says, laughing as he pulls you in close as he kisses your temple.

But just as you relax against him, you notice a missed notification. It’s a text from Coco, her reply to your earlier message asking where she’d disappeared to after dinner. You hesitate, then, instead of texting back, you tap the Facetime icon, feeling a strange urge to share this quiet moment, finding words couldn't suffice, nor were you in the mood to type out a lengthy paragraph.

The call connects, and Coco’s face appears, a gasp escaping her as she spots you two tangled up in Ben’s bed, nestled together with his arm around you.

“Oh my god! Yes!” she cheers, loud enough to make Ben chuckle. You hear laughter and cheers in the background too, and Coco turns the camera, revealing the whole dinner table watching with knowing smiles.

"Coco, this was a set-up plan, huh?" you giggle as you see the entire friend group on the other end.

"Somewhat, but blame Morgan and Taylor, not me. They did all that," she throws the blame as she points the camera over to them. Frances, Morgan and Taylor wave and Frances yells “Look at Ben! Already got her in bed, huh?”

Ben rolls his eyes, but a faint blush colours his cheeks. He pulls you closer, his hand resting protectively around your shoulders as he grins.

“Hey now,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “This one’s special. Ain’t like any other. My lucky charm.”

You feel your heart skip a beat at his words, and you’re so focused on him that you barely notice Coco and the others making gagging noises before Ben reaches out, ending the call on your phone with a smirk. Then he turns back to you, his eyes soft, filled with something that feels dangerously like forever.

He leans in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, each second lingering with quiet promises. And in the warmth of his arms, your heart finally feels at home, exactly where it belongs.

[edge-oftheworld]

okay, I definitely don't know exactly what I'm thinking but I'm going to try. I guess it comes down to the fact that luke is constantly (still, after 13 years) being objectified in like, a we-own-you kind of way. Not deliberately for everyone involved in even mildly perpetuating it, but it is to 5sos culture the way that rape culture is to society in general: it's persistent, it sneaks in in what we consider to be societal or fandom norms. It shapes our opinions and our worldviews and it's like how you can't ask a fish how the water is: the water just is, the fish doesn't know anything else. It's not anyone's fault per se but god we have to do better.

and the thing about 'babygirl' specifically is that, you know who else gets treated this way by society as a whole? 1) young people, and 2) women, girls, anyone in the broad category that is seen as opposite to 'men'. opposite to the people who do the owning and the objectifying and it's a patriarchal problem with its tendrils reaching worldwide. these are the two groups of people that if you are in, you don't have any power. so on the surface it looks harmless, cute even, to call a grown man babygirl. internet terminology is weird; people just say things that aren't quite words and they catch on when you understand the sentiment behind them. we call heaps of men babygirl. sometimes i see people call ashton babygirl. it's one of the things that seems innocent and quirky, at least to start with.

but it's only innocent when you're punching upwards, taking the people who have all the power and levelling the playing field, so to speak. but the thing is, it's not quite so simple as 'oh look a rich white privileged man' when said white man was a child star (and at this point, hopefully we know how people treat child stars consistently, we've seen it play out again and again in different ways, from the carter family to britney to everyone caught up in the 1d/5sos wave to whoever the teen stars are today, and I don't need to explain it) who grew up in the bush, brought up to be kind and hardworking and go the extra mile for people because no parent in rural nsw actually expects their kid to have to navigate asserting themselves in the music industry before turning 18. I'm not saying it was all awful or his parents didn't do a great job. but I am saying that being a white man doesn't exclude luke from living a recipe for exploitation for being pretty and cute and young and talented, so many adjectives we often associate with girls. a marketable stereotype designed to be fuckable and agreeable and never get angry. babygirl.

I could go into some theories I have as to why: but the same thing in a weird genderbent way often seems to apply to luke. people want to own him because he's all of those things; they don't, sometimes the bitterness about that turns into some culturally normalised trend of coming up with an imaginary version of him. but it's more than that, more than being the heartthrob frontman of the band, and comes down to chance as well. he happens to be the youngest of the band; the others are extremely protective of him (and for good reason, i'm also certain the feeling is mutual just not expressed completely the same, but people see what fits the categories in their heads), and he does challenge the gender binary as part of his self-expression (which is a neutral thing, it should always be a neutral thing, there should never be a shift in power between what's deemed masculine and feminine, but there is and this is a prime example of the impacts gender inequality has). we've seen him going from wishing he could express himself in a more gnc way to actually doing it. people caught on early. and of course, most fans mean well but there's always a vulnerability to laying down the masculine for something more feminine even partially. it's baked into the same culture that came up with terms like 'babygirl'.

he also gives off this vibe, probably a youngest child thing too, or having seen him in the public eye from such a young age, looking uncomfortable a good portion of the time, that kind of elicits a we-want-to-care-for-and-protect-you response. and I think what's dangerous about that is that you don't ever think that caring about someone could be at all related to taking their power away. but it can be, especially if you're unable to express that protectiveness in the form of actual conversation (which for a fandom this size, is impossible) and so it kind of sits there unexpressed, without any of us ever hearing in a personal conversation exactly how luke thinks and having the chance to negotiate, what is a better way to treat you? do you feel like we're treating you as a child even though you're 28 and married and a self-made millionaire and an expert at towing the line of vulnerable enough to be so much more human and relatable than most people on this planet while valuing privacy and personal goals and also more than capable of having children of your own too?

all this combined, you have the ingredients for this babygirl fansona (is that a word?) constructed without the guidance of the very man we are perceiving through this lens--even when you can interact with people in person it's very hard to actually change their perception of you. we get crumbs, like the fact that he likes to feel pretty to help with his confidence on stage, like bits of how he's grappled with growing up in the public eye and the ways in which being far ahead of your age in some ways always results in feeling behind in others. these then just feed into 'how babygirl of him' because we don't see the other bits, the ugly bits everyone has that no one has any obligation to share with the world. we hear him talking about mental health but we don't get to witness every minute of his life that led to the things he's talked about, it's very uwu-ified, it's easy for people to take things at face value and the fact that he's someone who tries so hard not to ever abuse positions of power he's in, and then strip his masculinity that still exists even if he's not always masculine, because we still associate masculinity with abuses of power, and then put him in a pretty box that was conceptually given to us for young women, but luke, the most (and therefore some sort of token pretty boy) out of all the band members, is close enough.

finally I want to touch on another trend that could be an essay on its own (it won't be an essay of its own with luke as an example though, out of respect I don't want to dive in too deeply, though I don't think I can respectfully not mention it either). people have a tendency to infantilise neurodivergent people, or anyone who seems vaguely neurodivergent, which is something that people do subconsciously pick up (hence why it's so important to have a name for it if that's you, because people will supplement it with descriptors that are often derogatory, babygirl might not quite be in that category but it still implies a loss of power as I've talked about). People also have a tendency to feminise neurodivergent boys and men in an outright derogatory way: anyone who doesn't like rough sport or who wears makeup or dares to have any kind of feelings. which includes neurotypicals, of course, but when you're neurodivergent it's often a step further; given; unescapable. and this is why I think that something most people think is innocent can become a cherry on top of a stack of other seemingly unrelated things, why it fills me with rage too. every time over the last 13 years luke has done something like get distracted or lose something or be a little bit socially awkward he gets infantilised. every time he gets scared it's 'poor babygirl' or something to that effect. once is cute. after a few hundred times it only erodes his ability to self-actualise and take control of his own narrative, his own gender expression and everything he shares, in a patriarchal, neuronormative world.

and so if you've read this far, I don't want to say you're bad if you've ever referred to luke as babygirl. you're not. but hopefully you've gotten to have a think and start to question, what does this term I use in pop culture actually mean? could it be insulting someone? is it affecting how I view someone and do I need to listen to them a little bit more open-mindedly?

also, hopefully it's okay to say this since luke has started talking about it a little but as myself, someone with adhd, i do also ask that you go and listen to more neurodivergent folk and figure out how to treat us with actual respect. please listen to people all across the gender spectrums too about their experiences with masculinity and femininity and the kinds of experiences that they've specifically gotten when they haven't fit nicely into a binary, however they end up identifying in the end (and as for luke, please don't assume anything about him in that vein. ever. there is one person who gets to decide that and it is luke) and what kind of things they might find offensive and why. this isn't you-have-to-know-everything-at-once but rather a call of, hey, there's a lot of diversity out there and the more diverse experiences you learn to empathise with, the more understanding you're gonna be as a person.

i have so so so many thoughts and feelings about the way this fandom constantly refers to luke as babygirl without taking one single second to think about why maybe it's a problematic thing to do to luke specifically but i lack the ability to organize those thoughts and feelings into anything coherent and concise. can someone else please read my mind and do it for me.

[angelyuji]

An idea has formed lol. What if you somehow managed to escape from Stan and Ford. If this question is too hard for you to answer what if Stan and Ford catch you while you try and escape. (Ford would be more likely to look for you, Stan.... not so sure lol)

i see what ur putting down🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

tw // physical abuse, implied noncon, kidnapping (lmk if i missed any tags!)

minors dni!!!! 18+

i feel like escaping stan is definitely easier than ford purely looking at logistics

stan allows you in the main areas of the house to clean and cook. once he believes he’s broken you into submission, he’ll even allow you to stay unlocked in the house to do your daily chores. for the first couple times he leaves alone, you’ll play along, gardening and doing yard work to see if you can fully like escape. stan doesn’t leave the shack for anything until the weekend and sometimes he’ll take you with, so like a month into this new “normal” he’ll leave for some “shopping” (telling you to cook dinner and finish up some chores) and that’s your chance. the moment you see that car leave your view, you pull on some pants and fucking book it. you run like hell until you reach the other side of the forest and hitchhike to fuck-knows-where. just away from gravity falls.

for ford, it’s wayyy harder cause he wouldnt let you out of his basement lab. like… ever. he practically lives down there and if he does need anything, he just tells stan and stan gets it. plus, ford has hugeeee trust issues. like the only time he ever removed your chains or whatever he’s using to keep you locked up, is when he’s running an experiment and he wants to use you as a guinea pig. i can think of one instance where he might bring you upstairs tho.

mabel and dipper find out abt you and ask to meet you (obvi they’re under the impression that you’re willingly staying with ford) and ford doesn’t want to disappoint his grand-niece and nephew. reluctantly, he gets you all dressed up and brings you up the stairs. he thinks he’s gotten you broken down but just in case, he gives you a bracelet that works similarly to those electric fence collars that dogs have. if you leave the shack property, he’s alerted and you’re tranquilized. you can’t take it off, but someone with pines dna can. halfway through this introduction, ford’s like “oh i gtg some research stuff i need to do is finished (idk im not a scientist)” and he leaves you with mabel and dipper!!! mabel fs sees ur bracelet and goes “omg!!! i need to male ur bracelet prettier!!!” and takes the bracelet off of you. dipper tries to stop her since its “your property” but you’re like “nooo!!!! like its totally fine!!” trying not to sound too eager loll the moment mabel takes the bracelet off, you calmly tell the kids that you’re going outside for some air and fucking SPRINT the moment your foot hits the grass outside the shack.

when it comes to getting you back, ford would def help stan and vice versa. the both of them have their strengths, so they’d definitely be able to help each other out.

stan is a grade A criminal. like he knows how to fake identities and hide from the fbi. at first, he waits a couple days, thinking you’ll be back. he obviously doesnt believe you’re capable of surviving without him, but once a week or so passes, he’s getting pissed. he has…. connections… that he can use to keep an eye out for you. say you do somehow manage to evade him for a while, that just pisses him off even more. stan (as lazy as he is) can get shit done if he puts his mind to it. so with the help of ford, he will find you. when stan does find you, he’s definitely relieved that you’re okay, but also he’s fucking pissed. he’s going to drag you out by your hair and shoves you into the back, ranting about your betrayal. he’ll bring you back home and will literally never let you out of your “cage” with supervision again. if he does let you out again, he’s going to be in the same room and ford def made him a nice collar for you, so you’re gonna be quite literally chained up like his dog. he’ll stop treating you like a person until you properly show him that you’ve understood what your place is.

smarty-pants ford will come up with something and stan would help with finding you becuz fords kind of a mess. when ford does find you, he’s like a desperate, manic mess. like he’s fr tweaking out, ranting abt how you broke his trust and how scared he was and how scared mabel and dipper was. you’re like cornered and freaked out cuz this guy looks crazy af. hes got you by the shoulders and shaking you, tearing up. he’s going to bring you back to the shack and put you back in the basement, but to make sure you won’t pull a stunt like this again, he’s going to snap your ankles. hes going to be telling you that its for your own good, but as punishment he won’t be giving you any medication. but yeah, now, ford’s never trusting you again so you’re gonna be stuck down in the basement forever :)

[ljaylmaoo]

🎃Kinktober day 1- Cockwarming🎃

Hook x needy!fem!reader 18+

UNEDITED

Warnings: smut obvi lol, needy reader, squirting, creampie (use condoms please), idk just enjoy lol

An: hii, day one of hooks kinktober is here! Not much to say other than I hope y’all enjoy this one! Also lmk if you’re interested in being tagged in my kinktober posts

word count: 1.7k

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

“Please..?” You begged your boyfriend, drawing out the word in a whiny tone.

You haven’t seen James all day as he’s been busy with tons of tasks that Uliana has been getting him to do, which left you alone the whole day without almost any interaction or quality time with him. You were bored and felt lonely without him, so of course when you heard the door knob you instantly felt your mood lift. You ran up to the door and practically jumped on him as soon as he came through the door, he caught you in his arms as you wrapped your arms and legs around him like a koala, clinging to him as if your life depended on it. “I missed you so much!” You said in between kisses, “I missed you too, my love.” He said as he squeezed you tighter, you nuzzled your head into his neck, taking in his scent and touch you’ve been longing for. He carried you over to his desk and tried to pull you off, you only clung onto him tighter, “I have homework to do, love.” He says tiredly with his head resting over your shoulder as he hugged you once more. You lifted your head and looked into his eyes, a pout forming on your face, “but I just got you back…” you complained, “can’t I just sit on your lap while you do your homework then? Maybe I can help?” You suggested, he thought about it for a moment, “okay but I really need to focus, so please, y/n, behave?” Your face lit up and you nodded, “okay I will” he smiled back at you, giving you a quick kiss and sat down resting you into his lap as he grabbed the books that were put off to the side. You snuggled into his lap, legs draped over his getting more comfortable as you watched him get settled.

“What class?” You questioned curiously, “Calc.” He said simply, you looked up at him with a shocked expression, jaw dropped and eye brows raised as you met his gaze, you only blinking in response, “what?” He asked as he smirked at your reaction. “Like, calculus?” He nodded, “I don’t think I’d be able to help with that one. I hate math.” He let out a short breathy laugh, “that’s okay I didn’t expect you to” he said as he patted your bottom and kissed your cheek. You looked over the textbook pages and over the unfamiliar and complicated looking formulas, watching as he wrote stuff down with his hook wrapped around your lower waist, holding your close. After a bit of watching you had soon grew bored of it and shifted to get more comfortable, hips jolting as you unintentionally rubbed your clit perfectly against his crotch causing you to let out a small closed mouth moan. You cleared your throat as a pathetic attempt to hide it. “You okay?” He asked seemingly unfazed by the action, you nodded, “yeah, just trying to get more comfortable.” You lied, feeling the wetness slowly pool in your underwear. He hummed in response before you moved again, this time on purpose, trying to get more friction earning a grunt from him causing you to smile. Your neediness for him only grew stronger, which started off as you only wanting to be close to him and feel his touch in any way you could, but now you wanted to feel him more than you already were. This wasn’t your original plan, but you just couldn’t help it, the feeling of his soft member already creating a bulge in his pants made you ache for his fully erect cock inside of you.

You bit your lip as you did this a few more times every few minutes, sighing each time your core connected with his which in turn was slowly making him harder. He rested his chin against the back of your shoulder, “I know what you’re doing.” He says with a low tone by your ear, the one that drives you crazy. You turned back to look at him, “what am I doing..?” You hummed innocently causing him to roll his eyes and fixed his position beneath you, you gasped as you felt his semi-hard bulge push against you and you instinctively rolled your hips. “Y/n…” he warned, gripping onto your hips, stilling your movement, “sorry, force of habit.” You giggled causing him to scoff, “well stop moving around so much and you won’t get so worked up” “too late…” you mumbled and ground your hips once again. He sighed in frustration, “y/n, please. I really need to focus. Just tell me what’s gonna stop you from being so distracting so I can get my homework done?” He said desperately. You thought about it and a smile appeared on your face, “can I sit on your cock..?” He shook his head, “no, absolutely not. I don’t trust you. You can’t even sit still without it so what makes you think you’ll be able to sit still then?” You pouted, “please..?” You begged your boyfriend, drawing out the word in a whiny tone, “I just want to feel you inside of me” you whined once again, “I haven’t seen you all day and you’re already tired, so I know we most likely won’t do anything later.” You mumble under your breath. You quickly turned around in his lap to face him, straddling him, “I swear I won’t move.” You said seductively while playing with his hair. He raised an eyebrow, “promise..?” “Promise!” You said happily. He rolled his eyes and gave in, you quickly got off of him and took off your shorts and underwear and climbed back on top of him in the same straddling position, unzipping and pulling out his cock beneath you.

You pumped him a few times before lining yourself up with him and slowly sank down onto him with ease from your already wet walls, a pleasured moan escaping from your mouth as his cock filled you up. He sighed at the feeling of your warm sticky walls enveloping him as he bottomed out. You relaxed your thigh muscles, melting into him and resting your forehead on his shoulder, focusing on the feeling of his tip pressing hard to your cervix causing a hot fluttery sensation in your stomach. You felt so full, so incredibly full. “I missed you so much.” You whispered in his ear, “I missed you too, now hush.” He replied, giving a light slap on your ass while looking over your shoulder causing you to let out a whimper. You stayed like that for a long while, your arms draped around his neck, cheek rested on his shoulder and hands tangled in his hair breathing heavily. It took everything in you not to move, but the sore feeling in your pussy aching for movement made you let out a whine, “are you almost done?” “Almost” he replied, rubbing your back soothingly. “You’re doing so good” He praised causing you to clench around him making both of your breaths hitch. The feeling began to get too much and you slowly moved your hips up and sunk back down onto him, he instantly stilled your movements, “quit it.” He said sternly, the sound of his voice making your walls pulse which, in return, made him twitch beneath you, you bucked your hips at the feeling.

After a few more agonizing minutes you finally heard him put down his pencil and lifted your head, you looked at him then slowly glanced down between your drenched thighs, a sticky clear substance stringed between them, you let out a choked sob at the sight of your throbbing cunt with shaky legs. You looked back up at him with tear stained cheeks and he gently caressed the side of your face, wiping some of the tears, you relaxing into his touch. “god you’re a mess darling…” he pitied, you only let out another sob. He cupped your ass and slowly began moving you up and down his length as you let out a loud moan. You threw your head back, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he watched the way you took control over your own movements bouncing on his cock, lifting your hips and lazily collapsing back down onto him with knitted eyebrows, your own hands exploring your body. He watched in awe with lustful eyes as one of your hands desperately grabbed at your shirt while the other felt up your tits and stomach, rolling your head around in pure bliss with your mouth agape. Sharp high pitched moans and noises escaped your mouth, getting louder each time he hit the same spot deep inside you over and over. “Fuck, I’m gonna-“ a harsh gasp interrupted you, “cum-“ you let out another desperate moan as you felt your high approaching quickly. He grabbed your hips and helped you ride him while thrusting up into you, getting deeper than before. “Go ahead. Make a mess on my cock for me, won’t you love?” He said in between heavy breaths, “such a good girl” he continued praising. Your legs began to shake violently and you screamed as your orgasm hit you like a wave crashing over you. A clear watery substance gushing out of you as he continued to fuck you on his cock. You clenched around him as he did so, causing him to still his movements, his cum gushing into you and painting your walls. You fell limp against his shoulder as he fell against the back of the chair, both breathing heavily.

You slowly lifted your head and you both looked down at the mess you made on the both of you, his clothes soaked with your juices and his cum dripping out of your hole around his cock that was still buried inside of you. Your face grew red in embarrassment, “I’m sorry..” you smiled shyly, hiding your face and looking away, not wanting to make eye contact with him. He took your hands away from your face, “no, no, no. No need to be sorry, sweetheart.” He cupped your face and forced you to look at him and brought your face closer to his, “you never have to apologize for making a mess.”

[worldlxvlys]

yes i’m so sorry i should’ve been more specific but i need what happens when they go inside lol😭 (dwb!chris pt 16)

every word

dwb! chris x reader

warnings: cursing, mentions of sex, suggestive but no actual smut

a/n: first off you’re all good, no need to apologize i was just confused lmao

also, idk if you wanted smut or not but this one felt like it needed to be more on the fluffier side. if you want another part with smut, i can do that just lmk

hope you like :)

here’s part one (dwb! chris pt 16), if you haven’t make sure to read it first !!

————-

we both went inside, closing the door behind us.

“hmmm, you know the most effective way to warm up? “ chris said, a smirk growing on his face.

“how?” i squinted my eyes at him.

“a hot shower” he said as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

“hmm sounds good. so me first, or you?” i asked, feigning innocence.

he gave me a deadpanned look. “you’re not serious”

“are you trying to ask me something, chris?” i asked wanting to hear him say it.

“can we shower together?” he asked.

“hmmm, i suppose” i said, pretending to think about it first.

“ok but first, i gotta do something” he said pulling out his phone.

my eyebrows furrowed as i watched him.

“ok?”

i watched as the dial tone rang while he put the phone on speaker.

“hello?” a woman’s voice picked up.

“hey, it’s chris”

“hey! yeah i know i saved your num-“ before she could even finish he cut her off.

“yeah, cool, listen i just wanted to make one thing clear. you’re my supplier and that’s it”

his supplier. the supplier.

“so if you thought this was anything more you’re wrong. i have a girlfriend, and she is the only girl in the world for me. so the flirting and touching needs to stop”

there was a pause.

“oh! but chris-“

but? nah fuck this bitch.

i cut her off “but nothing, he told you he’s taken. is there a problem? do i need to send you a sex tape or something for you to get the memo?

chris’s eyes widen, his mouth open and closing like a fish’s.

“um, no no. sorry”

“yeah you will be if you ever fucking touch him again”

“uh, ok. sorry “

“stop apologizing. you didn’t know, but now you do”

“ok…well, bye”

with that i hung up. chris just stared at me with wide eyes.

we both looked at each other before bursting out laughing.

“your supplier’s a pussy” i said gasping for air.

“she’s normally not like that, but i don’t blame her. you sounded like you were genuinely gonna fuck her up”

we both continued to laugh.

“thank you for calling her, i didn’t think you were actually going to” i said as he drew circles onto my hips with his thumbs.

“of course, baby. i didn’t just say that stuff to gain your forgiveness. i meant every word” he said, staring deep into my eyes.

“every. word.” he said before leaning in, pressing his lips to mine in a soft kiss.

when we broke away he spoke, “hey, do you wanna do a bath instead of a shower?”

“um yeah, sure. how come ?” i asked.

“baths are more romantic” he smiled as he cupped my jaw.

“plus shower sex can be dangerous” he added.

i rose my eyebrows, “um, who said anything about sex ?”

“well how else would we make a tape to send her ?” he asked.

my eyes widen, “you’re fucking crazy” i said, my face breaking out into a grin.

“it was your idea, ma”

———————

hope you liked it <333

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