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winters-doll · 20 hours ago

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𝙒𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣,𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

𝙨𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 let your insecurities get the best of you but often forget. Sukuna loves you.

𝙨𝙪𝙠𝙪𝙣𝙖 𝙭 𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙗𝙗𝙮! 𝙗𝙪𝙗𝙗𝙡𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴|𝘴𝘧𝘸, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧/angst, reader snaps at sukuna, 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘬𝘶𝘯𝘢, 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘻 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘬𝘶𝘯𝘢, 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

Now you’ve done it.

You thought to yourself running down the corridor of you and your husband’s mansion. The thin straps of your camisole falling off your shoulders, your matching pastel robe fluttering behind you almost like a cape. Your bare feet padding down the steps of the west staircase.

“I can smell your fear wife,” You hear his voice bellow on the east wing of the manor. “Once I get my hands on you, foolish woman of my heart.” You hide underneath a hidden staircase tentatively, to be as stealthy as possible. Crawling on the dusty never used floors you hide in the very crevice of it, holding your knees to your chest, blood pumping in your ears. You hope you can hide just for a bit longer because you know one thing for certain.

He will find you.

Whether it be by scent or energy your husband knows your body, mind, and soul. There’s no place on his planet— no, dimensional plane where he can’t find you. From saving you from your abusive family waiting for you to say the words, to plead, oh desperately plead for Lord Sukuna;

The Bloody

Evil

Malevolent

Demon

for his services in your own words of 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦, for help. And this is how you repay him? To say such grotesque words to the man who in no doubt has been more than merciful to what he truly can be.

So in gut wrenching bitter guilt you sit there, trying your hardest to calm your heart but you know what’s coming, what you deserve is just out to get you.

There’s silence on the other side of the door, can’t hear anything, not a creak in the floorboards, a curtain fluttering from the a/c not even your own breathing as you hold your breath. There’s no turning back.

“Open the door wife.” You hear your husband’s voice suddenly from outside the staircase. “This jest has gone on long enough, and only a small mortal body could fit in there.” You hear the small jab about your stature once again from him, pointedly, from this is why you were running in the first place. “Do as you are told beloved,” Sukuna almost whispered, a voice only reserved for you. Butterflies fluttering in your stomach, from dread or flattery you’re not sure, maybe both.

“Face your consequences from your actions.” You light exhale from your nose. Yep.

You’re so fucked.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

*10 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰

Fresh from the bathing session you and Sukuna just had, well more like you washing Sukunas’ back while he ran his soapy hands all over your tits with no shame. Insisting you always miss a spot and there’s another spot in between your legs and you can’t forget your squishy sides but most importantly and, in his words, “You’re salivating, bubbly ass.”

The more his familiar hands rubbed against your flesh the deeper your brow furrowed, staring off into space. Your thoughts clouded in the worst but familiar things. Have you gained weight? Do you think he’s noticed? Do you look different? How can you lose it? In your husband’s lap his half hard cocks against the crack of your ass, he lightly pinches your thighs. “Where has your mind wander off to this time, woman?” He flippantly asks, familiar with your antics. It only makes it worse. It only makes it worse for you. Your soapy palms form into fists. If you ask him, you’ll be putting emphasis on your physique, highlighting your insecurities. Plus, he notices everything and he’s so brutally honest. What if he says you have gained weight. You can feel your eyes stinging just from the thought of it. Sharp, long talons trap your chin meeting his two pairs of eyes. “What ails you?” Despite the detach tone you can hear a sense of worry in his voice and it makes you feel so guilty. You already know how Sukuna doesn’t like your whimpering and sniveling about mortal things, but you can’t help it.

Grabbing the porcelain marble, you get out of the tub your soapy flesh almost makes you gag in disgust about yourself. “I’m just gonna…yeah.” You mutter awkwardly to him. You dry your feet on the mat outside the rug quickly to leave his gaze. Quickly moving to your shared bedroom, hurriedly finding any pajamas for the night to hide from it all. Your weakness, your insecurity, your shame.

“Stop this insolence at once!” You hear your husband voice, shout out of the bedroom. You knew he wouldn’t understand. It’s not insolence to you, it’s real. You can tell from the pain that comes with it, the heartbreak, the random glances at you through the mirror seeing a monster and not his wife staring back at you and you always wonder.

Why do I look beautiful yesterday and not today? Surely, it’s the same person. Which one is real, which is the delusions, or are they all the same.

Red rimmed eyes stare at you through your dresser mirror, cheeks flushed and dried tears staining your skin. You didn’t want this not tonight. When everything was going so good. Your eyes brim with the wave of new, fresh tears. Why do you ruin everything?

Hearing a thud with heavy sloshing in the bathroom you quickly wipe your face with your robe. Taking deep breaths to calm yourself in front of him. Sukuna emerges from the bathing room, suds of soap dripping off his muscular physique. Sukuna large form approaches yours, his eyes haunting.

“Have you lost whatever sense you had left woman? What has gotten you to act with such foolishness once again?” You turn your back to his. The thunder clouded your head again. Feeling that heat bubbling in your chest. You knew he wouldn’t understand.

“Don’t you hear me talking to you, wife?” His voice almost taunts you as if you HAVE to respond to his every whim and request. You thought once you got married he wouldn’t say things about your feelings anymore, calling anything he doesn’t understand foolish.

You’re about sick of it.

Justify why things matter to you that HIM of all people with such intelligence and highbrow should understand but lacks such empathy is nothing but the worst of his qualities. Even worst of it is this is him truly being nice to his wife who he thinks is just having a hissy fit.

“Just leave me alone,” You shakily breathe. You don’t want to explain why being fat sometimes hurts your feelings. You don’t want to argue with him about his apathy and acknowledge your weak points, it’s all so much.

“Oh? Why so you can mope and whine at night hindering me from rest. Just tell me what’s the matter so we can go to bed” He rests a heavy palm on your head, attempting to soothe a child.

So, patronizing.

Jerking his hand off your head you hiss, “Leave me alone Ryomen.” You had it with him. “What has happened now? I’m just trying to find what ails my wife.” He tries to soothe you again but no more.

“YOU!” You spin around a poke your chubby index finger into his chest. “You are what ails me husband! You are so fucking perfect and eloquent all the damn time. Your body is built to perfection and here I am as some fat fucking slob and before you say anything YES! I tried dieting! YES! I’ve tried therapy and OF COURSE I try to be positive! But there are times where I fall off the wagon and I see a monster! A MONSTER! And all I want is for you to listen to me and my heart but everything is fucking foolish to your Sukuna and I’m sick of it!” You yell voice cracking and it pisses you off more. “I’m sick of the condescending remarks! Calling me foolish for having a heart when that’s what you fell in love with me for! I won’t be made fun of by my husband!” You whimpered, tying your robe storming out of your shared bedroom.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

That’s how you got here.

Sitting in front of your husband, in front of the staircase with you sitting on one of his thick power knees. Averting your eyes, for he is naked as the day he was born and feeling embarrassed of your emotional breakdown. “You have never raised your voice at me before, petal.” Your hands trembling in your lap you hung your head in shame, you can’t believe you did that. Gave him a piece of your mind and stormed off like that. You cant deny that it felt good to let out that steam you had been holding within yourself for so long. “I’m not going to run from your confrontation,” Sulunas deep voice expands from the stairwell. “I never should’ve called your feelings childish, your empathy to others is a reason why I fell for your pure soul. It is not a weakness but a strength I don’t possess.” His sharp claws grab your chin once again eyes meeting his red ones. “My childhood didn’t have the luxury of empathy and I understand that your childhood wasn’t a pursuit of happiness and equal opportunity as well.”

You look at your husband who had a thoughtful expression on his stern face. Sukunas’ broad callous hand holds your soft palms in his large one. “A large part of me is…uncertain.” His brows furrowed. “To replicate the heart you have for others…” He takes a deep breath. “People of this realm are cruel and vindictive. I only wanted to protect you,” Sukuna squeezes your palms staring into your eyes earnestly. “I haven’t been cherishing you as much as I promised, my queen. I have been so foolish.” He hangs his head in what looks like

Shame?

Your soft palms glide through his pinks locks of hair and pull. He allows his head to be pull up to stare at your teary brown eyes.

“I don’t want you to be ashamed of yourself, my husband.” You caress your palms to his sharp cheek. “I want you to understand that it hurts my feelings, it makes me feel insecure about mine. Like I should be like you.”

He huffs a scoff out of his nose. “Oh? And what exactly is that little one?”

“Well,” You sniff. “Someone who hides how they actually feel, someone who can be really mean for no reason.” You lay a hand on his solid chest, trying your hardest to keep a straight face. “Also someone who’s a stick in the mud. Rather pessimistic if I do say so myself-“ You feel sharp claws grazes the sides of your flesh. Laughter that can only be described as yours echoes of the walls of your home. Body squeamishly twisting and turning from Sukunas attack on your skin.

“So I’m a grumpy monster huh?” Sukuna pressed on, digging his nails in your flesh. You try to hold one of his hands off giggling to yourself. A large hand is on your back keeping your body balanced, still being perched on his thigh. “Do you have anything to say for yourself my love?” His deep timbre making your heart swell with love and adoration. “I-I love my grumpy husband.” You try to be sincere but it comes off as nothing but more giggles and snickers. “C’mere you little brat.” Sukuna playfully growls, picking you up in bridal style walking up the east wing stairs to your shared bedroom.

“I’ll scream it to the rooftops my love. I shall care less.” You project in a breathless voice. “I LOVE MY GRUMPY HUSBAND!” A broad callous hand clamps over your lips as you yell. But you don’t stop either. You would say it again, again, and again for him. Pressed against Sukuna chest, his head is up lifted high for you can’t see his face but if you inspect closer his ears seem to be a flush red.

Your Sukuna is blushing?

You unwrap your arms around his neck and squeeze him to your chest, squealing. “Kuna you’re so cute!” You beam up at him though he doesn’t look down. But he can feel it.

Your happy soul once again.

“This is rather silly.” Sukuna says gruffly into your hair as he makes it to the bedroom.

He gently plops you onto the bed, you bounce of the soft mattress and take off your robe. “You can loose whatever clothing you have pet, I would rather feel your soft, delicate skin tonight.” He growls lowly, crawling onto the bed on top of you. His crimson eyes flash a haunting red staring into your soul.

So pure

So sweet

Large thighs trapped your hips, he leans a heavy arm near your head as to not crush you. His other palm lays on your squishy waist, squeezing your flesh in endearment.

Feather light kisses reach your chest, fluttering to your soft neck biting into the rich skin. You can’t help but flush and wither in his grasp, heat blossoming across your skin. Sukunas’ hot, wet tongue grazes around your areola through your camisole before murmuring,

“Prepare yourself, petal.”

A/N: OMG THEYRE SO CUTE. SUKUNA THERAPY WHEN? I CAN FIX THEM OR FUCK EM ONE OR THE OTHER

#jjk sukuna #jjk x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #black reader #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #@winters doll #sukuna #sukuna scenarios

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mia-maybank · 9 hours ago

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I Have A Feeling You Got Everything You Wanted: Part 1 - George Clarke

George Clarke x Fem!reader ( 1.5k words)

The sidemen charity match , a gorgeous ex-boyfriend with a mullet and his entire friendgroup scattered around the stands to avoid ... what could ever go wrong?

warnings: lots of angst (it gets happier I promise) , hints of poor mental health but it's not a heavy focus

series | masterlist | next part

This is my first fic in a while so sorry if it's not the best :) I've had this idea for a while and then I'm gonna start on everyone's requests this week too! <3

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The roar of the crowd only increases as the players slowly filter onto the pitch, shaking each others hands and waving to the crowds. I clutch my drink tighter in my hand as I watch one player in particular laugh and joke with Chris and Will.

I don't know quite how I ended up in the stands of the Sidemen Charity Match. Perhaps the impulsive decision stemmed from the knowledge that it would allow me to set my eyes on George for the first time in 2 months, or perhaps it was just the intense loneliness that has followed me around like an unwanted weight, caging my heart in a murky fog of isolation ever since that one Tuesday night.

It's not like our shared group of friends have ever explicitly stated that they were choosing his side or had ever given me any form of grief; yet when I kept my distance in the days following the breakup, fearing their anger, their lack of messages or calls had given me an answer enough.

I sit towards the back of the stands, well away from the friends and family section where I know the Arthurs, Bach, Liv and various other of my old friends will be sat. My hoodie is drawn up, shielding my face from any spectators that may recognise me and blow up my whole plan of 'slip in, watch the match, slip out and avoid any social interaction at all costs'. I doubted I still had much relevance in the YouTube scene these days anyway, as my channel has remained untouched and been left to bury in dust and the weight of my heartbreak. I truly had tried to keep up my career independently, but filming with the absence of George's warm touch, Chris' gremlin-like laugh and Arthur TV's random historic facts didn't feel right. Therefore, I had just avoided social media entirely for the last 2 months, finding it easier than scrolling through the pictures and videos of George and the others partying and filming like I had never even been a part of their lives in the first place.

The match passes by in a blur of mullets running around the pitch, an impressive amount of goals being scored, and a growing pain in my chest that I tried my best to swallow down, although this proved harder with every passing second of watching the people who my world once orbited around carry on existing and living so vibrantly without me. When George scored, I couldn't help but let out a loud cheer; I knew that playing in this match was something that he had never even dared to dream of, so I couldn't help but feel an abundance of pride settle in my chest as he celebrated with Tobi.

As the final whistle blows , conceding the all stars team as the winners following an intense round of penalties, I slip out of my seat, intending to make it out of the stadium long before the boys left the pitch. I had time after all; they still had to celebrate and be presented with the trophy.

However, it seemed fate had other plans, as the throng of people who similarly were trying to leave early was overwhelming, and impossible to push through. Eventually, I found a more private stairwell that looked like it wasn't open to the public and slipped past security, figuring I could make a dash down the stairwell and escape quickly.

In my rush, I didn't notice a blur of red bouncing up the stairs until we collided, the impact sending the other person stumbling into the rail whilst I slipped fully, crashing onto the hard floor of the stairs.

"oh shit, I'm so sorr-" the person began, before cutting of abruptly. I soon discovered why when I looked up at the person and find myself staring directly into the equally as shocked eyes of ChrisMD.

Well shit, there goes my plan of avoiding everyone.

"y/n" Chris breathes out, his voice surprisingly gentle and void of the anger I had anticipated. "what are you doing here?"

"I'm not trying to make this a thing I swear!" I stammer out, panicked. "I just wanted to watch you guys play, I was planning on just slipping out".

"Without even saying hello?" he frowns, and I'm majorly thrown off by the lack of confrontation or resentment in his tone and how he seems offended at the idea of me actively avoiding them.

"Well I mean, it's George's big day, not mine and I knew you guys wouldn't want to see me so I was just going to stay hidden-".

"y/n" Chris interrupts softly, looking genuinely heartbroken now, his eyebrows drawn together in a mix of frustration and pity. "of course we would want to see you. I mean, we were practically joined at the hip at one point, and the other boys miss you too, you were a part of our friendship group just as much as George until you vanished. We thought you just wanted to move on and distance yourself from George so we left you alone."

"what?" I choke out, tearing up despite my best efforts to keep a lid on the emotions that aroused the second I realised the person was Chris. "of course I wouldn't just abandon you guys, I thought you guys were upset with me when nobody messaged and I didn't want to force my place in the friend group if you guys didn't want me there anymore." My voice wavers, my vision warped from tears at this point as all of the unspoken hurt I've kept firmly buried since the breakup finally pours out.

"This is the first time I've left my house since the breakup and I just wanted to cheer you guys on in secret, I thought you guys hated me".

"y/n hey hey it's okay-" Chris steps towards me now as if he is approaching a scared deer, his face lined with concern as he reaches out towards me. The moment is interrupted by the sound of laughter from below us, and Chris' expression drops as he mutters "oh for fucks sake not now".

It's too late to do anything though, as the footsteps have now approached the flight of stairs that Chris and me are currently frozen on. "Chris where did you get to why do you look like you've seen a ghost- wait y/n?".

I finally dare to look up at the mention of my name, giving up any pretence of disguising my presence and make eye contact with a shell-shocked Simon, who was the person who had spoken.

My eyes fall behind him to see Ethan, Will, Max, Tobi and Harry all looking equally as caught of guard. However, my attention is captured by the man staring at me with an unreadable expression behind the rest of the group, as stiff as a board and as pale as a ghost.

George.

Well, fuck.

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Tags:

@the-internets-girlfriend

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cherryblossms · 2 hours ago

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"he's probably predisposed to not like me because of your feelings for me. knowing the person you like likes somebody else, lots of jealousy rises there." something garam knew from experience, what's stopped him from being friends with a lot of his past partners' friends. even though he, himself, held jealousy towards darius and angel's relationship, he was going to try his best not to let that show anymore. "i mean, i wouldn't like it very much if the person i liked had feelings for somebody else." he was sure angel understood given the situation he'd been in for who knows how long. using how he currently felt as experience, his own jealousy arising at the idea of somebody taking angel away from him, it only made him feel more guilty for essentially putting angel in the place he had his entire relationship, at the very least, with axel. garam felt very foolish, though. there wasn't anything to worry about, really, as angel was already distancing himself from darius. he was nervous and acted out for nothing, for the time being anyways. he didn't know when angel would speak to the other man but he also wasn't about to ask as he didn't want to put any sort of pressure on angel into having that talk with darius. he'd just have to live with knowing that angel wouldn't be spending that time alone with him. "but no rush on that talk happening." his tone nonchalant to subtly further express his distaste for darius. while garam did want to know more about angel's other friends and possibly find friendship in them as well, getting all close and personal with darius wasn't very high on his list of things he truly wanted. the root of why he wanted to know darius better was because of the whole know thy enemies thing. "as much as i'd like to get know him, i much prefer having you all to myself." he was being selfish, he knew that but he didn't care much since angel was willingly putting space between himself and his friend. when angel brought up their little pizza date, though he was cautious after what happened when they tried this last time, garam slowly began to smile. he really did want to make that pizza with angel, he wanted to prepare a meal with him, he wanted to enjoy something prepared for him by somebody he sought interest in. "i would really like it if we made pizzas." garam spoke slowly, his tone hushed as if he thought it would hide his excitement but his smile, the way his eyes lit up, how both his cheeks and his ears started to blush, they all betrayed him. "i promise i'll be on my best behavior so we don't end up arguing beyond what to put on top or how many slices we get to have." garam tried to make light of the situation, to show he was trying to move past what they fought about before, to show his interest in this little pizza date. "oh," garam stopped suddenly, turning quickly to face angel, "when do you have to work next? you shouldn't avoid working because of anybody, don't let anybody stop you from living your life as normal." the true reason behind his questioning was because he wanted to be prepared for when he had to be alone in angel's apartment. if he knew when the time was going to come, he could prepare himself for both the momentary solitude and for an escape route if axel decided to show up again. he could possibly invite a friend over, or he could use that time to get his computer set up sorted out and running. he'd also have to figure out what to do for meals. garam couldn't help but smile more at the thought of preparing a meal for angel to come home to.

Angel felt the tightness in his chest loosened when Garam looped his arm through his. That small, simple touch melted away some lingering worries from earlier — the tears, the uncertainty, the way Garam had looked at him like Angel was something distant and unattainable. Angel didn’t want that. He wanted to be here, real and reachable and his. The way Garam asked about Darius made Angel’s heart tug in an entirely different way. Garam wasn’t trying to start something; Angel could hear the careful effort in his voice, the way he shaped the question to be warm, and inviting. It was clumsy, but in a way that made Angel's chest ache with affection. Garam wanted to try — for him. Angel squeezed Garam’s arm gently, leaning in closer as they moved through the store, the weight of the shopping bags barely noticeable compared to the lightness he felt inside. “Usually we just hang out and watch dumb movies,” Angel said, smiling. “Sometimes we go thrift shopping, or he’ll drag me to some weird new cafe he found online. He’s... I dunno, he’s got a good heart, even if he acts all tough and sarcastic.” He chuckled, glancing sideways at Garam, his eyes soft. “I think you guys could get along, honestly. He’s just... you gotta catch him at the right time, you know?… He was there for me that night. He’s always sort of been there since we started working together. Especially when I didn't want to drink alone. Ah, that's another thing he as drink like a fish. Never accept a drinking challenge from him. Geez I've learned the hard way too many times” Angel slowed them down a little, pretending to look at a display of keychains just so he could take a second to breathe at this moment. Garam — with his messy armful of clothes, the little gap where his shirt hung open exposing a teasing sliver of skin, the way he was looking at Angel like he wanted to be better, to be good — it almost overwhelmed him. Angel knew Garam was carrying things he hadn’t said yet. Secrets. Fears. Maybe even guilt. He could feel it pressing against the edges of their time together, the way Garam sometimes looked at him like he didn’t deserve to stay. But Angel also knew what it meant for someone like Garam to be trying at all. “We’ll invite him over sometime, right now I've been avoiding him since yesterday. Changed a couple of shifts. He needs to feel my absence for a while” Angel said warmly, tugging Garam a little closer. “Maybe for a movie night or something after him and I talk. No pressure.” He wanted to make it easy for Garam to stay. Wanted him to feel like he could stay. Darius was a great friend and he would hate to lose him. But he was also aware of how the man talked about and treated Garam. Which wasn't right. Angel caught the slight shift in Garam’s body — the tension that hadn’t quite disappeared — and he wondered, briefly, what was weighing on him so heavily. He decided not to push. Garam would tell him when he was ready. Angel would just... be here when that moment came. “You are so cute, you know that?” Angel murmured, almost too quiet to hear over the noise of the store. He meant it. Every word. He leaned down pressing a gentle kiss to the side of the man’s head as they finished the transaction and headed to the next store. “I have some spare toiletries at the house. Let's grab this camera and head home. We've had an eventful day…I’m pleased you bought the sweater. Baby you have no idea how good you looked in it.” he did his best to lighten their mood, wanting to turn their back around. They were about to go at it in the dressing room, and now Angel could feel the distance between them. “Do you have an idea for dinner? We never did get to those pizzas. Should we give it another go?”

#threads #thread: garam #thread: garam & angel #ang3lmoans

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misshoneyimhome · 4 hours ago

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What’s up buttercups!

Another day in paradise—aka Chapter Fifteen (or something like that…) 🌙 You know what they say: three things can’t stay hidden forever—the sun, the moon, and the truth 💕 And let’s be honest… nothing good ever comes from keeping secrets from your best friends.

Well—except maybe hot, steamy sex with a certain captain… but who’s counting? 🙈

As always, happy reading, and all my love from yours truly 🥰

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ soft: soft dom/sub play, praise kink, lip biting, handcuffs, tied up, oral pleasure (f receiving), sex toy (vibrator), some overstimulation, unprotected vag sexual intercourse, cum inside, aftercare

Word count: 7.3k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter Fifteen: A Knight's Move

“Dearest Toronto readers,

We’re still breathless from the heat of Wednesday night—on and off the ice.

Auston Matthews may have played like a man possessed (one goal, one assists, and more smirks than shifts), but it was the post-game hallway showdown that had our inbox flooded. A little birdie tells us that Ryan-the-ex made an unscheduled appearance backstage… and walked out with more than just a bruised ego.

But here’s what we know: the Queen didn’t wait to be saved. She stepped in. Defended her king. And later? Well, let’s just say the treatment room saw more action than the crease.

So now we ask… what happens after the passion? After the blood, the bruises, and the breathless confessions?

Word on Bay Street is that cracks are beginning to show—not on the ice, but in the Queen’s camp. A surprise visitor. A tension-filled lunch. And whispers that her most trusted knight may be turning away.

Meanwhile, the Ice King has gone silent. Brooding. Cold, even for him. The team feels it. His smile’s gone missing. And the locker room? Let’s just say not everyone’s in love with his love life.

All we’ll say is this: when knights move, they don’t fall quickly. But they do shake the board.

Hold your crowns close, darlings.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

Thursday –

Chase had always been mildly annoying—too smug, too polished, the kind of guy who used the word “leverage” in casual conversation. But lately, his attention had shifted. You noticed it in the way he lingered near your desk a bit longer, the way he asked about Auston with too much curiosity and too little subtlety. He’d started dropping into your inbox more often too—quick messages about player media timing or sponsorship visibility that didn’t need to come from him. Always signed with a too-chummy “Talk soon ;)”.

“You know, I was just telling Dani in Partnerships,” he said on Thursday morning, leaning on the corner of your desk like he owned it, “we should really leverage the Matthews momentum this quarter. Maybe pitch a few co-branded charity activations? PR gold, right?”

You kept your expression neutral, eyes flicking up from your laptop just long enough to be polite. “Sure. I’ll run it by his team.”

Chase smiled too broadly. That smile he used when he thought he knew something. “Or you could run it by him directly. I mean, you two are pretty tight these days.”

You felt the words land like a pebble dropped in still water—small, but spreading. Your fingers paused above your keyboard. “We work well together.”

“Right,” he said, drawing the word out, tone dripping with meaning. “Work.”

He straightened his tie like he’d just checkmated you in a game you hadn’t even realised you were playing. You made a point of turning back to your screen, eyes narrowing slightly at your inbox.

“Anyway,” Chase added, already taking a step back, “if you ever need a second opinion—or a media push—you know where to find me.”

You didn’t answer. Just clicked into a blank email draft and started typing nonsense until he finally walked away. But your stomach stayed tight for the rest of the morning, the echo of his implication crawling beneath your skin.

He didn’t know. But he was close.

And that was almost worse.

Friday –

By contrast, Friday morning had started with promise.

Jess had texted the night before: Girl day prep. Mani/pedi & chai lattes? 11am. Bring gossip.

You’d taken the day off, and you’d practically clung to the plan like a lifeline all week—craving a break from the chaos, the gossip, the heat of Auston’s body pressed to yours and the lies you were barely keeping straight. Time with Jess felt like an exhale you hadn’t had in weeks.

You pulled on your softest cream sweater, the one with sleeves that hung over your wrists like a comfort blanket, and a pair of high-waisted jeans that didn’t scream “trying too hard.” Your hair went up in a claw clip, a swipe of mascara on your lashes, and a dab of gloss before you slipped into your boots. Civilian armour.

Jess was already waiting outside your usual coffee spot, oversized sunglasses perched atop her head and two drinks in hand.

“Look who remembered how to dress like a normal person,” she called as you approached, holding one of the cups out toward you like a prize. “No Leafs logo in sight. Are we okay? Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by the equipment manager.”

You laughed, wrapping your fingers around the warm cardboard sleeve. “Give me a break. I’ve been living in jerseys and PR-grade blouses for the past month. I forgot what normal felt like.”

“WAG life changes a woman,” she said with a teasing grin, linking her arm through yours as you fell into step. “Look at you—coffee in one hand, boyfriend in the starting line-up, your name getting whispered on Reddit. Auston’s been glowing lately. You keeping secrets from me, babe?”

You snorted into your cup, the chai burning just slightly on the way down. “Please. If anyone’s glowing, it’s Knies. His skin looks photoshopped.”

“Oh, I’m not denying the baby Leaf is thriving. But you,” Jess pointed a finger at you. “You’ve got that… post-honeymoon haze. That ‘I’m getting absolutely railed on a weekly basis and also maybe falling in love’ kind of glow.”

You nearly choked. “Jess.”

“What?” she laughed. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You opened your mouth, ready to volley something snarky and vaguely defensive, but before the words could land, a voice pierced through the soft buzz of the street.

“There you are!”

You turned instinctively—and froze.

Your mother.

Wearing oversized sunglasses, carrying a miniature designer handbag, and smiling like she’d just walked onto a talk show set. Her heels clicked confidently on the pavement as she closed the distance.

“Mum?” you blinked, voice sharper than you meant. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” She waved you off, air-kissing the air near your cheek like you weren’t halfway to a meltdown. “You said you were doing a girls’ day with Jess the other day, so I just figured… to be one of the girls.”

You whipped your head toward Jess mouthing, I’m so sorry.

“I thought I’d surprise you both,” your mother continued, slipping effortlessly into your inner circle like she’d RSVP’d. “It’s been ages since we had proper time together. And I have been dying to talk more about this Auston.”

You stared. At her pink-tinted lips. At her ridiculous sunglasses. At the universe, who clearly hated you.

Jess blinked. “Did… she just say dying?”

“Oh yes,” your mother chirped. “I mean, the dinner was lovely, but I didn’t get nearly enough time with him. He was so charming. And tall. I was telling your aunt about him last night. And don’t even get me started on those shoulders.”

You closed your eyes.

“Kill me,” you muttered into your chai.

Jess squeezed your arm once and murmured, “Babe. Breathe.”

The next couple of hours were bearable—just. Your mother was in her usual form: polished, pleasant, and passive-aggressively maternal. She asked about Auston’s schedule, his taste in wine, whether he was “still planning to do something nice for your birthday,” which you hadn’t even mentioned.

“He’s just so lovely,” she said at one point, sipping her chai. “I hope he’ll be around for Christmas. Your cousins would adore him.”

You nearly choked.

Jess watched you carefully, her brows pulling tighter every time your mother spoke about ‘plans with Auston Matthews’. You tried to smile, nod, make non-committal noises.

You should have known it wouldn’t stay easy for long.

After shopping, an awkward lunch and way too many excuses not to talk about Auston, your mother insisted on coming back to your flat. “Just a little chat,” she’d said, all bright smiles and false lightness. Jess had naturally come too, filling the train ride with stories about work drama, anything to keep the mood floating like a balloon you didn’t dare pop.

But now, inside your living room, the walls felt like they were pressing in.

Jess excused herself to the bathroom with a breezy “two minutes, promise,” leaving you alone with your mother, who perched on the edge of the sofa like a woman about to deliver a sermon.

You perched on the other end, your tea cooling fast between your palms.

She reached out, placing her manicured hand over yours, her voice low and purposeful.

“Darling, I’m only saying this because I care. If you and Auston are serious—truly serious—you need to start thinking about the future. Careers are important, but they can be flexible. Love… doesn’t always wait for you to be ready.”

Here it was again.

That same sentence, dressed in different lace.

The one she used when you didn’t call enough. When you chose late nights at the office over brunch with extended family. When she asked if you’d frozen your eggs yet, casually, over dessert.

But this time, it wasn’t about you.

Not really.

It was about him.

And just like that, something inside you snapped.

Maybe it was Chase’s smug face still lingering in your mind, dripping with implication. Maybe it was the constant pressure of your mother’s picture-perfect expectations. Maybe it was just the exhaustion—of keeping the story straight, of keeping yourself straight, in a life that had long since spun off script.

You opened your mouth to respond, but she was still talking, already steamrolling ahead, her tone bright, oblivious.

“I mean, of course you should have a wedding here in Ontario, but—”

“Mum!”

The word ripped out of you too loud, too raw, like a snapped bone.

She blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

You stood up so fast your tea sloshed, setting it down with a clatter you didn’t mean.

“You have to stop,” you hissed, hands shaking, heart hammering painfully against your ribs. “All of this—you can’t talk like that. Like it’s real.”

A frown etched across her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” you said, gesturing helplessly at the air between you. “Me and Auston. It’s not real. It was never real.”

Your mother’s face froze, confusion hardening into something colder.

“You had dinner with him at our home,” she said slowly, disbelieving. “He helped your niece with her spaghetti.”

You let out a broken laugh. “Yeah. He’s really good at pretending. It’s an act, Mum. We’re not truly in love.”

Your voice cracked again, splintering under the weight of it.

“It was fake, okay?” you said, softer now, the admission falling out like ash. “We made a deal months ago. He needed help with the media, I needed credibility at work. It was supposed to be light, staged, strategic. And then it just… kept going. Got messy.”

Your mother’s mouth opened and closed, her hand withdrawing like you’d burned her.

“You… lied?” she said finally, almost breathless. “All this time?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you said weakly. “Not like this. I didn’t think anyone would care—”

The soft sound of a door creaking open made your stomach lurch.

You turned.

Jess stood frozen at the edge of the hallway, one hand still resting on the doorframe.

Her expression was blank, but her eyes—God, her eyes were wide and hollow and wounded.

Your heart stopped dead in your chest.

“Jess—” you croaked, stepping toward her.

She flinched back—not dramatically, but enough that you felt it like a slap.

“I need a minute,” she said, her voice eerily steady, like she was holding herself together by the thinnest thread.

Then she turned, braid swinging with the force of her exit, and before you could move, before you could call after her, the door clicked shut behind her.

You stood there, breathing hard, the living room spinning slightly around you.

Behind you, your mother stayed frozen on the sofa, hands folded neatly again like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just watched you unravel.

The clock ticked on the wall.

The room smelled faintly of cold tea and steam from the bathroom and everything you couldn’t say.

You didn’t sit back down.

You just stared at the door Jess had left through, feeling the hollow pit in your chest stretch wider, deeper.

You weren’t sure what hurt more: the look in Jess’s eyes, or the fact that telling the truth hadn’t fixed anything.

It had only broken what little you had left.

You: Please just text me when you get home. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to happen like that. Please, can we talk?

There was no response.

You stared at the screen, willing the typing bubble to appear. It didn’t. After a few minutes, you locked your phone and pressed it flat against your thigh, as if closeness might summon forgiveness.

Your mother stood near the coat rack, her sunglasses pushed up onto her head, tapping her fingers against the leather of her handbag.

“Well,” she said eventually, her voice clipped with that brittle calm she defaulted to when she didn’t know which tone would land right. “I’ll give you some space.”

You nodded but didn’t look up. Not because you were angry—but because it was easier not to see the confusion on her face. The quiet disappointment. You didn’t owe her the full story, not now. She didn’t press. Just adjusted her coat and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind her with a softness that still managed to echo.

Silence followed instantly. Heavy. Dense.

You sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the untouched mugs on the table. The tea had gone cold. Your chest felt the same—distant. Unwarmed.

You sent another message.

You: Please talk to me. I never wanted to lie to you. It just got complicated.

Still no response.

“Oh, dear readers. We always knew the Queen’s crown was heavy—what we didn’t expect was how sharply it would tilt when the truth finally slipped free.

The court is splintering. Whispers have turned to thunder. And now, a once-loyal knight has laid down her sword—not with a grand declaration, not with tears, but with a silence sharp enough to draw blood.

Sources say the Queen confessed a secret meant to stay buried, a truth too jagged to fit the fairy tale. What started as a game of appearances has grown teeth, and the wounds it leaves behind? They are real.

And what of our Ice King? Word from inside the locker room says he’s colder than ever. Quieter. Disconnected. The kind of distracted that leaves coaches frowning and teammates whispering behind closed doors.

Something has shifted, Toronto. The board has cracked. The knight has moved—and now, for the first time, the Queen stands truly alone. - The Benchwarmer.”

The air inside the locker room still held the sticky bite of morning skate—sweat, detergent, damp tape, and whatever godawful cologne Knies had decided was his “signature scent” this week. Auston sat on the bench, hunched over his skates, aggressively yanking at the laces like they’d insulted his mother.

Mitch flopped down beside him with all the grace of a man who’d never learned how to sit quietly.

“You good?” he asked casually.

Auston didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

From across the room, Morgan Rielly gave a loud, disbelieving snort. “Ah yes. The ancient hockey lie.”

Mitch smirked. “Seriously, though—you’ve been weird.”

Auston shot him a look. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”

“No, like… mood swing weird,” Knies added, towelling his hair dry. “You were full-on Captain Hardass in video review yesterday, and then I caught you literally humming during warmup.”

“It was Lovebug,” William added without looking up from his phone. “Not even ironically. Just… sincere.”

Auston groaned. “Jesus. Are you all stalking me now?”

Morgan leaned against the wall of his stall. “Nah, man. You’re just loud with your moods. You snapped at the equipment guy because your laces were too short.”

“They were too short,” Auston muttered.

“And then you texted me at 12:47 am asking if I knew a florist,” Morgan continued, deadpan.

“I was ordering flowers. For my mom.”

A beat of silence.

“You hesitated,” Mitch said gleefully. “You totally hesitated.”

William glanced up. “Your mom also the one who made you smirk like a movie villain when she showed up in your jersey on Wednesday?”

Auston yanked off his second skate with more force than necessary. “Can everyone shut the hell up?”

“Oh, he’s pissed,” Knies grinned. “Classic denial stage.”

“Not denial,” Auston muttered. “Just don’t see why it’s your business.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Well, considering you’ve been stomping around like you lost a fight with your own feelings? Kinda is our business.”

“I didn’t lose a fight,” Auston snapped, then paused. “Not—emotionally.”

“Oh, he’s admitting there was a fight,” Mitch stage-whispered.

Auston glared at him.

Morgan held up a hand. “Alright, let’s just run through the facts: You met her family. You text your defenceman at midnight for bouquet advice. You skate like a god when she’s watching and brood like Batman when she’s not.”

“I do not brood.”

“You are brooding right now,” Knies said, pointing with a grin.

Auston leaned back against the locker, jaw tight. The cool metal pressed into his shoulders, but it didn’t ground him the way he needed. Not today.

“She’s just…” He trailed off, jaw working.

“Just what?” Morgan pressed.

“It’s complicated.”

Mitch’s eyes widened theatrically. “Ooooh. That’s what people say when they’re in love and scared shitless.”

“I’m not in love,” Auston said quickly. Too quickly.

Silence.

Knies raised both eyebrows. “Not yet, or not admitting it?”

Auston didn’t answer.

Morgan crossed his arms, voice softening just slightly. “Look, man. We’ve seen you play lights-out when she’s around. We’ve also seen you spiral when you’re in your own head. She’s good for you—even if it started weird, or messy, or whatever you don’t want to say out loud.”

Auston stared at the floor.

“She’s not just some girl,” Morgan added. “Not anymore. And if you’re seeing your mom this week?”

Mitch let out a low whistle. “Yikes. Mama Matthews will get it out of you, dude.”

Auston dragged a hand down his face, sighing hard enough to blow the hair from his forehead. The cut under his lip still stung when he moved too much. Everything felt like it was catching up with him—Ryan, Jess, you. His temper. His heart.

“I don’t know how to talk to her,” he said finally. “Not about… whatever this is.”

“You already are,” Mitch shrugged. “You’re just doing it with your eyes and not your mouth.”

William nodded once, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Tell her before someone else does. Girls don’t wait around forever. Especially not ones like her.”

There was a pause. Long enough for the weight of it to settle in Auston’s chest.

Knies cleared his throat. “You’re not fooling anyone, man. Just call her.”

Auston stood, grabbing his hoodie from the hook behind him. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“Like what?” Mitch called after him.

Auston didn’t stop walking. “Like figure out what the hell I’m doing.”

He shoved the hoodie on over his head and muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “why do things always have to be so fucking messed up.”

William smirked as the door clicked behind him. “Think he finally got it?.”

Your phone buzzed just as you were folding a hoodie you didn’t want to wear and didn’t want to put away. The cotton was soft, worn at the seams, smelling faintly of clean laundry and memories you hadn’t decided whether to keep or let go.

Auston: Come over?

Two words. No emoji. No punctuation. Just space. An open door. A question wrapped in quiet.

You sat on the edge of your bed, the fabric bunched beneath your thighs, phone resting heavy in your palm. You stared at the message, thumb hovering like it was waiting for some divine cue. It wasn’t the kind of text that demanded a response. It didn’t shout.

It whispered.

Like he knew you were drowning a little and didn’t want to pull you under—just offer a hand, open and patient, if you wanted to take it.

You didn’t know what to say. Jess still hadn’t answered your messages. Not even a read receipt. Just silence. And every minute that passed only deepened the hollow in your chest, carving out more space where the ache lived.

You were tired.

Of lying.

Of pretending you weren’t aching.

Of chasing a version of yourself you barely recognised anymore.

You didn’t want to talk.

You just… didn’t want to be alone.

So, you typed one word, hand barely steady:

You: Okay.

—

The Uber ride was a quiet blur. You didn’t bother with makeup—your skin still carried the soft salt of dried tears and city air. You’d pulled your sleeves over your hands, thumb rubbing along the seam like it might keep your pulse steady. Outside, the world was grey and blurred—lights smeared across rain-speckled glass, buildings and people reduced to silhouettes.

You didn’t bring a bag. Just your phone. Just your body and the ache sitting inside it like ballast.

Auston’s building loomed familiar now, like a place you returned to more than you meant to. The lobby lights were soft, golden, the hum of the elevator muted and warm. The front desk guy gave you a nod but didn’t say anything, just tapped the counter lightly—like a secret handshake only the two of you understood.

His door was unlocked.

The hallway was quiet. Carpeted silence. And when you pushed it open, the soft scent of him hit you immediately—cedarwood and something darker. Muskier. Intimate. Like skin. Like comfort.

There was no music playing. No TV flickering in the background. Just the faint hiss of the furnace kicking in and the soft buzz of the refrigerator.

And him.

He was standing in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves pushed up over his forearms, the drawstrings tangled loosely at his chest. His hands were planted flat on the counter, knuckles pale, like he needed the contact to stay grounded. His head was bowed slightly, hair a little messy, jaw dark with stubble.

He didn’t turn when you stepped in. Just exhaled. Like the tension had known you were coming before he did.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Your throat tightened around the word waiting there. “Hey.”

He glanced over his shoulder—only briefly, but enough for his eyes to catch yours. There was no smile. Just something softer. Something raw.

“You came quickly,” he said, voice low and even. “I mean… it’s nice to see you.”

The words slipped into your chest like warm hands pressing gently against your ribs. Not demanding. Not coaxing. Just… kind.

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice not to crack. Not when you were already barely stitched together.

He stepped back from the counter, gesturing slightly with one hand. “You hungry?”

You shook your head. Even the thought of food turned your stomach. He must’ve known.

His eyes lingered. Dark and steady. Like he was reading you—scanning your face like it held all the answers he didn’t know how to ask. You saw the faint twitch in his brow, the way his jaw worked, like he was biting back instinct. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t push.

He just walked over and stood in front of you. Not touching. Not demanding. Just… there. A little slouched. A little tired. Like you.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “But I’m trying.”

You looked at him then—really looked. At the faint purple shadow still blooming beneath one eye. The cut on his bottom lip, a thin slash of red half-healed. At the way his shoulders stayed tense, like he was bracing for a punch you weren’t going to throw.

You stepped closer. Rested your forehead against his chest.

His hands found your waist instantly. Hesitant. Gentle. But certain. Like he’d been craving this moment all day and didn’t know if he was allowed to reach for it.

You closed your eyes and breathed him in.

He smelled like skin warmed under fabric. Like clean laundry and cedar and something you couldn’t name but knew by heart. Your fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie.

“Rough day,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said against your hair. “Me too.”

You stayed like that. Breathing in sync. Hearts thudding too loud.

Then, slowly, you slid your hands under his hoodie, palms smoothing over the warmth of his bare stomach, up across the planes of his chest. His breath hitched the moment you touched skin. His muscles tensed beneath your fingers.

“I… I don’t want to talk… or think,” you murmured. “Not right now.”

His head dipped, lips brushing your temple. “Then don’t.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. The light in the room was soft, catching the edges of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows.

His eyes were already darker. Focused. Waiting for permission.

“I don’t need sweet,” you said. “Not tonight.”

His jaw flexed. “No?”

You shook your head. “I just need… less thinking. Less feeling. Just… forget about everything and fuck.”

He exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—but his hands gripped your waist tighter.

“I can do that.”

And then he kissed you.

Not softly.

Not cautiously.

It was heat and hunger and restraint wound so tight it sang in your bones. His mouth opened against yours, tongue brushing deep, one hand tangling in your hair while the other held your hip like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

You whimpered into his mouth, fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie, pulling him closer. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait. His hands found your thighs, gripping tight as he lifted you onto the counter with a grunt that rumbled deep in his chest.

The granite was cold beneath you, but it didn’t matter. Not when his body pressed between your legs like gravity.

His hands bracketed your hips, thumbs digging into denim.

“I want to play,” he murmured against the skin of your neck. “I want to see how far you’ll let me go.”

Your heart skipped. Your breath caught.

“Go as far as you want.”

He froze—just for a second. Just long enough to look at you. To see if you meant it.

“You sure?”

You nodded, voice trembling. “Please.”

His gaze swept over you—slow, deliberate. He saw everything. The ache. The want. The weight.

Then he kissed you again—deeper this time, rougher.

“Bedroom,” he growled.

And you let him lead. You let yourself fall.

He didn’t speak as he led you to the bedroom—just took your hand and walked you down the hallway, slow and steady, like he already knew you’d follow. Like there was no question of where you belonged. The hallway light cast soft shadows over the floor, and with every step, your heart beat louder in your ears.

The door clicked shut behind you with a quiet finality.

No candles. No music. Just the hush of the room breathing around you.

He pulled his hoodie over his head with one swift motion and tossed it to the chair in the corner. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, the muscle beneath his tattooed skin was tight with tension that didn’t quite feel like restraint—it felt like purpose. Pressure, waiting to break.

You stood near the foot of the bed, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, spine tingling with anticipation.

Then Auston turned to face you fully. His jaw was tight and his eyes unreadable. He didn’t smile.

He just looked like a man ready to unravel.

“Take off your clothes,” he said, voice low and deliberate.

There was no question in it. No pause. Just command.

Your stomach flipped just a little, but you didn’t hesitate. Because it wasn’t a bad feeling, it was… thrilling.

You peeled off your sweater, the fabric catching slightly on your fingers. Then your jeans along with your knickers, slow and trembling. You unclasped the hook of your bra behind your back, straps slipping from your shoulders. And then you stood there bare before him, shivering slightly—not from cold, but from the weight of his stare.

He watched all of it. Silently with arms crossed, head tilted slightly like he was trying to commit the image to memory.

And then he moved.

Crossed the space between you in two strides. One hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your chin. His eyes searched yours—not for hesitation, but for confirmation. And he found it.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

Hungry.

His mouth slanted over yours with a force that stole the air from your lungs, all grit and heat and unspoken ache. You opened for him instinctively, gasping into the space between your lips as his tongue swept against yours. His other hand came to rest at your lower back, pulling you flush against the bare heat of his chest.

Your hands roamed his muscular chest - or his arms, or neck. Just anywhere you could touch.

He groaned against you, deep in his chest like the sound had been waiting to come out all night. His mouth lingered near yours, his breath hot, lips brushing yours again—soft, but laced with restraint that only made you tremble harder.

And then he bit down on your lower lip.

Just enough to sting. To claim. To make you gasp into his mouth like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

When he finally pulled back, your lips felt swollen. Your breath was ragged.

His thumb dragged slowly over your bottom lip, eyes dark with heat and something unreadable. His voice came out rough, frayed at the edges. “Fuck, you look good like this.”

You barely had time to respond before his tone shifted.

“Get on the bed.”

The words were low, deliberate, and commanding in a way that made your knees nearly buckle, your body responding before your mind had the chance to question it. You obeyed without hesitation, moving back slowly until the backs of your legs brushed against the mattress. Breath shallow, heart drumming loud in your ears, you climbed up and sank into the sheets, lying back near the headboard with your arms loose at your sides and your eyes never leaving his.

He didn’t move immediately. He just watched you for a beat longer, his expression unreadable, jaw tight as if holding back the weight of everything unsaid. Then he turned, walked to the bedside table, and slid open the drawer with calm purpose. The faint sound of metal shifting inside broke the hush of the room, and when he turned back to you, he was holding something small, cool, and silver between his fingers.

Handcuffs.

Not fuzzy. Not playful. Just sleek and cold.

His gaze locked with yours, his tone quieter now but laced with authority. “Do you trust me?”

The question hung thick in the air between you, humming with tension and electricity. It wasn’t gentle or coy—it was rooted in something deeper and heavier, edged with promise.

You nodded.

But he wasn’t satisfied.

“Say it,” he murmured, voice huskier, hungrier.

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t hesitate. “I trust you.”

He moved toward you, slow and sure, and climbed onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs with a deliberate steadiness that sent a shiver down your spine. His hands were warm and certain as he guided your arms upward, positioning your wrists together above your head. The first cuff closed around your right wrist with a soft metallic click. The second fastened your left and to the metal loop in the headboard. The restraint was firm but not harsh, and when you tested the give, you realised you were bound—open, vulnerable, and entirely his.

But surprisingly not afraid.

He leaned down and pressed a single kiss to your shoulder, the heat of his lips branding you gently, and then he pulled back just enough for you to see the shift in his eyes. The hunger. The control. The promise of what was coming.

“You want to forget?” he murmured, voice like velvet and fire. “Then I’m going to make sure you don’t think at all.”

The words sank into your chest like a fuse being lit.

You whimpered, just barely, and that was all he needed.

His mouth curved into something feral as he reached for you, hands gripping your thighs firmly. In one rough pull, he dragged your body closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him, his strength making your breath catch as your cuffed arms pulled taut above you.

Then he dropped to his knees.

His palms settled on your hips, fingers flexing. And then his mouth met your cunt—hot, sure, and consuming.

“Oh fuck, Auston—”

He didn’t pause, didn’t tease. He licked into you with single-minded focus, no warning, no slow build. His tongue was firm and relentless, working you like he was trying to wring every last drop of tension from your body. Like he needed to punish you and pleasure was the weapon.

Your hips bucked instinctively, searching for more, for relief, but the cuffs held you down. Helpless beneath the onslaught of his mouth, you couldn’t move, couldn’t shift, only take what he gave you.

His grip tightened on your thighs, anchoring you as his tongue circled and dragged and pressed in maddening, perfect rhythm. The obscene sound of wet heat filled the room, and your legs were already trembling, breath catching with every flick of his tongue. His nose bumped your clit just right, again and again and again, pushing you further until it was almost too much to take—

And then he stopped.

You gasped, hips twitching in the air as he stood, leaving you bare and throbbing in the quiet.

Your eyes followed him, still dazed, as he reached back into the drawer and pulled out a slim black vibrator. He flicked it on with a soft buzz that seemed to echo, and the low hum filled the room like a warning.

Your breath hitched.

Your eyes widened.

But he simply smirked.

“You said no more feelings,” he said, voice low and unapologetic. “So, I’m going to give you everything.”

He climbed back between your legs, dragging the vibrator slowly along your inner thigh, making your skin jump beneath the touch, teasing you with every pass but never quite giving you what you needed.

And then he pressed it against your clit, firm and direct, so your whole body jolted.

You cried out, arching in the cuffs, breath punched from your lungs.

“Too much?” he asked, the vibration never letting up.

You shook your head frantically, already straining against the edge. “No. Please. Don’t stop.”

The orgasm hit too fast, too sharp, tearing through you with a force that made your vision blur. Your wrists strained in their restraints as your hips bucked, but he didn’t let up—not even for a second.

The toy stayed right where it was—circling, pressing, punishing. And then his fingers joined in—one at first, then two—slipping inside you and curling just right, perfectly, devastatingly.

You came again, this time with a cry that cracked your voice wide open. You sobbed through it, raw and breathless, as your whole body shook.

Then retreating his fingers, he kissed your cheek, your neck, his voice like gravel in your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Fucking gorgeous when you break.”

The vibrator finally clicked off, leaving a silence that felt just as charged as the hum had been. Your breath came in shallow gasps, your chest heaving as you blinked up at him.

And then he stood.

He shoved down his sweats and boxers in one motion and stepped back between your thighs, cock thick and flushed, his gaze locked on yours as he lined up and sank into you in one long, brutal stroke.

The stretch was sharp, overwhelming, but you were soaked and ruined and ready, your cunt fluttering around him like it didn’t know how to handle the fullness.

You moaned—loud and desperate—as the handcuffs clinked above your head, the metal cold around your wrists.

Auston groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

And then he started to move.

Hard and rough.

Not violent, but forceful in rhythm, every thrust landing with the force of everything he hadn’t said. Deep and unrelenting as your body clung to him, spasming with every stroke.

You cried out—again and again, your voice breaking.

“Can’t handle it?” he asked, breath ragged against your skin, but he never slowed.

Tears streaked your cheeks. But your answer didn’t waver.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Don’t. fucking. stop... please”.

He kissed your temple. Just once. And then he fucked you harder.

You lost all track of time. All sense of where your body ended and his began. All that existed was the throb between your legs, the slick sound of skin meeting skin, and the low rasp of his voice when he whispered your name like it meant salvation. He was fucking your brains out.

And when you came again, you broke around him with a sob that shook your whole body.

“Fuck—baby, that’s it,” he groaned. “Give it to me. Let me feel you.”

Because he wasn’t far behind. You felt it in the way his hips began to stutter, in the way his hands gripped your wrists tight enough to bruise.

And when he finally climaxed, it was with a deep, broken sound in your ear. His hips jerked, his cock pulsed inside you, and his arms wrapped tight around your arms as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Breathless and bare. Tethered only to each other and the mess you’d made.

And just like that… then came the gentle part.

He eased out of you slowly, careful like he didn’t want to startle you, before he reached up and released the cuffs one at a time, massaging your wrists with tender fingers, and pressing a kiss to the inside of each.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough with concern.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere in your throat.

He brushed your hair from your face, thumb catching one of the tear streaks. “Good girl,” he whispered. “You took all of it.”

You didn’t know if you were floating or falling, but you knew you were safe. And that was enough.

The water steamed around you, beading down your shoulders, washing away the sweat, the heat, the high. Auston stood behind you in the shower, one hand braced against the tile near your head, the other resting lightly on your hip, steadying you. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

His fingers then moved slowly across your back, soap lathered into his palm, every touch careful and reverent—like he was trying to wash away more than just the night. You tilted your head slightly, letting it rest against his chest. The solid weight of him anchored you. His skin was warm, his heartbeat steady beneath your head, and for a moment—just one—it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away. Like this space, fogged with steam and breath and heat, was the only place that made any sense.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Something that felt gentle and almost thoughtful.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet, rough with sleep and something softer.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He traced a slow path down your chest with the pads of his fingers. “Was it… too much?”

You shook your head. “No. It was everything I needed.”

He didn’t speak. Just exhaled, his breath brushing your temple.

The silence returned—not heavy, not cold. Just full. With everything neither of you had said yet.

But then you swallowed, your voice barely rising above the hum of water. “Jess knows.”

Auston didn’t flinch, but his fingers stilled against your skin.

And then you kept going, words trickling out like the water around you. “She overheard me talking to my mum. I didn’t mean for her to. I didn’t mean to tell anyone… not like that. It just spilled.”

He shifted, pulled you in closer, arms winding around your waist, chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

“Will she tell anyone?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know… she didn’t look angry. Just hurt. Like I’d broken something she thought was safe.”

He didn’t answer straightaway. He just held you tighter.

You let your fingers trail over the side of his forearm. “And Chase… he doesn’t know. I think… Not really. But he’s watching, and he’s asking questions.”

Auston nodded slowly, his lips brushing your ear. “We’ll handle it.”

You turned slightly to look at him. His face was softened by the steam, his hair wet and curling around his forehead. His eyes were steady. Serious. But not afraid.

“We?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. We.”

The word landed in your chest and stayed there. Solid. Quiet. Sure. Like something you could build from, if you dared.

He reached in front of you and turned off the tap, and the silence that followed was almost loud, the gentle drip of water echoing in the small space as you stood together, bare and vulnerable, skin to skin.

He took a towel and wrapped you in it first, arms sliding around your shoulders as he tucked you in like instinct. Then he grabbed one for himself, rubbing at his hair with lazy hands before glancing toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he said softly. “You can stay if you want.”

You hesitated. Just a breath. Just long enough to feel the weight of what wasn’t being said. You didn’t know what this meant—not yet. You didn’t have a plan or the right words for the shape this thing had taken between you.

But you didn’t want to leave.

Not tonight.

So, you just nodded, and he offered a smile—small, almost shy. Like it mattered more than he could say.

In the bedroom, he handed you a T-shirt—long and soft and worn in all the right places, unmistakably his—and waited while you slipped it over your head. Then he pulled back the covers, climbed into bed, and held them open like an invitation.

You climbed in without a word.

The sheets were warm and smelled like him. Like the sex you just had.

You then curled into his side, your head on his chest, his hand resting gently at your hip under the covers, fingertips drawing slow, aimless circles into your skin.

And there, in the hush of the room, with the storm outside your mind finally quiet, you let yourself drift.

“Dearest Toronto readers,

We told you the board had shifted.

While the Ice King skated through morning drills with a jaw like stone and a stare that could curdle milk, whispers began to curl around the edges of the rink. His mood, some said, was unstable. But we disagree. It wasn’t the throne cracking—it was the walls around his heart.

You felt it, didn’t you? The silence behind locker room doors. The soft unravelling in hallway glances. The storm before something honest.

And then—she appeared. Not on a red carpet. Not in a press release. But quietly, in a hoodie and tired eyes, walking into the Ice King’s private domain like she’d been there all along.

We hear the suite was quiet that night. No champagne. No flashbulbs. Just hands held under running water. Secrets whispered between kisses. And a woman who knew exactly what she needed: not a saviour, but a sanctuary.

Even the sharpest observers sometimes miss the softest truths.

But not us.

Not when the Queen lays down her armour and still commands the room. Not when she admits what hurts—and lets someone else help carry it.

She didn’t need rescuing. But she still chose to be held.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

#The Benchwarmer #inexperienced!reader x Auston #auston matthews fanfic #Toronto maple leafs fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl romance #nhl imagines

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landmineconfessional · 2 days ago

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I'm really sorry if this is long or doesn't make a lot of sense but I just have some thoughts about the community that I have gotten hate for previously and I just need to vent. You don't have to post this if you don't want to, and anyone who wants to read or not is okay. Don't take anything too seriously or personally please I'm not talking about anyone in particular.

I'm older I'm 28 so I know I don't fit in very well, but I grew up on tumblr and I have found myself becoming more and more disillusioned with this community lately to the point where I'm not sure why I'm still here. I think I'm just sticking around out of concern at this point. Its hard. There are very solid and good arguments for having a space where you can talk about your unhealthy coping mechanisms or lifestyle and not be judged. It's almost like a form of therapy, and especially if people can give you advice on how to stay safer while doing these things it can be really helpful. At the same time though I've noticed that a lot of this seems quite performative in this community. Much so as in the early 2000s on this website with the proana community romanticizing specifically anorexia to the point that people would very commonly post prayers to Ana. It became almost like a religion or cult within itself. I don't think it's at that point yet and I know thats a bit of an extreme metaphor but I do think that a lot of the eds and sh and alcoholism is almost becoming competitive on here. Ive seen people answer asks about how to cut deeper or things of that nature which is alarming to me. Im really torn. I want people to have a space, but I also have the foresight as an adult to know that this space is hurting them mentally because I'm older. People think I'm an asshole when I say that the teenagers on jiraiblr will grow up and realize that the community really fucked them up but I fully and truly believe that. A lot of older people who were on things like myproana or sh forums grew up and realized those forums made things worse for us and made it harder for us to recover and told us repeatedly its okay to never recover you dont have to recover. But this idea that its okay not to ever recover came back to bite us. Im torn. I think that it is kind of shitty to force people to recover and I think its shitty to say people can't do anything but post recovery content, but on the other hand once we reached the ages of around 23-27 on the ED forum... I watched a lot of my friends cling to their mental illnesses and it killed them. I watched the friends I had been counting calories with have heart complications and experience heart attacks at the age of 24. I watched the friends I had been sharing bodychecks with reach a point in their life where they could not do anything. They desperately wanted to be able to get a job and live their life and do what they wanted but their illnesses had become so bad that they could not do these things, some of them were hospitalized repeatedly, some of them had to live with their parents into their 30s, some of them desperately wanted to recover and had reached a point where they just couldn't and they withered away. I had a friend that I was talking to one night they were self harming and they told me that they were, and I did too at the time so I jokingly told them to send me photos. She severed a nerve and shortly after killed herself after coming to the full realization that she had taken away her own ability to use her hand.

Its just very sad and it hurts me to see this and I worry for the kids here. Especially the ones who run the kangel or ame blogs and try their best to play that role. I know at first they're being hyperbolic and trying to play that role, but over time that's going to become part of their daily speak and it's going to hurt them. "Fake it until you make it" works in both directions.

I dont know just I guess... know that if no one else I care about you and I worry about you and... I guess that's it. Sorry this is so jumbled

#confession #jiraiblr #jirai #jirai kei #jirai lifestyle #jiraiblogging #landmine jirai #landmineblr #landmine kei #landmineblogging #landmineconfessional #sh mention #ed mention

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lila-lou · 2 hours ago

Text

✨Beyond his true fate - Part 1/14✨

Summary: Sequel to "His true fate".

(Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.)

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, tough topics

Word Count: 5779

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Day 1 Jensen stared at his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his call log. Five missed calls. Five times he let it ring until it went to voicemail. Five times he hoped, prayed, begged that you would answer.

You didn’t. Your last message had been clear: “Jensen, please. I need space”.

He hadn’t replied. What could he say? That he didn’t want to give you space? That he wanted to get in his car and drive straight to wherever you were, pull you into his arms, bury his face in your neck and apologize until his voice gave out?

Instead, he shoved his phone into his pocket and turned toward the living room, where Zeppelin was currently attempting to stack pillows taller than himself. Arrow was chasing JJ around the couch with a stuffed animal.

Jensen forced himself to smile. Forced himself to laugh when Zeppelin collapsed into the pillows. Forced himself to focus on them and not the aching hole in his chest where you used to be.

But that night, after he tucked them in and the house was quiet, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the spot where you should be. Where you belonged. And for the first time in a long time, he felt truly, completely alone.

Day 3 He found one of your sweaters in the laundry. He hadn’t noticed it before, tangled up in the mix of clothes from before you left. It still smelled like you.

He sat on the couch with it in his lap for hours, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, his chest aching so damn bad he could hardly breathe.

Jensen had never been the kind of man to hold onto things like that. He wasn’t sentimental about clothes or perfume or little trinkets. But right now? Right now, he would have given anything to hear your voice. To hear you hum under your breath while cooking, to feel your fingers thread through his hair when he sat on the couch beside you, to have your body pressed against his at night—warm, soft, real.

But all he had was this damn sweater. And a silence that was suffocating.

Day 5 Jensen took the kids out for ice cream, trying to distract himself with their laughter. It worked for a little while. Zeppelin got chocolate all over his shirt, Arrow declared she was officially “too old for baby flavors” and got something she hated, and JJ? She barely said anything.

She was watching him.

And later, when the other two had gone to bed, she sat beside him on the couch, arms crossed, her sharp eyes way too knowing. “You look like shit, Dad”, she finally said, her tone blunt.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand over his face. “Thanks, kid”.

“Are you gonna fix it?”.

Jensen looked at her then, feeling the weight of everything press down on his chest. “I don’t know”, he admitted.

Day 7 The kids went back to Danneel’s today. The house was too quiet after they left.

Jensen paced the kitchen, his phone in his hand, your number pulled up for what felt like the hundredth time.

Just one message. Just one call.

But every time, he stopped himself. Because if you wanted to hear from him, you would have called by now.

Instead, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink.

Then another. Then another.

By the time he stopped, his head was heavy, his limbs sluggish, and the only thing he could think about was the way your lips felt against his. The way your voice sounded when you whispered his name in the dark. The way you had looked at him the last time you spoke—broken, distant, done.

He didn’t deserve to call you. Didn’t deserve to beg.

Day 9 The whiskey burned going down, but he barely felt it anymore.

Jensen sat on the couch, staring at the dark TV screen, the bottle sitting half-empty on the table beside him.

He had ignored his emails. Ignored his agent’s calls. Ignored everyone except the bartender from the local place he had gone to earlier that night just to get out of the house.

But none of it mattered. Because no matter how much he tried to distract himself, the only thing he could think about was you. And the fact that he had no idea if you were coming back.

Day 12 Jensen hadn’t shaved. Had barely slept. He was a mess, and he knew it.

The couch had become his bed, the bottle of whiskey his closest companion. Every time his phone buzzed, he snapped his head toward it, hoping—praying—it was you.

But it never was.

Day 14 Jensen barely registered the sound of knocking at first. His head was pounding, a dull ache from too many sleepless nights and too much whiskey. He had half a mind to ignore it—until the knocking turned into full-blown pounding.

Groaning, he rubbed his hands over his face and pushed himself off the couch, stumbling slightly as he made his way toward the door. He swung it open without checking, expecting maybe the mailman, maybe a delivery—hell, maybe even you.

Instead, it was Jared.

Jensen blinked, his vision hazy. “What the hell are you doing here?”.

Jared gave him a once-over, his expression unimpressed. “Checking to see if you’re dead”.

Jensen scoffed, stepping back so Jared could walk in. “I’m fine”.

Jared shut the door behind him and immediately let out a low whistle, taking in the disaster that was Jensen’s living room. The coffee table was cluttered with empty glasses, the bottle of whiskey still sitting there, and a blanket was thrown haphazardly over the couch—the only place Jensen had been sleeping.

“Yeah”, Jared muttered. “You look great”.

Jensen rolled his eyes and dropped back onto the couch. “Why are you really here?”.

Jared exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “Because you’re a miserable fuck when you’re heartbroken, and I figured you’d be too stubborn to reach out for help”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not heartbroken”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Really? So, this”,—he gestured around the room—"this is just your new aesthetic?”.

Jensen shot him a glare, but Jared wasn’t fazed. Instead, he dropped onto the armchair across from him, leaning forward slightly. “Look, man”, Jared said, his voice softer now, more serious. “I know you. And I know you’re hurting. But you can’t just sit here drowning yourself in whiskey and self-pity, waiting for her to come back”.

Jensen’s jaw clenched. “She won’t even talk to me”.

“Yeah, because she’s hurting too”, Jared shot back. “And from what I can tell, she’s not the one who fucked this up”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He knew Jared was right. He didn’t need to hear it.

Jared leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Jensen, do you even want this kid?”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted, and for a moment, he couldn’t even answer.

Jared shook his head. “That’s the problem, man. You’re waiting for some grand epiphany, but that’s not how it works. You either step the fuck up, or you lose her. It’s that simple”.

Jensen let his head drop back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His chest felt tight, his mind racing, his heart a mess. “I don’t know how”, he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jared exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Then figure it out. Before it’s too late”.

Jensen closed his eyes, his fingers gripping the blanket on the couch. Because deep down, he knew—he was already running out of time.

Jared leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Alright, enough”.

Jensen barely cracked an eye open. “Enough of what?”.

“This”, Jared gestured around the disaster of a living room. “This whole pathetic, self-loathing, whiskey-drenched thing you’ve got going on. It’s over”.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair. “What, you gonna fix my life, Jare?”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “No, you are. Because I’m not letting you sit here wallowing while (Y/N) is out there figuring out if she can live without you”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted. He already knew the answer to that. You could.

Jared stood up, towering over him with that stubborn-as-hell look Jensen had seen too many times. “Get up”.

Jensen groaned. “Dude—”.

“No. Get the fuck up”.

Jensen blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the edge in Jared’s tone.

Jared gestured at him. “You look like hell, man. When’s the last time you shaved?”.

Jensen rubbed a hand over his scruff, glaring. “I don’t know. Who gives a shit?”.

Jared let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You don’t give a shit. And that’s why you’re losing her”.

That one landed deep.

Jared didn’t let up. “You say you don’t know how to do this? Fine. But sitting here doing nothing sure as hell isn’t helping”. He pointed toward the stairs. “So go shower. Shave. Clean this place up. And when you’re done, we’re gonna figure out how to make this right”.

Jensen exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.

Jared stepped closer. “You don’t get to be the victim here, Jensen. You did this. But you can still fix it”.

Jensen looked up at him, his jaw clenching. He wanted to snap back, to tell Jared to fuck off, to say he was too exhausted, too broken. But deep down, he knew his friend was right. So, without another word, he pushed himself off the couch and trudged toward the stairs.

“Atta boy”, Jared muttered, shaking his head as Jensen disappeared toward the bathroom.

As the water hit his face, Jensen let out a slow breath. He had to fix this. Before it really was too late.

Jensen ran a towel over his face, exhaling as he walked back into the living room. He felt a little more human—showered, shaved, wearing clean clothes—but inside, he was still wrecked.

Jared was sitting at the kitchen table now, arms crossed, watching him expectantly. He had cracked open a beer but hadn’t touched it yet.

Jensen sighed, dragging out a chair before dropping into it. “Alright”, he muttered. “Let’s hear it”.

Jared lifted a brow. “Hear what?”.

Jensen gestured vaguely. “Whatever lecture you’ve been dying to give me”.

Jared shook his head. “Nah, man. I’m past the lecture phase. Now, I just want the truth”.

Jensen looked down at his hands, jaw clenched. He wasn’t ready for this. But at the same time? He was fucking exhausted from running from it.

Jared leaned forward. “What are you so scared of?”.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat tight. He ran a hand over his face before finally forcing the words out. “I swore I’d never do this again”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just let him talk.

“After the twins, after everything with Danneel…”, Jensen exhaled heavily, gripping the edge of the table. “I told myself I was done. No more kids. No more sleepless nights, no more stress, no more feeling like I’m failing at being a dad when my career is pulling me in a hundred different directions”.

Jared nodded slowly. “So when (Y/N) told you she was pregnant—”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “I panicked. I shut down. Because I knew what was coming”. He shook his head, staring at the wood grain of the table. “The late nights. The exhaustion. The pressure to be everything all at once”.

Jared’s voice was quiet but firm. “And the difference this time?”.

Jensen hesitated, his chest tightening. “This time… I can’t fuck it up”.

Jared frowned. “What do you mean?”.

Jensen looked up at him, his green eyes stormy with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel until now. “I already screwed up one marriage, Jared. My kids already have to split their time between two homes. And now I’ve got this—this perfect, amazing woman who actually loves me for who I am, and I’m fucking ruining it”.

Jared exhaled. “Jensen—”.

Jensen shook his head. “I don’t get a redo if I mess this up. (Y/N) deserves more than that. This baby deserves more than that”. His voice cracked slightly. “And I’m so goddamn scared that I don’t know how to be enough for them”.

Silence settled between them.

Then, Jared leaned back, crossing his arms. “Okay”, he said simply.

Jensen blinked. “Okay?”.

Jared nodded. “Yeah. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, it’s time to do something about it”.

Jensen let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so fucking easy”.

Jared smirked. “It’s not. But neither is sitting here feeling sorry for yourself”. He tilted his head. “You love her?”.

Jensen’s chest ached. “More than anything”.

Jared nodded. “Then prove it”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jared was right—he had to do something. He had to prove to you that he wasn’t just going to keep running, keep shutting down when things got hard.

But how the hell was he supposed to fix something that felt this broken?

Jared studied him carefully, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. His tone was different this time—slower, more deliberate. “Have you ever thought about proposing?”.

Jensen’s entire body tensed. His green eyes snapped to Jared’s, his breath hitching for just a second before he forced himself to scoff. “Jesus, Jared”, he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m trying to fix things, not push her away even more”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “I’m not saying you gotta do it tomorrow. I’m just asking… have you thought about it?”.

Jensen looked away, jaw tight. His hands clenched into fists on the table. “No”, he said automatically. Then, softer, almost to himself, “Not really”.

Jared hummed like he didn’t quite believe him. “Okay. And why not?”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “Because marriage is right next to ‘another baby’ on my list of things I swore I’d never do again”. His voice was rough, bitter. “I barely survived it the first time. You really think I’d be dumb enough to sign up for that shit again?”.

Jared’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded like he had expected that answer. “And yet”, he said slowly, tilting his head, “you´re kinda willing to do the whole baby thing again for (Y/N)”.

Jensen opened his mouth, then shut it.

Jared leaned forward, his voice even. “So maybe this isn’t about marriage itself. Maybe this is about the fact that Danneel took that idea, chewed it up, and spit it out until all you see when you hear ‘marriage’ is something ugly”.

Jensen clenched his jaw, his chest tightening. Jared wasn’t wrong.

When he thought about marriage, he thought about fights behind closed doors. About feeling like a failure no matter what he did. About a relationship that had turned into nothing but resentment and obligations.

But when he thought about you?

He thought about quiet mornings with your legs tangled in his under the covers. The way you absentmindedly played with his fingers while you watched TV. The way you whispered his name in the dark, soft and certain, like you never doubted he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Jensen swallowed hard, rubbing his hand over his face.

Jared was watching him carefully. “I’m not saying you gotta run out and buy a ring right now”, he said. “But if you want to show her that you’re all in? It’s gotta be something big, man. Because right now, she thinks you don’t want this—don’t want her. And if you don’t do something to prove otherwise, she’s gonna walk”.

Jensen’s chest ached. Because that was his biggest fear. Losing you. Losing everything.

He exhaled slowly, his hands still gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t know if I can do marriage again”, he admitted, his voice raw. “But I know I can’t lose her”.

Jared nodded, like that was enough for now. “Then figure out what the hell you’re gonna do about it”.

Another week had passed. Another week full of Jared pushing, prodding, and dragging Jensen through what he sarcastically called “therapy sessions”. Another week without a single word from you.

It was fucking killing him. But at least now, he was trying.

Two days ago, in the middle of another long conversation about what the hell are you doing, man? Jensen had suggested painting the nursery.

It had come out of nowhere. One second, Jared was rattling on about emotional vulnerability or some shit, and the next, Jensen had blurted it out. “I should probably paint the nursery, huh?”.

Jared had frozen mid-sip of his beer, staring at him like he’d just spoken a foreign language. “You what?”.

Jensen had shrugged, playing it off. “She’s not gonna get rid of the baby”. Saying it out loud made something heavy settle in his chest. He cleared his throat. “And even if I still don’t—I mean, I don’t—”. He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, I don’t want this, man, but I know I have to get there somehow. And I sure as hell won’t let her leave me over it”.

Jared had watched him carefully for a long moment, then simply nodded. “Then we better get some paint”.

Which led them here. To a damn hardware store.

Jensen walked down the aisles with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning rows of paint samples while Jared followed behind, arms crossed like some judgmental therapist. “So… you’re painting the nursery”, Jared mused, eyeing Jensen with an annoyingly smug look. “Big step”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, grabbing a handful of swatches. “It’s just paint”.

Jared scoffed. “Right. And I suppose you just accidentally wandered into the baby furniture section earlier, too?”.

Jensen shot him a glare.

Jared grinned. “That’s what I thought”.

Jensen sighed, glancing at the blues, greens, and neutral tones in his hand. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing”.

Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You got this".

Jensen huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah”. His eyes flickered over the soft pastel colors, and before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed a few cans of paint. “Let’s get this over with”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just smirked knowingly as he followed Jensen to the checkout.

Jensen dipped the roller into the tray, watching the soft, muted green coat the surface before pressing it against the nursery wall. The rhythmic motion—up, down, up, down—was the only thing grounding him, keeping him from spiraling into the thoughts he had been trying to avoid all day.

But the silence made it impossible to outrun them.

It was just him, the paint, and his own fucked-up mind.

He hadn’t told anyone, not even Jared, why he chose green. But he knew. Deep down, he knew.

It was the color of your sweater—the one you always wore around the house, the one he found in the laundry after you left, the one that still smelled like you.

And maybe, on some subconscious level, he thought if he filled this room with something that reminded him of you, maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t feel so terrifying.

Jensen sighed, pressing the roller harder against the wall. The sound of it gliding over the drywall filled the empty house, the scent of fresh paint mixing with the whiskey lingering on his breath.

He still didn’t know how to want this. That was the worst part.

He had spent years swearing he’d never do this again. The sleepless nights, the crying, the constant feeling of never doing enough. He had already lived through it, and he had barely survived it then.

And now? Now, he was older. His patience was thinner. His life was different.

So why the hell was he here, rolling paint onto these damn walls like a man preparing for a future he still didn’t know if he wanted?

Because she’s leaving you. The thought came so fast it knocked the wind out of him.

Jensen froze mid-roll, his grip tightening around the handle. That’s what this was, wasn’t it?

That’s why he had spent the past two weeks drowning himself in whiskey and self-pity. Why Jared had to drag his ass off the couch just to function like a normal human being. Why he was standing in a half-empty nursery at one in the morning, painting walls for a baby he had spent months trying not to think about.

Because for the first time, he felt it.

The empty space beside him. The missing presence of the woman he loved. The gaping hole you had left behind when you walked out of that house.

And if he didn’t fix this—really fix this—he was going to lose you.

Jensen swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he stared at the half-painted wall. He needed to stop being a coward.

The next morning, Jensen woke up stiff as hell, his back aching from falling asleep on the floor of the half-painted nursery. His hands were speckled with dried paint, his shirt a mess, and his head still a little foggy from everything running through his mind the night before.

He had never planned on getting this far.

Never planned on standing in a room he was preparing for a baby. Never planned on thinking about cribs or carpets or curtains.

But here he was.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his face before reaching for his phone. He knew what he had to do, but fuck if he was going to do it alone.

Jensen: I need your fucking moral support today.

It didn’t take Jared long to respond.

Jared: Moral support for what?

Jensen exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his jaw before typing back.

Jensen: Baby store.

Jared: …holy shit.

Jensen: Shut up and get your ass over here.

Jensen locked his phone, rolling his shoulders before standing up and taking a good look around the room. The green walls were dry now, the color softer in the daylight. The room still felt empty as hell, but it was a start. And he was going to make damn sure it didn’t stay empty for long.

Jared was already waiting when Jensen pulled into the parking lot, leaning against his truck with his arms crossed and an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face.

Jensen groaned before even stepping out. “Don’t”, he warned the second his sneaker hit the pavement.

Jared just chuckled. “Oh, I am gonna”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he walked past him, straight toward the entrance. Jared followed, his grin only widening. “I just need a crib”, Jensen muttered. “Maybe a carpet. Some curtains”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot coming from the guy who, just a couple weeks ago, was acting like this baby was an alien invasion”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Moral support, Jared. Not moral commentary”.

Jared held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as they stepped inside.

The second they entered, Jensen felt like he had been hit with baby shit everywhere. Cribs. Strollers. Little clothes that were way too tiny. Shelves filled with things—things that made his head spin, things he had completely forgotten about from when his own kids were babies.

This wasn’t just picking out a crib. This was preparing for something he had been trying to run from for months.

Jensen swallowed hard, but before he could backtrack, Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning like the bastard he was. “Alright, man. Show me where the cribs are”.

Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just get this over with”.

Jensen had faced a lot of difficult things in his life. Grueling film schedules. Long flights. Even longer nights. Divorce. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for standing in the middle of a baby store, staring at rows of cribs while Jared fucking Padalecki grinned at him like he had just won the lottery.

Jensen let out a long breath, crossing his arms as his eyes scanned the options. Too many choices. Too many colors. Too many damn cribs that all looked exactly the same.

Jared, on the other hand, was having way too much fun. He leaned against a display, arms crossed, watching Jensen with pure amusement. “Never thought I’d see the day”, he mused, shaking his head. “Jensen Ackles, shopping for a crib. It’s like watching Bigfoot pick out furniture”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Shut the hell up”.

Jared smirked. “Nah, man, this is too good. Should I call Gen? Maybe get Danneel on FaceTime? This is history right here”.

Jensen groaned, running a hand down his face. “I swear, if you don’t shut up—”.

Jared just laughed, clapping him on the back. “Relax. I’m proud of you, dude”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, pretending to be irritated, but the words did hit somewhere deeper. He didn’t respond to that, though. Instead, he turned back to the cribs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which one of these things is… I don’t know. The best?”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Best at what?”.

Jensen exhaled sharply. “Best at keeping a baby alive, Jared. Isn’t that the whole point?”.

Jared snorted. “I mean, yeah, but it’s not that deep, man. Just pick one”.

Jensen frowned. “It’s not that simple”.

And apparently, it wasn’t—because before he knew it, he was running his hand along the wooden railing of one crib, testing the bars, then moving to another one, checking its sturdiness like he actually knew what the hell he was doing.

Jared watched in amusement as Jensen muttered to himself, comparing features, shaking cribs slightly to test their stability. “Wow”, Jared drawled. “You’re really putting your dad instincts into this, huh?”.

Jensen scoffed but didn’t stop inspecting. “It’s a crib. It’s gotta be solid. What if the kid starts climbing? What if the bars are too wide?”. He frowned at one and moved on to another. “What if it’s got some cheap-ass paint that chips?”.

Jared blinked. “Dude. Babies don’t just come out the womb climbing like monkeys”.

Jensen ignored him, still scanning the options. His eyes landed on white crib—solid wood, no flimsy parts, simple but sturdy. He ran his hand over the rail, nodding to himself.

“This one”.

Jared smirked. “Oh, so now you care about the details?”.

Jensen shot him a look but didn’t argue. Because, yeah, maybe he did care. Maybe picking this crib meant something. Maybe it meant he was trying.

Jared must have sensed the shift, because his smirk softened into something more genuine. “Alright”, he said, nodding. “Let’s get it”.

After the crib was loaded onto a cart, Jensen turned toward the next item on his list. “Curtains”, he muttered.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “You actually giving her a choice on those?”.

Jensen huffed. “She’ll pick everything else. I just wanna get something neutral”.

Jared smirked but didn’t argue, following as Jensen made his way toward the fabric section. And somehow, some-fucking-how, Jensen found himself holding up two different sets of curtains, actually considering shades like it was the most important decision of his damn life. “These?”. He held up a soft gray set. “Or these?”. A muted sage green.

Jared blinked. “Dude. They’re curtains”.

Jensen glared at him. “Yeah, but they gotta match the room”.

Jared snorted. “Alright, Martha Stewart. Go with the green. It matches the walls”.

Jensen grumbled but tossed them in the cart.

Next up: a rug.

Jensen wandered toward the aisle, scanning the options before stopping at one with a soft, plush texture. Simple, neutral, nothing fancy—but it looked comfortable.

While Jensen was focused on loading the cart with the essentials—crib, curtains, rug—Jared had somehow wandered off to another aisle. And that was never a good sign.

Jensen found him standing in front of a display of tiny baby clothes, holding up an impossibly small onesie with a goofy grin. “Man”, Jared muttered, half to himself, half to Jensen. “Maybe I should have another one”.

Jensen groaned. “Oh, hell no. Gen would kill you”.

Jared smirked but didn’t put the onesie back. “I mean… look at these”, he said, holding up a tiny pair of socks between his fingers. “They’re like… this big”. He pinched his fingers together dramatically.

Jensen exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Jesus, Jared”.

Jared laughed, tossing the socks back into the bin before glancing at Jensen. “You know the gender yet?”.

Jensen shook his head, his fingers tightening on the cart handle. “No. Won’t know for another four weeks or something”.

Jared nodded, his expression turning more thoughtful. “You gonna find out?”.

Jensen hesitated, glancing down at the items in the cart. The crib. The rug. The curtains. The first things he’d actually bought for this baby.

For his baby.

“Yeah”, he admitted, voice quieter now. “I think I wanna know”.

Jared grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Good. That way, I can get you something really obnoxious”.

Jensen rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Because, for the first time, he realized—he actually wanted to know. And maybe that meant something.

Eventually, Jensen stood in front of the rack, staring at the onesie like it had personally offended him. The design was so familiar, but just… off enough to avoid a lawsuit.

Jared stepped up beside him, taking one look before bursting into laughter. “No way this is legal”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “Someone at Warner Bros. is definitely gonna lose their shit if they see this”.

Jared picked up the tiny black onesie, reading the white lettering aloud. “‘Saving People, Hunting Things… My Family Business’”. He whistled. “Damn. They really just went for it, huh?”.

Jensen crossed his arms, smirking. “I mean, they changed like, one word. That’s gotta count for something, right?”.

Jared grinned. “Yeah, let’s see how well that argument holds up in court”.

Jensen let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the onesie. He turned it over in his hands, fingers brushing over the fabric. It was small. So damn small. His throat tightened a little. Before he could overthink it, he tossed it into the cart.

Jared’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—seriously?”.

Jensen shot him a look, raising a warning brow. “Don’t”.

Jared bit back a grin, holding up his hands. “Just saying—you’re actually picking out baby clothes. On purpose. This is a big moment”.

Jensen rolled his eyes. “It’s just a onesie, Padalecki”.

“Yeah, yeah”, Jared said, clearly unconvinced. “And the crib was just a crib”. He nudged Jensen’s shoulder. “Admit it, man. You’re getting into this”.

Jensen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing”, he muttered. “But if I let you pick shit, my kid’s gonna end up in a ‘Uncle Jared is my favorite’ onesie, and I refuse to let that happen”.

Jared grinned. “I mean… that can still be arranged”.

Jensen groaned. “We’re leaving”.

Jared laughed as he followed him toward checkout, watching as Jensen—Jensen Ackles—paid for a crib, a rug, and a damn Supernatural-adjacent onesie.

Maybe he wasn’t all the way there yet. But damn if he wasn’t trying.

That night, Jensen sat on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by unassembled crib parts, screws, and an instruction manual that looked like it had been translated into English by someone who had never seen a crib in their life.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders before picking up the first piece of wood, aligning it with another.

Alright. Let’s do this.

The rhythmic process of assembling the crib—slotting parts together, tightening screws, rechecking everything—gave him something to focus on. Something to do. It kept his mind from spiraling into places he didn’t want to go.

But as the frame started to take shape, something inside him shifted.

Jensen sat back on his heels, looking at the half-assembled crib in front of him. It was real now. Tangible. A thing that was going to hold a baby—his baby—in just a few months.

His hands rested on his thighs, his fingers curling slightly as he exhaled.

For weeks, he had pushed this away, refused to let himself think about it too much. But now, sitting here, surrounded by baby furniture and walls he had painted himself, the truth settled in his chest like a weight.

This was happening. No matter how scared he was. No matter how much he hadn’t wanted this. It was real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to want it, too.

He let out a slow breath, brushing his fingers over the wooden frame, imagining tiny fingers gripping the edge one day, little kicks against the mattress, quiet breaths in the middle of the night.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion he wasn’t ready to name. He reached for another screw, tightening the last side panel into place.

And for the first time since you had left, he let himself think about the moment you’d see it. Would you be proud of him? Would you even care? Would this be enough?

He didn’t know. But for the first time in weeks, he knew one thing for sure. He wanted you to come home.

———————————

A/N: Hello and welcome back, lol. I didn't want to keep you waiting for the first chapter any longer, even though I still don't know when I'll post the following chapters. I might post one or two chapters per week, but maybe just one. I don't have a fixed day for that. Just a heads-up in advance.

And of course, please let me know what you think.🥰

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#jensen ackles #jensen x reader #jensen ackles smut #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles the boys #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x y/n #jensen x you #beyond his true fate

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bullseyelover · 2 days ago

Text

hello. yes, exactly. that last part really got me, because it’s so true. there’s a whole layer to dex that i think you can really feel if you’ve been there in some way. people who’ve struggled with mental illness, or who are neurodivergent, or who’ve just been deeply othered in their lives, they recognize something in him that others are less inclined to see. it’s not about condoning what he did. it’s not about brushing off the harm he caused. it’s just that when you’ve spent your life being misunderstood, managed, misdiagnosed, or manipulated, when you’ve had to build an identity under the weight of other people’s perceptions, you see dex and you think, “yeah. i get it. i see how he got here.”

even before fisk ever touched his life, people already treated dex like he was off. he was visibly neurodivergent. rigid in routine, hyper precise, emotionally flat in ways that made people uncomfortable, struggling with social norms and connection, and the world clocked that immediately. he got weird looks, quiet judgment, sometimes fear. but because he was useful, because he was exceptional at what he did, people let it slide. they tolerated him, but they never truly accepted him. he was terrible at working with others in every job he ever had, but no one punished him for it as long as he was performing well. and what makes his story even more devastating is that dex knew all of this. he could feel how people saw him. but he thought that maybe if he just kept his head down, kept the chaos inside, and lived a small, structured life full of quiet suffering, he could be okay. he believed that was the best he could hope for. that a manageable level of pain and isolation was what he was meant for. and he held onto that because it kept him on the straight and narrow. and then fisk came along and cracked it wide open.

dex has always known he’s mentally ill. he was diagnosed when he was twelve. he’s been carrying that label around for most of his life, and he knows what it means. how people look at him because of it, what they expect from him, and more than anything, what they don’t expect. that kind of early diagnosis doesn’t just shape your self image, it shapes how you see everyone else, too. you learn to clock the subtle shifts in people’s eyes when they find out. the wariness, the dismissal, the fear. and by the time we see him again in born again, that awareness is sharper than ever. he’s had years locked away, pumped full of medication, silenced and controlled and forgotten. he’s had nothing to do but sit with it. his diagnosis, his past, everything he’s done, his trauma, everything he’s lost. it’s clear he knows what people think of him. it’s clear he knows what he’s capable of. and it makes the loneliness run even deeper. dex isn’t delusional about who he is. if anything, he sees it too clearly. and that self awareness only adds to the weight he carries.

it’s so isolating to live in a world that would rather reduce you to a label or a threat than ask why you’re hurting. and dex embodies that. the way people look at him and only see a monster, it mirrors so much of the real world. people think he’s scary because he’s quiet, because he doesn’t look unwell in the ways they expect, and that makes them project even more. and like you said, the same flattening happens both in universe and in how some of the audience treats him. it’s meta in a way that feels intentional and brutal. art imitating life, life imitating art, all cycling back into this endless loop of erasure and fear.

and it makes the people who do see him, who look at him and don’t just see danger but pain, confusion, effort, failure, it makes those people feel seen too. because we know what it’s like to try, to hold yourself together, to manage the storm inside, only to still be treated like a walking threat. so much of dex’s story is about being denied grace. and if you’ve lived a life where grace was rarely extended to you, that hits different.

thank you for putting it into words so beautifully. it’s comforting in a weird, sad way to know there are others out there who understand him like this.

i’ve been thinking about dex’s story in born again.

how, in universe, the world saw dex after the events of josies, and after his trial. how quick everyone was to believe he just snapped and went on a revenge fueled rampage at josies. and the sad thing is, that makes sense in the worst possible way. because the world is always going to be more comfortable writing someone like dex off as just another mentally ill guy who lost control. that’s the story people are used to. it’s easier, simpler, and it doesn’t require any deep thought or empathy. it doesn’t ask them to look at who failed him, who used him, who broke him down. it doesn’t ask them to understand the difference between someone being dangerous and someone being made into a weapon. and most people just don’t care enough to look closer.

and what gets me is how many people refuse to hold both truths about dex at the same time. that he’s a victim and a perpetrator. that he did horrific things and was still deeply, painfully used. i hate how often people online will reduce it to “oh you just like him because he’s hot” when you try to talk about him with nuance. like no. dex is complex. he’s the wound and the knife. he is someone who’s suffered, been manipulated, abandoned, used like a tool, but that doesn’t erase what he’s done. it doesn’t mean people weren’t hurt, or that his violence didn’t matter. you can see his pain and still hold him accountable. you can understand where it came from and still be horrified by the outcome. none of that is contradictory. it’s just real. he’s a character full of contradictions, and that’s part of what makes him so compelling. reducing him to one thing, victim, villain, psycho, it just flattens him into a version of himself that isn’t true.

and even in the show, it’s like no one really wants to see the whole truth of who dex is. it’s easier for them to believe “crazy guy goes violent” than to admit that someone vulnerable was groomed and turned into a weapon by someone with more power. for example in episode 8 where matt slams dex’s head into the table, and when the guard walks in, matt lies and says dex did it to himself. and the guard doesn’t even hesitate to believe it. he just immediately goes, “you crazy asshole.” he doesn’t even question it. because that’s already the version of dex they’ve decided is true. they don’t need proof, they don’t need context. they hear “he hurt himself” and go “of course he did.” and that’s what’s so brutal about it. even matt bought into that narrative at first. even though he knew dex had worked for fisk after the events of season three. and he listened to dex’s tapes. he believed that dex was a man who woke up one day on impulse and decided to kill foggy eight years after the events of season three. because he believed dex to be a violent and disturbed psychopath. because that’s the story society already believes. many people believe that mentally ill people are inherently dangerous. quiet violence is scarier than loud chaos. so people don’t ask questions. they just assume the worst. so dex being quiet and restrained in his rage in the trial scene just confirmed what they already thought about him. and that kind of widespread erasure makes dex’s story even more tragic. not just what happened to him, but how no one really sees it. not fully.

and that invisibility messes with him too. dex already struggles with identity. he barely knows who he is when no one’s giving him a script to follow. so when the whole world reduces him to nothing but a monster, a rampage shooter, it probably confirms the worst things he already fears about himself. even if he knows deep down it’s not the whole truth, it gets in his head. like maybe they’re right. maybe he really is just broken and dangerous and beyond saving. that he is an animal and nothing more. and that’s what hurts him. because he tried. he tried to be good. he tried to follow the rules. for so many years because he genuinely wanted to be a better version of himself. he tried to be useful, to matter, to be someone. and in the end, none of it mattered. no one remembers that he tried. they only see the end result. they only see the damage.

and that weight, the failure, the guilt, the grief of never being seen clearly, that’s something he has to carry alone. it’s what makes his story so heavy to sit with. and none of this is to say that dex isn’t still responsible for what he’s done. evidently he knew what he was doing. even if he was manipulated into it. he made choices, and those choices hurt people. he’s not innocent. he’s not good. he’s a villain. that’s who he is, that’s who he’s becoming, and he’s also someone with borderline personality disorder. someone who was manipulated, used, pushed to the edge, and weaponized. those things can all exist at once. he’s not either a tragic victim or an evil monster. he’s both. and when people act like empathizing with him or understanding where he came from is the same as excusing what he did, it’s just dishonest. like no one’s out here saying “my poor baby” and pretending he didn’t kill people. it’s just acknowledging that there’s more to him than what most are willing to see. that doesn’t absolve him. it just complicates him. and if that makes people uncomfortable, maybe they should ask why it’s so much easier to believe someone like dex is just a psycho killer than to accept that he’s human. flawed, dangerous, and human.

if people are saying that about comic bullseye, then yeah, it makes sense. that version of him is literally written to be an unstable psychopath who kills people for fun. he’s meant to be scary and empty and cruel, and that’s it. that’s what makes his character so fun to read. the needless violence, the grin on his face while he commits it. but dex isn’t only that. dex is bullseye, but he’s a version with so much more nuance and humanity. he is capable of everything that comic bullseye is capable of. but he has more contradictions, more depth. he’s not just evil for the sake of it. he’s broken and angry and used and spiraling, and all of that is still his responsibility, but it’s layered. he’s not just a killer. he’s a person. comic bullseye is the foundation, but dex was built on top of that. same character, same legacy, just finally given complexity. he has all the traits of his comic self, but there’s pain behind it now. there’s grief, there’s loneliness, there’s a desperate want to be seen and loved. he’s bullseye in every way, but now he’s also human and real.

#character analysis #benjamin poindexter #bullseye

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