#and i hate having one on one conversations about it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ifyouencounterwolf · 5 hours ago

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Normalize this normalize that, we as writers and ARTISTS need to normalize NOT to see any critiques/negative feedback of our WORKS as a critique of OURSELVES.

When your work is finished and posted, it is done. It marks the end of a unique creative process and is now by and large independent from you. No matter how much of a magnus opus you think of it, you will be creating something better in the near future. So how would that posted work serve you now? By getting the FEEDBACKS from your readers.

How did that make others feel? Did it do the job of disturbing people or comforting people that you have intended it to do? Do people feel something unintended from your work? Do people feel anything from your work? Those are things as authors, we needed to know about, in order to know more about ourselves, and that's not just about our current skill levels.

Believe it or not, there's no inherently bad feedback, the negative ones are not inherently different from positive ones. They are all. just. feedback. They don't define you as a person, they are not attacking you as a person. Even with the worst kind "I hate this so much hope you kys" you could either ignore or ask how they hate it and where do they hate the most. Hate supply is still supply as my narc self would say.

That is, unless you are creating something for money and engagement/attention, and getting criticized will destroy your so-called celebrity fame and break the illusion that you are a prodigy and you don't need efforts to improve like everyone else on this planet earth. But sis, that's your problem.

Writing is a way of communication and forming a discussion, conversations cannot happen if either side is not allowed to speak freely. That goes for both the bad readers who demand authors to stop writing certain topics that disturb them, and bad writers who demand special treatment from the world simply because they created something for free and they thought they have a certain moral superiority to the "free-loaders".

Yes. You did create something for free and you didn't ask for the criticism. But you did that out of love and passion didn't you? Because as human beings, we are privileged to have this creative mind and this desire to express ourselves through our artworks, we live inside our own world but sometimes we want others to take a look at it and therefore we write something or we draw something and they reflect our thoughts and experiences and imaginations.

So what do our readers owe us? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

No one had this moral obligation to only make compliments and really really really mild suggestions and they still have to live in fear thinking whether the authors are still going to get offended because they interpreted "Looking forward to updates" as a demand or "I thought I wouldn't like it but I did" as a jeer.

Damn, if I'm a reader I would just say FORGET IT. I like it or I don't like it, who cares about my opinion? One wrong word would get me in fandom jail.

Except we do fucking care. Do you know what a purgatory I'm living in when I wrote my heart and soul out and people are just not going to leave anything for me to know how I did?

The readers' silence and uncaring to artists is a much more cruel punishment than their hate.

We have talked so much about "don't like it don't click" as a gotcha for the readers, but how about "don't like it but still give it a chance and tell me about it even if you still don't like it"? Because I trust you as my audience, that you have sufficient levels of media literacy and you have good tastes, and you can engage with artworks responsibly... THAT'S WHY I POSTED IT.

I could have just shown my stuff to only a small friend circle and let them be the judge but I chose to put it out there. Because I wanted it to stir up something so I could engage in conversations with people who only know me through my work and I would prefer it to stay that way. If the conversation is just about my typos and my grammar be it that way. It's still better than nothing.

That being said, we should not make it a consensus that readers need to give only compliments or just shut up. We should make authors themselves decide whether they wanted to be criticized or not. Authors can absolutely set up boundaries on how their works should be engaged, authors could say that "I want feedback but please don't nitpick my grammar or typo" or "this is personal to me/I am a first time writer so please be more gentle with your feedback".

But if you don't say anything then consider your work a free game if you may. See who catches the most of your hidden details and symbolism and see who asks the most annoying questions. Damn. As a writer that would actually be my dream.

not to be controversial bc I know this is like…not in line with shifting opinions on fanfic comment culture but if there’s a glaring typo in my work I will NOT be offended by pointing it out. if ao3 fucks up the formatting…I will also not be offended by having this pointed out…

‘looking forward to the next update’ and ‘I hope you update soon!’ are different vibes than a demand, and should be read in good faith because a reader is finding their way to tell you how much they love it. I will not be mad at this.

‘I don’t usually like this ship but this fic made me feel something’ is also incredibly high praise. I’m not going to get mad at this.

even ‘I love this fic but I’m curious about why you made [x] choice’ is just another way a reader is engaging in and putting thought into your work.

I just feel like a lot of authors take any comment that’s not perfectly articulated glowing praise in the exact manner they’re hoping to receive it in bad faith.

fic engagement has been dropping across the board over the last several years, and yes it’s frustrating but it isn’t as though I can’t see how it happens. comment anxiety can be a real thing. the last thing anyone wants to do is offend an author they love, and that means sometimes people default to silence.

idk where I’m going with this I guess aside from saying unless a comment is outright attacking me I’m never going to get mad at it, and I think a lot of authors should feel the same way. ESPECIALLY TYPOS PLZ GOD POINT OUT MY TYPOS.

#personal #tbd.

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darkmatilda · 2 days ago

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𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: who would’ve thought a drunken vegas wedding would have consequences? well, definitely not spencer—at least not in the moment he went through with it. but now he has to do something about it, sign the right papers, and overcome the dozens of excuses that, for some unknown reason, are starting to form in his head.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, aftermath of The One In Vegas fic — but you don’t need to read that one first, all you need to know is that the imbeciles got married in vegas, reader’s cat is seriously ill :(( but pulls through and they take care of her together hihi you know the secretly dating trope what about secretly married trope??

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.2k

𝐚/𝐧: request masterlist

It's been two months.

Time flies right? Bullshit. You can say it about some fresh relationship with an intensive honeymoon phase where one day you wake up thinking, oh, it's been two months already! Or about a cat you adopted. Who at the beginning was a tiny little crumb, a speck of sweet cake and suddenly as if overnight transformed into a dignified, refined lady cat looking at everything with alert little eyes (Spencer, as a cat dad himself could confirm)

But you couldn't say that about a wedding you took two months ago in Vegas by mistake. With a woman you hated could barely stand tolerated enjoyed being around just sometimes. And you still hadn't gotten a divorce.

And, as it turned out, you weren’t planning to.

But how Spencer and his irreplaceable, gorgeous friend from work came to that decision, you’ll find out in a moment.

“Avoiding me?”

Spencer had just poured the last spoonful of sugar into his coffee, grabbed it, and the moment he turned around, he ran into her and her question. He hadn’t even heard her approach, nor sensed her presence behind his back. So, of course he jumped, and a few drops of coffee landed on the sleeve of his shirt. He cursed.

“Am I that terrifying?” she asked with a snort.

Spencer shot her a look full of frustration. It was his favorite shirt!

“No, you just for some unknown reason have to sneak up on me. Like you’re planning to slip arsenic into my coffee.”

“You think I’m in such a hurry to become a widow?”

Hearing those words, he stopped worrying about the stain on his shirt and froze in place, catching her gaze. She also suddenly turned serious—actually, in a split second—which made him start to suspect that she had been that way ever since she walked up to him, just hiding it behind a few sarcastic remarks. She stood in front of him, perfectly straight posture, arms crossed over her chest, and as always, her chin slightly tilted up. Yes, she was deadly serious. But it was hard to expect any other attitude from her, considering what they finally had to talk about.

It was the first time they’d seen each other after returning from Vegas. At work. In the morning. She was right, he had been avoiding her a bit. The weight of the whole situation turned out to be too much, and besides, he needed time to figure out whether all of it hadn’t just been a dream he’d had during some deathly serious fever.

Confronted, Spencer looked at her face not very intelligently, his mind filled with black. He had no idea how they were supposed to have this conversation. She suddenly nodded slightly.

“If that’s what you think, you’re absolutely right,” she said. “I’m in a hurry to become a widow. That’s why I came to talk to you, because we have to finally do something about this…”

“I think you meant to say divorcée. Not widow. The word widow clearly suggests…”

“Whereas the word husband means you don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking…”

“Since when…”

“Since always. Shows I’m your first wife if you don’t know such basics.”

Reid’s brain fogged up like he’d stumbled upon some mysterious equation whose solution was beyond even his math skills. And that didn’t happen often.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t use the word wife in our context.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. I’m your wife now, even if it’s only temporary.”

He set his coffee mug back on the counter so he could cross his arms over his chest and fixed her with an analytical look, which she had no problem returning.

“Careful. Or I’ll start thinking that somewhere deep down you actually like the way this is turning out.”

First, she parted her lips, automatically, ready to answer immediately, sharply. Then the words must have really hit her, because she closed them again. But Spencer didn’t even have time to relish the triumph of having successfully silenced her (something he practically never managed to do, unless his own mouth also stayed shut) when her eyes widened, and her brows shot to the middle of her forehead. With pity.

“Now that was brilliant, genius,” she snorted, shaking her head slightly from side to side. Right after, she snorted again. “Go on, say I dragged you by force to that Vegas chapel. The beginning of my master plan, poor Spencer fell victim to it. And then, from grief and devastation, went to bed with me...”

He held out his hand in a stopping gesture, to steer the conversation back to its original course because they didn’t have much time, yeah, that was the reason.

“We’re getting off topic,” he noted instructively, ignoring her next snort that followed right after his words. He drew more air into his lungs, as for a short moment they both fell silent, and the air in the empty kitchen thickened.

When he spoke again, he made sure his voice was quieter. Not just because he wanted to give it the proper seriousness—but also because he didn’t want, couldn’t allow anyone to accidentally overhear it. On that, at least, they agreed.

“We’re getting a divorce, right? Like we agreed on…y’know, back then.”

He was fully ready to take the hit of her ironic no, let’s stay married till death do us part, but it didn’t come, which was enough to tell him that she, too, wanted out of this complicated, stupid mess they’d gotten themselves into.

She nodded once, but firmly.

“As soon as I get home, I’ll print the paperwork,” she announced. “So, we’ll just meet later, all we need is both our signatures since we both want it and don’t have any kids or anything like that. Then we file it with the court and we’re free. We don’t even have to dress up, but personally, I think we should as we never got the chance to go all out for our wedding outfit—”

Spencer cut her off, inhaling a huge gulp of air through his nose, realizing something.

“I can’t,” he said.

Her eyebrows rose at him.

‘What do you mean you can’t...’

“I can’t meet with you today,” he clarified, as he had meant to from the start. He rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “We have another case, and we’re flying out…literally in half an hour. I just wanted to grab a coffee before we left. We might even be gone for a few days.”

His voice softened unintentionally, like he was trying to cushion the potential explosion from her end—oh, it was definitely coming. One look at her clenched jaw was enough.

And it wasn’t even his fault!

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” the woman began through gritted teeth, but didn’t finish—

because someone else cut her off mid-sentence.

“Good morning, guys. How’s your day going? ’Cause mine’s just fantastic,” Morgan strolled into the kitchen with a near-dance in his step—one that hadn’t left him since his girlfriend said yes to his proposal. He paused, a smirk playing on his lips as his gaze drifted over their faces. “Okay, clearly not that fantastic. Sparks are flying around your heads. What’s it this time?”

“None of your business,” they snapped at the exact same time.

His eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t offended. He looked at them more like he was observing some strange behavioral exhibit.

“Two of my friends are fighting, so yeah it kinda is my business. At least to some degree. But seriously now, what’s going on with you two? You’ve been acting weird ever since we got back from Vegas.”

Like the worst actors in the world, they whipped their panicked gazes toward each other.

Spencer’s look screamed he knows! He knows! Do something!

Hers, on the other hand, was clearly yelling stop making it so obvious, don’t panic like a little boy!

And actually, she was the first to pull herself together, squaring her shoulders and shifting her gaze to Morgan with stoic calm.

“We’re acting weird?” she asked, tilting her head toward him, accusatorially. “You’re the one acting weird. Walking around all sunshine and rainbows. Only thing missing are the little hearts floating over your head.”

Unfazed, Morgan spread his arms.

“Happy relationship, happy man,” he summarized.

She gave him a sarcastic smile.

“Don’t worry, it all fades after the wedding.”

He smiled back, just as sarcastically.

“And what would you know about that?”

“Well,” Spencer began, feeling obligated to take his temporary wife’s side, “if you look at it statistically…”

“What would either of you know about that?”

This time, they waited until he left the kitchen before exchanging a silent look.

Another two weeks had passed and it was only just starting to sink in for Spencer that he had a wife — and what’s more, he was finding himself more and more fascinated by that fact.

Okay, he didn’t want to sound silly, but sometimes he did imagine what his life would look like after getting married, and usually those visions were shaped by what he saw around him, the people he knew, what he’d read in books or seen in movies. Either way, he had never expected that 1) it would be someone he wasn’t even in a relationship with, and 2) they wouldn’t actually see each other after the wedding!

The case they had been working on dragged on horribly, and once it was wrapped up, they both got swept away by their own responsibilities. And if they saw each other at all, it was exactly because of that. The topic of divorce just hovered above them, somewhere in the back of their minds.

Just like in the back of his mind there was always wow, you're a married guy now, Reid. All the time — even though the marriage was literally just a piece of paper — he kept catching himself directing those words at himself.

How many times had he sat on the jet with the team, in total silence, staring at each of his friends in turn while thinking none of them know I have a wife!

He didn’t flirt with women, didn’t go on dates, but he knew that if he did decide to — or even tried — he’d feel bad about it.

One time he and Morgan were sent to a bar to talk to some witnesses, and one of the women there kept getting closer to him, accidentally brushing against his arm or shoulder, trying to catch his eye — and he didn’t respond, because he was too busy dissociating and wondering whether, theoretically speaking this would count as cheating?

He wondered if she ever felt the same way, at least sometimes. It really made him wonder, and after a while he came to the conclusion that there was a significant chance she didn’t.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that left him with an unpleasant feeling.

Spencer eventually came to the conclusion that the whole marriage situation was simply too overwhelming for his overanalyzing brain, so when they finally managed to schedule a time to sign the divorce papers, he accepted it with a certain sense of relief.

He hadn’t even made it to her apartment — hadn’t even left his own — when he got an unexpected call from her, suggesting that their plans for the evening were going to be a little different.

Because divorce didn’t usually involve a veterinary clinic…right?

When he arrived, any thoughts of signing anything were quickly — very quickly — pushed aside, not just because of the circumstances, but also because of the look on her face when they finally came face to face.

“What happened?” he asked, not even trying to hide his concern. Her cat was also his cat — the one he’d personally pulled out of a dumpster a few months ago and since neither of them had much time on their hands, they’d decided to care for her together.

Her arms were crossed, not in a dominant way but more as if seeking some semblance of comfort, and one of her legs was bouncing slightly in place,a detail he noticed in passing.

“Marie was acting strange since the morning,” she began. Her voice wasn’t trembling, but it was significantly lacking its usual strength. The same went for her expression — tense, clearly balancing on the edge between deep worry and fear, crossing that line over and over again. She took a shallow breath and forced herself to continue with a slight nod of her head, her arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“She was apathetic, didn’t want to eat. Then the vomiting started and…I don’t know, it seemed really serious. And don’t look at me like that, it’s not like last time.”

Last time they’d gone to the vet and it had turned out the cat was fine, the whole thing just her premature panic. But Spencer flinched, surprised she snapped at him, since not for a moment had he looked at her with suspicion or condescension — still, he felt guilty anyway and quickly protested, shaking his head.

“I know,” he assured her honestly, even meeting her gaze, which quickly caught onto the contact with some surprise, but also a bit of softening. “Even if it’s a false alarm, it’s good that you’re here. Do we know anything?”

She shook her head with another anxious breath.

So they waited together, not breaking the silence even once — not when they sat there, not even when they were leaving the clinic an hour later, having found out that Marie would have to stay for at least a few days because she had contracted feline panleukopenia.

A dangerous disease in cats.

Spencer glanced uncertainly at her profile while she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, and he wondered whether she was scanning the parking lot for their car or if her thoughts had drifted somewhere far away. He had no idea what to say—he didn’t want to throw out a casual hey, everything’s gonna be fine because he knew it would sound dishonest when he himself wasn’t sure, and besides, it would definitely earn him one of her hard looks that clearly meant shut up.

So he cleared his throat and decided to go with something that always resonated with both of them. Science.

“Panleukopenia has a very high mortality rate, that’s true,” he began, making sure to follow up quickly before the weight of that first sentence could fully land. “But the older the cat, the better they fight it. The worst cases are usually in kittens under five months, and Marie’s over a year old, she’s well nourished, actually, she eats better than I do thanks to you. Besides, she’s a strong cat, remember when she…oh, okay—”

She hugged him. The kind of hug one gives a pillow after a cruel day, wrapping her arms around him, and he was almost sure she locked them behind his back. At first, he must have made a terrible pillow, stiff with surprise and general lack of practice at being touched, but he quickly found it in himself to get better at it. Surprisingly better, placing a hand on the back of her head where it rested against him, and started to wonder if maybe he was generally better at giving hugs than he’d always thought he was.

“When she gets better I’m adopting her fully,” she said, the words muffled against his body and clothing. He furrowed his brows, not quite sure what she meant. “Marie. I’ll even quit my job. Become a full-time cat mom. “

Spencer, recognizing the tension still in her voice but catching the self-soothing joke beneath it, let out a short snort and added, “Of course you will. Giving up partying too?”

“You bet I will.”

He nodded, signaling he didn’t believe her. Then realized she couldn’t see that. Right.

But before she pulled away — which he wasn’t rushing her to do — one last thing came to his mind. He decided to bring it up, taking advantage of the slightly lighter mood, because well, they had to eventually.

“About those divorce papers, we could sign them to-”

She didn’t let go of him, but jerked her head up abruptly to shoot him a disbelieving, angry look.

“How dare you think about divorce when our baby might be dying?”

Spencer blinked, not very intelligently.

The woman pulled away from him, crossing her arms over her chest — this time in an authoritative, offended gesture.

“I don’t even want to hear about it until she gets better,” she snapped. “All the way better. I’ve got enough on my plate, and I’m not going to think about it right now.”

She walked off toward her car and sat in the driver’s seat without looking back. Spencer stood still, processing her words. I don’t want to hear about it until she gets better?Did that mean she wanted them to stay married for at least a few more weeks — since that’s how long the cat’s recovery might take?

She leaned her head out of the car, looking at him questioningly.

“You coming or not?”

Did that mean she wanted them to stay married for at least a few more weeks — since that’s how long the cat’s recovery might take?

Exactly that’s what she meant. And, amusingly, over time, he completely came to understand the decision.

The following weeks turned into a true marathon for both of them at work, on top of caring for a sick cat. Especially after she was discharged from the veterinary clinic and required an even stricter diet and supervision than before. And even when they did have a spare moment or day off, they preferred to spend it resting, catching their breath — not dealing with a divorce.

Because, when it came down to it, it was just a piece of paper. It didn’t mean anything. It would be a different matter if one of them were dating someone else, maybe planning a real wedding of their own — then they’d have to deal with it. But for now? No one besides them even knew it had happened, and they could simply pretend it hadn’t.

Marriage — even an unserious one (though it was, without question, a real one) — had its perks. And it wasn’t just about taxes or health insurance; it was about something Spencer had never even thought about before, because it had never concerned him. Something he now discovered with genuine surprise.

For example, the nearby gym offered a very attractive discount for married couples.

And okay, right, he didn’t go to the gym. But what if he intended to? Maybe it was a sign from the universe to take care of his fitness, which would be a smart idea considering his job? When he had access to that discount, he had fewer reasons to postpone it.

And he mostly mentioned that gym and the discount because the day he found out about it, they both happened to have the day off and he was considering taking care of the paperwork that very day. To get it over with before they got caught up in work again and put it off for another week.

He even printed the proper papers, but then he saw the gym poster and put them in the drawer for another half a month.

He remembered them when he was staring at how she was half-sitting, half-lying on the couch in his apartment with the cat on her lap, who kept hitting her in the face with its tail, making her close her eyes. Since their cat was recovering from illness, they decided not to stress her out further with constant changes of location, so for a while she would stay in his apartment. So when she wanted to spend time with Marie, she would just drop by, something he had already gotten used to.

Was this a good moment for a divorce? He had been thinking about it for over ten minutes, but finally sighed, acknowledging that they had to do it at some point anyway. What was even stopping him? A potential discount at a potential future gym? Oh, what an idiot he was.

"Since we're already here, just the two of us," he began. He waited until the woman opened her eyes and looked at him over the cat’s body, questioningly. He cleared his throat. "I have the divorce papers in the desk, we could sign them and get it over with. Then we’ll just need to file them in court..."

"Do you want to sign them now?" she asked.

He had expected more eagerness in her voice. Relief that they were finally getting out of that stupid drunken decision they had made almost two months ago. But he found none of that in her voice—instead, he watched as she doubtfully pushed out her lower lip.

"I was just about to leave," she announced. "I have a manicure in literally ten minutes. And you know, I’d rather read them first. Make sure that what you're putting in front of me is actually divorce papers and not, I don’t know. A pact to enslave me."

Spencer realized he was nodding enthusiastically.

"Completely understandable," he admitted, because her explanation really did make sense. It truly did. She had an appointment with her manicurist, and being late would be a bit disrespectful of her time. The next client would have to wait ten minutes longer. What if the next client had a booked flight to Italy for their cousin’s wedding? And had scheduled the manicure just in time and those ten minutes could make them late. Why should random strangers have to pay the price for their divorce? Besides, he genuinely supported reading documents before signing them. "So, well. Next time."

“Mhm,” she agreed with a hum, planting an aggressive kiss on Marie’s head before getting up from the couch and slipping her shoes back on. “Sure. Next time.”

She was already heading for the door, and Spencer pretended not to be watching her, but when she turned and caught his gaze, it instantly became clear that he had been following her with his eyes. She waited a moment before speaking.

“I added you to my car insurance policy. As my husband,” she said. Spencer’s eyes widened. “I figured you wouldn’t mind, especially considering how many times I’ve given you a ride to work lately. And, well, I’ll have to find out how this works in case of a divorce. Before we actually get one.”

Spencer was surprised, that’s true, but he adapted surprisingly quickly to this reality. After all, he wanted to use their marriage for a gym discount. Cheaper insurance wasn’t much different.

“All right,” he replied thoughtfully, biting the inside of his cheek. “No, actually, all right. That makes sense. We don’t have to do it today either, although, I don’t know when I’ll next have free time to sort it out.”

“Me too,” she admitted. “But someday we’ll have to do it.”

“So, are you planning a wedding anytime soon?” he asked, half joking, half earnestly hoping she wasn’t, since so far he believed she wasn’t seeing anyone. If she was, things could get complicated.

“No,” she answered seriously. “You?”

He let his shrugged arms be his silent answer to that obvious question.

They stayed silent for a moment, looking at each other. Meanwhile, someone was running late for a cousin’s wedding in Italy, but that wasn’t important right now. The question was probably burning on his tongue, but he was afraid to ask it. He wasn’t even sure if he really wanted to ask it himself.

Finally, she moved, and he panicked, thinking she was going to leave — which only confirmed to him that he really wanted to ask it. But instead of changing her position, she said, “We don’t have to get this divorce.”

He stared at her even more intensely than before, not even blinking.

“Face it, Spencer,” she continued with surprising dignity, considering what they were talking about. “It’s been two months. It hasn’t affected our lives in any way. At least not negatively, because the insurance is a plus. And neither of us really has time right now to deal with it. Sure, we could sign it, but then we’d have to file it in court…”

“So you’re suggesting we just stay married?” he asked, swallowing hard.

She nodded slowly, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was doing herself.

“Until we can calmly deal with it,” she clarified. “Besides, it’s not exactly a marriage. You know what I mean. I’m suggesting we stay that way in our civil records for a while.”

“And reap the benefits,” he blurted out. “Insurance. Gym.”

“Gym?”

He shook his head, hoping she’d forget that part.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked again.

She didn’t move for a moment — he liked that she was actually taking a moment to think. Then she shrugged.

“I guess I am,” she said at last. “But if you change your mind in a few days, that’s your right. I’m not going to keep you as my husband by force,” she added with a snort.

He nodded quickly, signaling he understood.

“Same goes for you.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment longer, searching for any doubt on each other’s faces. There was a bit of it, he couldn’t deny. But in the end, neither of them said a word.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #diva reader ♱#spence reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader fluff

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studiogrimm810 · 3 days ago

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Hate What You Do To Me

// Est. Dean Winchester x you

summary: dean has been unable to understand the emotions he feels when he's with you so he defaults to pushing you away to avoid the creeping ache in his chest, that is until he jarringly realizes what those feeling actually mean and decides to act on that // 2.1k // base content: quick enemies to lovers vibes, protective dean, make-out scene

A/N: pulling this one from the vault cause i’ve got nothing else to post atm😎 (i am completely wrapped up in a series i’m working on heheh)

He can’t do this right now. Watching your lips part to welcome the rim of an icy beer is fucking killing him. He could deck Bobby just for thinking of inviting you.

God, you.

You got under his skin and prickled like barbed wire, anchoring deep into his bones and refusing to escape his subconscious. He hated the feeling, of which he had no name for, that you awoke in his chest. It was his best guess that it was anxiety or maybe a type of annoyance he had never experienced before, whatever it was, he hated it.

Your laugh echoes through the room as Sam tells some joke that makes Dean roll his eyes. The belt of your joy only worsens the ache in his chest and he wonders if a hatred this deep was actually a common occurrence or rather a special instance for people like you.

Your voice is sweet and misleading, as if you were actually as kind and innocent as your tone insinuates. He’s not falling for it. He’s especially not falling for the warm gaze you give him that makes his stomach clench and ricochet like a ping-pong ball in his abdomen. He swears his lungs even cinch when your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“Well that’s what I tried to tell him, but he was not having it,” Sam shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. You laugh simply out of a polite response, but it seems Dean’s cold glare has affected your mood. He was surprised when the reaction didn’t cause him pride but instead.. shame?

“Maybe next time you just give ‘em my number like you’re s’posed to,” Bobby grumbles, fingering the neck of his beer to bring to his lips.

Voices continue to carry but it’s mellowed down to just Sam and Bobby. The buzz under Dean's skin is almost numbing, like he missed your contributions. Of course, not because he actually liked listening to you speak, but because he didn’t feel like a dick for acting so cold towards you. But that wasn’t his fault. It’s not his fault you irk him like you do. He has to remind himself of that.

A phone chirps and you check your device, your face falling further. If Sam or Bobby notice, they sure don’t say anything about it. The irritation in Dean's chest ignites again, a burning restless feeling that makes him want to know who put you in a sour mood. Who overstepped Dean's effect on you? He couldn’t have that.

His eyes peek at the lit screen but it’s not like he can read anything.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, standing and leaving the room without raising much suspicion, at least not to a common onlooker of the conversation. Dean knew though. He knew your tells and mood shifts, he had to in order to be able tolerate your presence. He had to.

What really irks him too is how little he knows right now. God, you’ve left the room and you still have your claws sunk into him. It killed him to not know what was wrong with you. He’ll claim it’s because to be a hunter, you need to have a level head. All it is is hypocritical avoidance and unrecognizable emotions that he was never accepting of before.

He takes a deep gulp of his beer, trying to wash away the bubbling anxiety you’ve caused him.

And another gulp. And one more. But none of them make the time pass quickly enough and he’s even more restless in your absence. He can’t help himself, he has to know that you’re okay.

He stalls at the thought. He doesn’t have to. He just wants to. He wants to?

Doesn’t matter.

Dean excuses himself and goes off to find you. He follows the flow of an agitated voice and his brows furrowed slightly in confusion. The voice, your voice, leads him to the main entrance of the home. The door creaks open and he can hear you better, as if you just came in from talking with whoever was bothering you outside.

“Just leave me alone, I’m serious,” your tone is demanding and a little scary if he’s being honest- something that’s rare for him as of late.

He rounds the doorframe as soon as you hang up the phone and his presence startles you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, unsure if he actually even cares. He shouldn’t- he doesn't. He’s just curious about whoever seemed to have more of an effect on your state then he did. Dean is just a little cold and annoyed with you, that warrants a sour mood for the recipient, but who the hell thinks they have the right to make you talk to them like that?

“What-, like you care?” You ask in a dull bite, he scoffs.

“Shouldn’t’ve even asked,” Dean rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and turning to leave but he hesitates. “Just-,” he clears his throat, “sorry ‘bout whatever you’re dealing with.” He turns to leave but the sickeningly sweet pull of your voice keeps him put. He holds back a sigh.

“I worked with a hunter a few weeks back and he’s just been.. clingy,” you cringe, looking down at your phone for a moment. Dean didn’t like that.

“Clingy?” He echoed, turning back around and furrowing his brow.

“Yeah…” you sigh, pocketing your phone and glancing back up at Dean. “It’s probably nothing, but he’s just lonely I guess and keeps trying to get me to work these cases with him,” your shoulders slouch, almost like the situation has exhausted you. Dean’s chest tightens again- annoyance, he deems. You turn to face the screen door, letting the breeze kiss past your tired face.

“And you don’t want to?” Dean completes for you, his tone indicating impatience and misunderstanding.

“Of course not, he’s a creep!” You turn back at him, your face contorted in disgust but your eyes glint something that eases the tightness in his chest.

“Just block him,” he says, like it’s that simple. You just scoff and look back out the door. You can’t even find the energy to walk through the whole situation with Dean on why you can’t simply ‘block him’. “Do I need to have a talk with this guy?” Your body stills and brows pull together as you look back at him.

“What?” You ask, completely caught off guard by the offer.

“I said,” Dean rolls his eyes subtly, “do I need to take care of him?” He repeats, staring right at you with a deep rooted anger burrowed towards someone else for once- it makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Why do you even care? Don’t you hate me?” You scoff, trying to remind yourself of the pain in the ass he’s made you feel like to him. He hated you. He did, right?

Something in your snap cracked some capsule in him and infected his veins, all the way to his fingertips, with a cold rush of realization.

“Hate you?” He asked himself as well as you. His chest cinched tightly at the accusation, that he hated. It’s like every memory of you flashed in his mind and in every scenario, he never remembers actually hating you but how you affected him. How you made him feel unnaturally unsettled and antsy, like he couldn’t stand the edge you teetered him on. His eyes watched your expression go from frustration to confusion and then to impatience and even then, as he watched your features melt along its expressive path, he realized that he did not hate you. “How could I hate you?” His words escape before he can filter them, but then he can watch as your annoyingly pretty features contort yet again to something indescribable for him.

He felt selfish, extremely selfish, for the way he’s pushed you away and treated you because he knows it’s not really your fault for how he feels. But then, why does he feel such strong and uncomfortable emotions for you? Why the fuck did you settle so deep into his very being that it’s uncomfortable for you to be here in front of him?

Your head tilts and you look so lost. Your tongue peeks out to wet your lips and it clicks.

The ache in his chest isn’t anger or annoyance, it’s a craving. Here you are, dangled right in front of him with your pretty eyes and soft confusion and he’s forced to just stand back and watch as you exist without him. Every time he’s seen you in the past, it washed over him that he’s just been needing something he subconsciously knew he could never take.

“You-,” he tried to start, his hands dropped to his sides as he figured out his next move. He wants so badly to just cross the invisible line he’s made for himself but you think he hates you.

“So you don’t hate me,” you try to state, keeping a suspicious eye on him as he shuffles through whatever is rattling behind his eyes.

Dean only shakes his head, taking a step forward without even knowing he’s moved until your face is just a wish away.

“Dean?” You ask, looking up at him and taking in details you never thought you’d get close enough to notice.

The sink in his stomach as you say his name scares the hell out of him but he doesn’t know if he has the strength to turn away now. Something so cosmic holds him still like he’s stuck in quicksand, ready to drown in you.

It happened so fast, that switch, like seeing your vulnerability as you admitted you felt hated by him made him fix his shit real quick. He couldn’t have that, he wouldn’t allow you to go on thinking he hated you.

“I’m an idiot,” he admits in a whisper that echoes faint beer, from the round just a few moments ago, over your cheeks.

“That’s one word I’d use,” you scoff lightly, your attitude altering the rest of your body towards turning away but you just can’t seem to get your eyes to listen and follow.

“Can I try something?” He asks, his eyes stuck into yours like glue, like he’s scared to rake over your skin and down to your lips, like he’ll jinx himself and lose any shot he never had.

“You’re a free man,” you challenge, narrowing your gaze and starting to expect his next move. But even with anticipation, it doesn’t soften the electricity that sparks as he pushes you against the screen door and directs your lips to his. His hand holds the back of your head so that the screen isn’t split and his other hand, without much planning, hooks just two fingers in your belt loop, unable to wait on finding a more suitable place.

Another fresh breeze falls past the slits of the screen and runs through your hair and over your exposed skin, tickling every exposed nerve that he bloomed under your skin.

With his lips fitting perfectly around yours and taking you in, he pulls in a deep, full breath to inhale your scent. The sweet pine from outside accompanies your signature scent that he convinced himself to hate long ago, but now he can’t get enough. He could actually laugh at himself for how stupid he’s been to think you would be nothing but perfect to him if he just welcomed it.

Because now that he has finally allowed you in, he doesn’t think he can ever let you go.

He pulls out of the kiss, his lungs burning for air but his skin aching for more of you. As you lean back to look at him, his greedy lips follow like a lost puppy, making sure he’s able to latch back on when he needs another fix of your taste.

“I’m being serious, y’know,” he breathes, his eyes still glued to your, now swollen, lips glistening with his spit. Fuck.

“Hmm?” You hum, studying the lazy droop of his eye lids, but your breath is sucked out of your lungs as his eyes snap right back into yours with a contrastingly serious switch.

“That prick that won’t leave you alone, I’ll take care of him,” he says, looking into your eyes long enough to make sure you understand. His hand at your belt loop now snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against him and his eyes melt back down to your parted lips. “Won’t ever have to worry about that again,” he barely gets out before eating you right back up.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>>check out my other works here

tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler @iamaslytherin0

#supernatural #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #fandom #dean winchester #spn fanfic #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader

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blueberrybirdsworld · 3 days ago

Text

Plus one 6/9

Summary : When Lando Norris realizes he's the only F1 driver attending the Monaco F1 movie premiere without a girlfriend, he panics and convinces Oscar to help him find a last-minute plus one.

Author note : I get this story idea after the private projection of the F1 movie with all the drivers in Monaco (also can we imagine they weren't wearing their team kit and actually did dress up).

Genre : pure fluff

Serie masterlist

Main masterlist

Author note: so I extend the storie to 4 more chapters, I actually like writing about them so much I got inspired! Hope you will like it, next parts will drop in the next day one by one. Enjoy :)

Saturday morning in Monaco was crisp and too bright.

Lando had been awake since 6:17 a.m., not because of the usual pre-qualifying nerves, but because his brain wouldn’t shut up. He had replaying every second of walking her home, the soft pressure of her hand in his, the way she’d looked at him just before he kissed her. The way she hadn’t pulled away.

That should’ve been enough to calm him.

It wasn’t.

He spent most of the morning pretending to be fine, bothering Oscar in the drivers’ room like a toddler who couldn’t sit still.

“Do I look normal?” he asked for the third time.

Oscar didn’t even glance up from his phone. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“You’ve adjusted your collar six times, said ‘I’m chill’ out loud twice, and you just asked if the espresso machine was working even though you hate espresso.”

“I was just making conversation.”

Oscar glanced at him, deadpan. “You’re pacing.”

Lando stopped mid-step. “Am not.”

Oscar gestured to the floor behind him. “You made a line into the carpet.”

Lando rubbed his face with both hands, heart pounding.

“She’s coming today.”

“I know.”

“For quali.”

“I know.”

“And I asked her to come for me this time.”

Oscar finally gave him a look that could only be described as fond exasperation. “You kissed her. She said yes. What exactly do you think is going to go wrong?”

Lando didn’t have an answer. Because nothing was wrong. But everything felt like it could go wrong. What if she regretted it? What if she saw him in broad daylight and realized he was just a boy who drove fast and flirted badly?

Jon, his personal coach, passed by the corridor and gave him a suspicious look. “You alright?”

Lando nodded way too quickly. “Normal. Totally normal.”

Jon didn’t buy it for a second.

Later on when his parents arrived, flown in for the weekend to support him, even his mum gave him one of those slow, knowing glances after a hug.

“You look... different,” she said, smoothing down the shoulder of his polo. “Not nervous-different. Something else.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he blurted.

She raised an eyebrow.

And then, right on cue, it happened.

The door to the McLaren hospitality opened, and Lily stepped in first, all sleek blonde hair and Monaco cool-girl ease. Then came Y/N.

Time slowed for just a second. Or maybe Lando did.

She wore a black sundress, simple but soft, fitted at the waist, her back naked and the fabric brushing her ankle. Her hair was up with a flower pinned at the back of her head, strands tucked behind her ears, and the light caught on the little gold chain around her neck. She wore heels, and sunglasses pushed into her hair. She looked like summer. Like sunlight bottled in a girl.

And he could feel every cell in his body lean toward her.

Oscar bumped his shoulder. “Go say hi, mate.”

“What do I do?” Lando asked in a low voice. “Hug her? Kiss her? Wave like an idiot?”

“Maybe just… start with a hello?”

But it was already too late, she saw him.

Her face lit up instantly, and something in his chest twisted at how effortlessly beautiful that expression was. He felt everything inside him quiet.

He stepped forward. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she said, smiling so softly it made his palms sweat.

There was a pause.

“I wasn’t sure if I should… like, do this—” he half-laughed, half-gestured toward her hand, while she lean to hug him instead and they almost kissed by mistake, akwardly laughing about it.

She laughed. “We’re both terrible at this.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

Her smile turned a little shy. “Same.”

He reached out, almost unsure, and gently touched her hand. She didn’t let go.

“Thanks for coming.”

“You invited me,” she said. “Kind of hard to say no when you ask so nicely.”

Lily and Oscar stood a polite few feet away, pretending to scroll on their phones, but exchanging very obvious glances.

Lando glanced toward them. “Will they always be like this?”

Y/N nodded. “Pretty much. I think they are very proud that they settle us together.”

He grinned. “Impossible.”

“You say that now, but you are happy they did.” she teased.

There was a weird, perfect kind of stillness between them. A bubble forming in the middle of chaos. Engineers and staff moved around them, Zak was calling for timing sheets, Jon passed again with his stopwatch, but Lando didn’t move.

She leaned in slightly, voice low. “You should probably focus now. Quali.”

“Right.” He stepped back. “I’ll try.”

“Try hard.”

“For you?”

“For me.”

He smiled, heart pounding in his ears.

Then Lando walked beside her to lead her through the paddock toward the observation zone tucked near the screens, one of the only places close enough to feel the energy but safe enough for guests. Her presence, somehow, had already softened the edge off his usual nerves.

“Here,” he said gently, leading her to a high table with a clear view of the track feed and live telemetry.

She nodded, brushing a hand down her dress as she sat.

Lando hesitated, then stepped a little closer. “It might get loud.”

“Oh. Right.”

He lifted the spare team headset from the hook behind the screen and reached for her. “May I?”

She smiled. “You’re asking very politely.”

His fingers brushed the side of her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before settling the headset gently over her head. The touch lingered a little too long, thumb against her cheek, knuckles trailing the curve of her jaw.

When he finally stepped back, she was smiling.

Then, after a pause, he handed her a bottle of water. “In case you get hot. Or dizzy. Or...whatever. Just in case.”

Her eyebrows lifted, amused. “Are you always this caring?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Not for just anyone.”

Before she could answer, the sound of shuffling feet approached. Lando turned, heart stuttering.

His parents.

His mum, Cisca, was already smiling like she’d seen the whole thing.

She came up first and hugged him tightly. “Good luck, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You’ve got this.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

Adam, his dad, reached out to Y/N. “Hello there. I’m Adam. Lando dad. And Lando can you present us this lovely lady ?”

Lando immediately short-circuited.

“I...uh, we didn’t really...I mean, it’s kind of new, and we just met properly the other day...”

“Y/N,” she said smoothly, standing to shake Adam’s hand. “Friend of Lando’s. I know Lily. We go to the same university.”

Cisca smiled knowingly. “Oh. Just a friend?”

Lando’s ears burned. “Mum.”

“What?” she said innocently.

“She was at the premiere,” he mumbled. “We got talking. And… yeah. She knows Oscar. And Lily.”

“Well,” Adam said, clapping his son on the shoulder. “Maybe we’ll watch together then. Be nice to chat a bit.”

Lando looked seconds from combusting.

Y/N, of course, just smiled. “I’d like that.”

He wanted to say you don’t have to, but instead, he just nodded, squeezing her hand once before heading for the garage.

Time to focus.

The car roared to life like it had a will of its own, low and growling as he rolled out into pit lane. Monaco unfolded in front of him: tight, twisting corners, sun-blinding straights, buildings crowding the circuit like a canyon of pressure. But he could still feel the imprint of her hand on his.

He rolled out, eyes flicking across the delta time as the tires warmed.

Lando flew.

The car felt on rails. He didn’t know if it was the tires or the setup or just the absurd clarity that came from having a girl back there believing in him. Either way, he was flying.

As he crossed the line on his final run, the screen lit up.

P1: L. NORRIS

As Lando climbed out of the car in parc fermé and raised a fist to the team, the roar of the crowd swallowed him.

But through it all, he only wanted to get back upstairs , back to that table, to that chair, to that girl who saw something in him and didn’t look away.

The moment Lando stepped back into the hospitality, still in race suit and hair damp, the place erupted.

Applause. Cheering. Someone actually whooped.

Zak was grinning from pure joy. Jon gave him a rare nod of real pride. His engineers clapped him on the back as he passed by, breathless from the adrenaline and beaming like an idiot.

But Lando only saw her.

She was still at the table where he’d left her. Same black dress, same soft smile, now with her hands together in delighted applause. Her eyes found his immediately, and for a second, the room melted away.

He hugged his mum first, her arms tight around him, proud tears threatening to spill again. Adam clapped him on the back with the kind of pride that didn’t need words.

Then he made his way through a series of congratulations and a thumbs-up before turning toward her.

Lando swallowed hard, wiped his palm on his suit leg, and crossed the space like he had a mission.

“Hi,” she said, smiling up at him.

“Hey,” he managed, voice a little hoarse. “Did you see?”

“I felt it,” she said. “Everyone here nearly knocked over their drinks when you crossed the line.”

He laughed, unable to stop smiling. “You’re good luck.”

“Oh, so I did all that?”

“Obviously.”

She grinned. “Well then… congratulations.”

He should’ve just said thank you.

Instead, riding on pure adrenaline and the high of a Monaco pole, he blurted... “Are you free tonight?”

She blinked. “Tonight?”

“Yeah.” He leaned against the edge of the table, still practically glowing. “Like, today. Later. After everything’s done.”

Y/N froze, lips parted. “Like… a date?”

He nodded, heart pounding beneath the suit. “Yeah. A real one. Proper. You pick the place.”

“Because you got pole?”

“Exactly. It’s a victory dinner. And I’d like to spend it with you.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then smiled. “Are you not supposed to be resting? Like… mentally in the zone or something?”

Lando shrugged, cocky now. “Who says I can’t have a nice dinner first? I’ll do my media, shower, change, then I’m all yours.”

Behind them, his mother coughed suspiciously.

Lando froze.

Cisca was grinning at him. “All hers, huh?”

“Mum...”

Adam placed a hand gently on her back. “Let’s give them a minute, hmm?”

They retreated with half-concealed smirks, Lando resisting the urge to hide his face in his hands.

When he turned back, Y/N was laughing quietly, looking at her hands in her lap.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I should’ve waited until I wasn’t covered in sweat and family embarrassment.”

“No,” she said, still smiling. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Her voice softened. “I’d love to go to dinner.”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. What would you say to something by the sea? There’s this little spot near the beach. Nothing fancy, but the food’s amazing. Then maybe a walk after.”

His heart tugged so hard he actually leaned toward her. “That sounds perfect.”

She stood, brushing down her dress. “I’ll text you the location.”

He nodded, eyes still locked on her. “I’ll be back here by… I don’t know, two hours max. Press stuff, shower, change, pretend I’m cooler than I am.”

She tilted her head. “So… seven?”

“Seven.”

She smiled, stepping a little closer. “Congrats again, pole-sitter.”

Lando chuckled, feeling heat bloom up his neck. “You’re not allowed to say that with that face.”

“What face?”

“That one. The I-know-you-like-me face.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He was grinning now, flushed and happy and entirely too eager to be anywhere but Monaco hospitality, anywhere, as long as she was with him.

“Seven,” she said again. “Don’t be late.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

And then she walked off, turning back once to glance over her shoulder. He stared after her until she disappeared into the hallway.

God help him.

He was completely, stupidly, wonderfully gone.

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spaceyaemonds · 16 hours ago

Note

Ok só thinking about Dr. Abott and the 23 year old baby mama like her having conversations with her best friends (that were at the bar that night) and while reader is happily pregnant with her baby daddy her friends can’t seem to understand what she sees him because he’s like old? And she’s in her early 20s but reader explains to her friends that she has never felt so taken care of while being with him and In all ASPECTS. Him been the most loving, protective, manliest man ever. Like the sex is one of a kind but he is still like the best daddy ever!

And her friends are still girl wtf?

hi friend!!!!

ahh omg!!! i have been thinking about this for WEEKS but am just now having a chance to answer ahhh!!! i love love love this!! i wrote a lil short lil drabble based off of it!! i hope you like it friend!

note: sorry if your name is jamie or grace LOL, also implied sexual content

Despite being nearly eight months pregnant, you make a point to still get brunch with your friends at least twice a month. And up until today, it had really seemed like nothing had changed at all.

For some reason, there’s an almost awkward tension between the girls and you. Not bad, just odd. Off, slightly.

Finally, Jamie clears her throat and looks at you, concern swimming in her eyes, “Can we talk to you?”

You take a sip of orange juice, brow raising slightly as you nod.

“What the fuck are you doing playing house with him?

You choke on your juice, “I’m sorry?” The words come out sputtered.

Grace sighs, glancing over at Jamie and then back at you, “We aren’t trying to say you shouldn’t be planning on having him in your life. Obviously you guys have to plan on co-parenting and what not,” She gestures to your bump that feels like a watermelon weighing you down at all times, “But, dating him? He’s pushing fifty, babe.”

Oh, so that’s what this is.

You try, and fail, to hold back a laugh, “Again, I’m sorry?”

They blink at you, but it’s Grace that speaks up again, “What we mean to say is, you don’t have to be in a relationship with him just because you’re having his baby. You don’t want to change your whole life, all of your plans, for a guy pushing fifty, do you?”

A part of you wants to yell at them, ask them who the hell they think they are. Another part of you just wants to get up and leave.

But you know them, and you know they care and know they love you, so you bite back any hateful remarks and clasp your hands together with a sigh.

“I understand why you would feel that way, really. But, we are not pursuing this just because we’re having a baby together,”

You sigh, glancing down at what’s left of your brunch, “We have a real connection. An-and I am being very, very well taken care of,”

Jamie grimaces, “Ew, don’t talk about that over my brunch, please,”

Grace sighs, glancing sideways at Jamie before looking at you, “I just,” she clears her throat, “We are just really concerned. Like, what if there’s some big secret reason he’s almost fifty, single, and no kids right now?”

You sigh, biting your lip, “He actually was married before. But,“

“Oh my god.” Jamie mumbled under her breath.

“But,” You give her a pointed look before continuing, “he is a good man. He rubs my feet when I ask, makes all the food I ask for when I ask for it. Hell, he even does the maintenance on my car and he unclogged my shower drain.”

They watch you skeptically, but can’t help but notice the soft smile and look in your eyes when you talk about him.

They may not understand, but they’ll always support you.

“Plus,” There’s a cheeky glint on your face as you bite your lip, “I’ve never had so many orgasms in one night.”

“Oh my god.” Jamie gags as Grace shrieks, causing you to giggle loudly. The older ladies in the cafe glare at you subtly.

Your table finally calms down, and Jamie side eyes you before laughing slightly to herself, “I still don’t get it, but if he has enough stamina to satiate you of all people, that’s a fucking win in my book.”

And again your table is erupting into laughter.

#🐝 answers asks #🐝’s anons #the pitt x reader #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #surprise pregnancy!jack abbot #🐝 writes

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yelenasbraid · 3 days ago

Text

JOE BURROW — the cure to your poison

summary — he will do anything to get her back

warnings — fem!reader, angst, fluff, sub!joe, smut

note — it’s long. oops 😀 also it’s part two of this fic

tags — @ebsmind @willowsnook @starsinthesky5 @hannahjessica113 @softburrow @joecoolburrow @joeyburrrow @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @irishmanwhore @hotburreaux @sportyphile @wickedfun9 @burrowdarling @jburrgf @blairsworld22

IT WAS LATE when she heard her phone buzz. Three days passed since the gala and she cursed herself for thinking about Joe. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to think about his laugh or his muscles. Or how she knew exactly what was underneath his clothes.

Maybe a tad bigger, but still there.

She picked up her phone, the screen illuminating her face in the darkness of her bedroom. It was a text. From Joe.

‘Hey, can we talk?’

Joe only had her number for professional purposes. He rarely ever texted her. So her heart dropped to her feet. Her stomach churned. Her whole body froze.

He wanted to talk.

‘About what?’

A reply came nearly instantly. ‘You know what about.’

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She sat up, her heart racing inside of her chest. She didn’t want to talk about it, but at the same time, she did. The time spent apart, throwing hateful or confused gazes at one another, got old. She wanted connection, and the girl inside of her wanted to know if he wanted it too.

‘Fine.’ She replied, following with her apartment address.

Silence followed. Her blood roared in her ears. Her nerves dented the walls of her stomach. She placed her phone on the nightstand before she stood up.

She needed to at least put a bra on.

She brushed her hair, brushed her teeth. The routine. The things she did when she expected sex. She didn’t expect it this time, but the routine was comforting. Natural. A good luck charm.

It wasn’t long before a knock sounded at her apartment door. Her heart jumped, eyes screwed in on her shut bedroom door. She opened it, padding out to the entrance door.

“Hey,” he breathed as she opened the door. He was comfortable. Sweats hung on his hips, a t-shirt hung around his shoulders. Golden retriever.

“Hi,”

“Can I come in?” he asked. He was nervous. His eyes scanned her features, the bags under her eyes and the shorts she sported. Her arms were crossed over her chest; she never liked being woken up.

“Yeah,” she murmured. The air around them thickened as he walked in, sensing the tension. The door shut behind them, lock clicking in place. Silence stood with them, hanging around their necks. It wasn’t the lack of words that choked them, it was the abundance of them.

“I don’t wanna be long,” he started, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I just…want to clear the air,”

“Clear the air about what?” she was still defensive. Still sure he was going to compare her to someone else.

“About what happened that night, the night we…stopped seeing each other,” he admitted. He shouldn’t have been that caught up in it all, but he was. Paige was a cover up, a raggedy blanket to attempt to soothe his weary soul. She didn’t do it for him. Not like Y/N did.

“I don’t think there’s anything we need to clear,” she sighed, “everything was said then,”

“I know I know, but I just…” he ran a hand through his damp curls, fingers shaky. He didn’t know how to formulate the words. He didn’t know how form a sentence.

“I just wanted to apologize,”

“For what? Comparing me to another girl?” she could feel her anger flare, the sheer volume of her irritation filling her chest. She didn’t want it to get that far, but every word he said was a scar reopening.

“I don’t want to argue,” he exhaled, the weight of this conversation bearing down on him, “I just wanted to apologize,”

“That’s not enough,” she scoffed, “an apology? That’s all? I mean, yeah, thanks, but that’s not going to fix it,”

“I know that,” his voice is raising, magma slowly building in his stomach, “but I don’t know what else you want from me,”

“I want you to want me!” she shouted, her eyes burning with the the familiar sting of tears. It was sudden, the air of the room sucked out with a single phrase. This wasn’t the first time he’d made her cry, it wasn’t the first time he’d punched her in the chest.

“I do want you!” he shouted back, his eyes pleading with her. The blue depths of his eyes threatened to pull her in, a black hole that she’d try to claw her way out of but inevitably be destroyed in.

“Then why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let me stand there like a fucking moron?” she shouted back, her eyes staring into the wide blue eyes of the man in front of her. His pupils dilated, pulsing as he watched her. The answer to her question was simple.

He was stupid. Moronic. Selfish.

“Because I was a kid,” he breathed, “I wanted more than I could, and I didn’t realize that everything I needed was right in front of me,”

Her arms loosened. Her chest heaved. The words he spoke was a balm, seeping into the scars he’d caused. The sincerity behind them was easy to believe. Joe wasn’t one to beg for things. He wasn’t one to be vulnerable. She wanted to believe him on that sole fact, but time had changed them, hadn’t it? She’d become more closed off. He’d grabbed ahold of the fame.

His lifeline shifted.

“And what was right in front of you?” she asked, a charge. She wanted him to say it. She wanted him to own it. The room they were in became thick, the air sucked from their lungs. She watched Joe, watched as he stepped forwards.

“You,” he breathed. His blue eyes flickered, focusing on her features. It was a simple answer. No hesitation. He’d been missing her this whole time. She’d been his missing piece. His chest rose and fell with his breaths, the tightness in his body choking him.

“Let me fix it,” he whispered, desperation laced between every syllable. His body was close to hers now, his haunting scent wafting over her senses. His presence pushed her back, guiding her into her bedroom, the door flicking shut behind them. Her body remembered how he felt. How he kissed her and how he’d touched her.

But it didn’t matter then. It was just for fun.

“How can you fix it?” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“Let me show you,” he whispered, kneeling down in front of her. Her world tipped, her heart skipping a beat. His eyes were round, his body relaxed. He wasn’t trying to dominate her, to take control. His hands reached out, brushing down the curve of her thighs.

“Joe,” she warned, even if her body was electrified. The charge in the air zipped down her spine, her fingers curling at her sides. The flutter in her stomach was familiar, it was foreign all at the same time.

“Sh,” he hushed, his fingers looping under the hem of her cotton shorts, “please,”

She watched him, her eyes capturing his blown expression. His breath fanned against her skin, growing goosebumps across her skin. His fingers didn’t budge, just stayed warm against the skin of her hips.

He was asking permission.

“Okay,” she whispered. In that moment, the room exploded. His fingers tugged the shorts off of her hips. She stepped out of them. Her legs laid bare for him, soft and perfumed. His head dipped, kissing her inner thighs. The sensation caused her to inhale sharply. The plush of his lips against the skin of her thighs made her body tense.

Joe’s heart raced. His eyes never left hers, even as his fingers peeled her panties from her hips. He peeled them down her body, the slick of her pussy sticking to the crotch of her panties. His cock jumped in his sweats. He eyes fluttered, the scent of her arousal making him hold back a moan.

It was so familiar. The scent of home. Of her.

“Can I?” he asked her. He could practically taste her, the scent of her staining his nervous system. His brain lit up, memories swarming back into his brains. Her sounds. Her quivers. Everything.

“Yes,” she breathed, and the second she gave him permission, his mouth was on her. She gasped, stumbling with the sheer force of her pleasure. Her back hit the wall of her bedroom, one of her hands tangled in his beautiful, blonde curls.

His tongue attached to her cunt, the bitter taste of her arousal making him moan. His fingers dug into her thighs, keeping her against the wall and him from stumbling. Her moans and her breaths were a melody, a sensual song that he wanted to play on repeat. He wanted to wake up to it every morning.

Her eyes fluttered, her mouth hanging open with silent moans. Her free hand braced against the wall, her back arched off of the wall. The ache he stirred, the way her pussy fluttered around his tongue, it clouded her mind. Her body squirmed over him, her body moved on its own as she remembered just how he felt.

“Am I doing good?” he asked her, and she peaked down at him. Submissive. She’s never seen him like this before. Joe always took control. His hands were always demanding and starving for control.

Not now.

She moved her hand from his hair, tracing his jawline. His heart skipped a beat, his lungs squeezed with anticipation. Blood drained from his body, all collecting in his already rock hard cock.

“Get on the bed,” she hummed. The simplicity of the command, the softness of her voice, it sent ripples through his ocean of desire. He stood, his erection evident in the grey sweats he sported. He did as he was told, positioning himself on the bed.

Back against the headboard. His hands fisting the sheets.

She followed. She tore her shirt off, leaving her in a maroon, satin bra. She grabbed her discarded panties, a matching maroon color. Her breasts wiggled in their cups as she straddled his hips. She peeled his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor.

“Hands above your head,” she continued. Joe’s eyes widened, but held did as he was told. His biceps bulged as he did so, and using the fabric of her panties, she tied his wrists to the headboard. His breath hitched, the warmth of her arousal meeting the skin of his wrist. He shuddered, squirming under her.

“Y/N-”

“Sh,” she pressed a manicured finger to his lips, her eyes meeting his. The air between them was hot, thick with a lust that’s fermented like a fine wine. It was potent, alcoholic. Joe wanted her injected into his DNA, he wanted her to be apart of him.

She dragged her finger down his chin, down his throat, and down his chest. Her finger traced the underside of one of his pecs, making him flinch. Her face stayed inches from his, teasing him. He didn’t get to kiss her on his own terms. He’d have to earn the privilege of kissing her.

“Gonna be a good boy for me?” she hummed, her lips brushing over his jaw. Her fingers looped around to her back, unclamping her bra. She slid it off of her shoulders, flinging it to the floor.

His heart slammed against his chest, his ribcage vibrating with every beat of his heart. The way her finger traced under his pec, how her lips softly met his neck, his hips arched in response.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his breath ragged and uneven. Her lips trailed down his chest, delicately pressing kisses to his hot skin. She was in control here, she held the reins in her hands. Her hands slid down his sides, resting on his hips.

“I’m gonna prove to you I’m better,” she promised, her lips meeting the meat of his pec, “I know I’m better, but you have to believe it,”

Her words, a silky promise on the waves of need, sent blood straight to his cock. He felt it twitch in his sweats, the ache pulsing deep within his body. He fought his body, tensing as her tongue flicked over his nipple.

“Fuckin’ hell, Y/N,” he groaned, his hands straining in his hold. She’d managed to tie him tight, and even though he could get out if he really tried, he didn’t want to. Seeing the possession of her vengeance, how it took root in her brain and spread through her nerves, it was sexy.

Her tongue swirled around his nipple, his chest heaving as he swallowed the moans that threatened to spill. His skin prickled, tingles of his pleasure reaching down to his toes. She moved to kiss down his chest, her lips kissing a trail down to his v-line.

He met her eyes, the depth of them magnetizing. He had no choice but to draw in, to lose himself in whatever she had swirling in that beautiful mind of hers. His body remembered her touch, that the pads of her fingers held fire and her tongue held the flood. Her fingers peeled off his sweats, the bulge in his boxers growing with each passing second. His stomach fluttered, his throat closed with the threat of a noise he hadn’t made. Ever.

A whimper.

She kissed under his belly button, purposely teasing him. He was rock hard, probably aching so much it hurt, but she’d let it ride. Her fingers were dainty, they were torches as they peeled the waistband of his boxers back.

“What are you doing?” Joe grunted, his hands straining against the restraints. His muscles bulged, his abs constricted and she felt saliva collect in her mouth.

“Teasing you,” she answered simply, slowly freeing him from his boxers, “though I think you’d classify this as torture,”

It was torture. His body was tied up in knots, her fingers tying him tighter. His cock twitched as he felt the cool air of her bedroom kiss his skin, the heat of her breath added in didn’t help him.

He gritted his teeth. He bit it back. He couldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“Come on, Joey,” she hummed, her eyes dark with control. Dominance flared in her body, rippling through her blood stream. Her heart danced in her chest, her lungs leading her in her arousing state of mind.

The second he made a sound she’d lose it.

The silence was deafening. His cock was painfully hard, pre-cum slipping down his red, sensitive tip. His teeth were gritted together, his eyes avoiding hers.

But his own desire betrayed him. A small, quiet whimper left his throat. It echoed in the room, but once he started he couldn’t stop. His mind crumbled, his body slumping against the plush mattress. She consumed him, controlled him like a puppet master. Her eyes were home, where he’d find himself pleasured and safe.

“There you go,” she murmured. Her eyes flicked down to his cock, salivating at the sight of him. He was thick, his tip pulsing with the arousal that leaked from his slit. It laid against his stomach, throbbing with need.

But his eyes. They were blown with an ache that she spun herself. His lips were parted with small breaths, his head spinning. She was in control; she had him on a leash and he wasn’t complaining.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his hips arching towards her body. The throbs in his cock made his muscles shake, it made his world spin. It was nearly painful; he needed her.

“Tell me,” she whispered, collecting saliva in her mouth, “what do you want?”

She lets her saliva drip from her lips, dripping down onto the sensitive and swollen tip of his cock. His hips bucked, a gasp leaving his lips. It was fire to his veins, his nerves the underbrush to her flame.

“God,” he groaned, taking deep and ragged breaths. His words were tangled, clawing at his throat as he attempted to shove them down. But the way she was looking at him, the way her body glowed in the light, he couldn’t help himself.

“Touch me,” he whimpered, his words barely audible over the sound of his breathing, “please,”

And she did.

She grabbed ahold of him with her hand, the heat of his skin making her shudder. Her hand stroked, slowly, drawing out gasps and moans from Joe. She squeezed, the tiniest bit, flexing her wrist as she touched him. Her other hand raked down his thigh, reveling in the shivers she drew from his nerves.

“Fuck,” he cursed, squirming underneath her touch, “Y/N,”

She didn’t answer his moans. She dipped her head, licking around the underside of the head of his cock. He tasted bitter, salty with arousal, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was whimpering, that he was squirming underneath her touch.

With how she was making him feel, he wasn’t going to last long.

“Don’t cum until I tell you,” she hummed, her hand wringing him in a faster pattern, squeezing ever so slightly at his tip. It left a burning sensation in his body, an ache that he fought so hard to keep under control.

She stroked him, feeling him twitch in her hands. He was so sensitive, so hard for her, and she wanted him to feel it. She wanted him to drown in the aches she drew, and based off of the look on his face, she was.

“I-I can’t,” he whined. The walls around his heart crumbled, allowing her to have full control. Joe didn’t often find himself in this position, but it was different with her. He’d willingly let himself be under her.

She removed her hand. He choked back a moan.

His cock twitched, his tip pooling with pre-cum. He sat on the edge of the knife, his body twitching. It was torture.

She moved up his body, her face right above his. His eyes, round with submission, blinked up at her. Soft, gentle whimpers fell from his lips as the throbbing in his body only intensified. He couldn’t even think straight.

“You’re doing so good for me,” she whispered, tracing his jaw with her fingers, “my pretty boy,”

The possession, the way she said it, he whined. His cock jumped, making his toes curl. He needed her.

“Please,” he whispered, his chest heaving with his breaths, “please, let me cum,”

She smirked, dipping her head, tasting his skin. Having this power, this control, it was an addiction she didn’t know existed. His skin was sweet, twinged with the flavor of his sweat. She settled her hips down on his, her sopping pussy meeting his shaft.

“You wanna cum, pretty boy?” she whispered in his ear, her teeth grazing his skin.

“Please,” he begged. His eyes closed, his lips parted. His body craved hers, his skin crawling with the promise of what was to come. His arms tugged at the fabric of her panties, his fingers flexing in their hold.

“You’re so pretty when you beg,” she whispered. She lost the point now, the revenge she was supposed to be getting. Now, it was all lust. It was a cigarette that once she got a drag of, she’d always come back.

Her face hovered over his, their breaths mingling together. One of her hands reached between them, aligning his cock with her entrance. Her touch sent electricity through his body, eliciting a gasp from his pink lips.

She pushed him inside of her, her hips sitting back on his cock. A gasp left her lips, her hand planting on one of his pecs, squeezing. The girth, the way he pulsed inside of her, it threatened to split her in two. Her walls, gummy and sensitive, were alive as she took him to the hilt.

Joe felt numb and alive all at the same time. His eyes watered, the intensity of her pussy around his cock building the ache deep within him. He clenched his hands into fists as he held himself back, whimpers breathing through clenched teeth.

“Fuck,” she breathed, her lips inches from his. He wanted to kiss her, his lips tingling for just a single taste.

He hadn’t earned it. Yet.

“Y/N,” he moaned, whiny and silky. Her hips scooped against his, the burn of their friction making Joe’s jaw slack and his back arch. His stomach fluttered, letting go of the restrain he had on his vocal cords.

The sweet, plushy spot within her pulsed, and with every drag of his cock, her mind was higher in the clouds. Her hands gripped his pecs, her fingers leaving pretty little indents in the muscle. Her thighs hugged his hips, strong and soft. Her movements were slow, but they were deep, meant to tear Joe apart piece by piece.

And it was working.

“Feel how wet I am for you?” she whispered, her lips ghosting over his jaw. His breath hitched, his hips bucking up into hers. The sudden friction, the bolt of electricity that ran down his veins, caused a whimper to fall from his lips.

He could only nod.

“Meet my pace,” she whispered in his ear, and it was like a dam breaking. His hips snap, fucking up into her like it was all he could ever need. His moans filled the room, mingling with hers to create a sweet cocktail. She moved with him, the heat of their skin adding to the pleasure.

She was losing it.

She moaned, her hands going to cup his jaw, roaming down to his shoulders. The sounds of skin hitting skin, wet and sticky, filled the room. Their bodies were soaked, a mixture of arousal and sweat slicking their skin.

“There ya go,” she breathed into his ear, the side of her head rested against his, “good boy,”

That about did him over. Praise. Confirmation.

“S-say that again,” he rasped, his hips still bucking into hers. He felt the knife of his orgasm, the way it stabbed him, threatening to bleed him dry. His eyes squeezed shut, his muscles taut, working with her and her pace.

She smirked at his words.

“You’re my good boy,” she hummed, moaning in his ear. She felt the growing sensitivity of her coming orgasm. Her self control, the desire to be in this position of control all the way through, it slipped. Her moans filled the room, her hips stuttering as she neared that edge.

One of her hands reached up, ripping her panties from his wrists. His reaction was instant; hands on her hips, guiding her movements, slamming his hips into her so hard and so fast they both saw stars. She moaned, throwing her head back, tits bouncing with every movement.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned, “fuck fuck fuck,”

Her lips hovered over his, and he couldn’t take it. He kissed her. She let him. The taste of his kiss was sweet, seasoned with a primal desire to share in the passion she was giving him. His hand danced up her spine, splaying across her lower back.

One final thrust, one final hip swivel, and they came undone. His cum warmed her walls, her body convulsed around his. Her gasp filled his mouth, but he kept kissing her. He kept his lips firmly attached to hers, sucking at her skin.

She pulled herself off, feeling the dam break, squirting all over his lower abdomen. Between that and her orgasm, she was a shaking and slick mess.

Joe finally pulled from her lips, soft, shaky breaths leaving his lips. His curls were sweaty, slick and damp. He pressed her forehead to hers, their hearts slamming against their ribcage. But he lived in the moment. He drank in the peace after the intensity.

She kissed him again, slow. Sensual. She slid her tongue along his bottom lip, dipping it into his mouth. He sighed into her kiss, pouring out his heart into her lips. His hands ran up and down her sides, smoothing over her blown nerves.

“Y/N,” he groaned as he pulled away, peeling open his bleary blue eyes. No words formed, even if his mind was running a thousand miles an hour.

He had so much to say.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, “I’m sorry for being an ass, for…for leaving you like that,”

The sincerity in his words made her heart soar. She kept her body close, letting their skin mix, letting their passion mingle. She ran her hand through his sweaty, knotted curls, kissing his cheek.

“I forgive you,” she whispered, “but you have to tell me something,”

“What?” he asked. Her eyes were barely open, a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction painted in her eyes.

“Why did you run?” she asked. He had no reason to hide from her. He didn’t want to.

“I was scared,” he admitted, “I…I thought that if I pushed you away I could push away my own feelings,”

“But why would you want to do that?” she asked. A valid question. One she’d been asking for years.

“Because look at you,” he breathed, “poised to perfection, a fucking goddess. I don’t compare to you,”

His words shocked her. Her eyes flickered, her heart skipping a beat in her chest. His words were raw, unshielded and unguarded. His eyes were wide, brow creased as he sat in the ecstasy of his pleasure and his feelings.

“Joe-”

“No, please, hear me out,” he interrupted, adjusting himself on the bed. His hands cupped her face, eyes boring into hers. She was beautiful, always was and always will be. Her skin was soft, warm under his touch.

“I was selfish,” he admitted, shaking his head, “you’re everything to me. You did more for me than Paige did, than anyone did. You…God, Y/N,” he breathed, unable to form the intense weight of his emotions into words.

She understood. She could read him like a book.

She leaned in, capturing his lips in a slow, tender kiss. He whined, his hand cupping the back of her head. He wanted her to feel the weight of his feelings, the way his heart beat for her. He slowly laid her down on the bed, his body pressing against hers.

“Can we do this again?” he asked, pulling from her lips, “I don’t want it to be a friends with benefits,”

“So like, dating?” she asked. Her heart raced, hope filling the cavity of her chest. Her head buzzed, thrumming with more.

“Yes,” he nodded, sweaty curls bouncing, “yes, I want everything. I want more. If you’ll have me,”

She answered with a kiss. Hungry. Desperate. Her arms looped around his neck, legs hooked around his waist as she pulled him closer to her body. Warm skin to warm skin, connected at the most intimate level, she felt at home.

“I’ll have you,” she whispered, “I’ll have all of you,”

Joe’s chest relaxed. He released a breath, his hands roaming her body. She fit against him perfectly, the piece to finish his puzzle. She was his muse, his reason for living. She was the cure to his curse, the poison he nearly killed himself with.

And he was never letting go.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fan fic

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undyingdecay · 1 day ago

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OKAY!! hear me out. reader x john walker where they’ve talked beforehand about reader getting pregnant and them having a baby. but!! kinda CNC i guess where reader is like “no! you have to pull out!!” and john is like “you feel too fucking good, i’m so sorry” 🫠 but obviously it’s fine. sorry for the brain rot and word vomit

(banging on the bars of my enclosure i WANT HIMM)

you and john, of course, had spoken about starting to settle down. it wasn’t some picture-perfect conversation over candlelight or at the foot of a bed tangled up in satin sheets. no — it was late at night, one too many beers deep, both of you bone-tired from the world and sick of it kicking the shit out of you. some movie was playing low in the background, something old and dumb that john grumbled through the whole way, and you’d said something offhand about being a good wife.

and he went quiet after that.

not in the stiff, pissed-off kind of way he sometimes got when he couldn’t say what he meant, but in that soft, heavy way — the one where he’d let a big, warm hand slide over your thigh and just hold it, thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

after that, it was inevitable.

you were looking at rings.

then finally buying a house — nothing fancy, just good bones and a yard big enough for the dog he swore up and down he didn’t want.

a little german shepherd pup that pissed on the floor and chewed his boots.

“too much goddamn work,” john grumbled. “i’m not taking care of some mutt.”

and yet two weeks later, you came home to find them curled up together on the couch, the pup dozing against his broad chest, john’s hand absently scratching behind her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. you didn’t even bother teasing him about it. just smiled, pressed a kiss to his temple, and the next morning you quietly tossed your birth control in the trash like it’d never existed.

you’d both wanted this. maybe too much.

ready to live out those stupid little daydreams you used to laugh at, pretending it could never be you. a house. a dog. maybe a baby if life didn’t spit in your face first.

but john was a hardass.

and you were stubborn.

so even after all the talks, even knowing you were both aching for it, there was still this push and pull between you. a give-me-take-it, say-no-make-me game that neither of you ever really meant but both of you loved to play.

and that night, it was thick in the air.

the way he had you on your back, legs trembling against his waist, his cock driving into you hard enough to rock the bed against the wall.

the thick, heady smell of sweat, sex, and that faint ghost of his cologne still clinging to his throat, the way his dog tags slapped against his chest with every rough thrust.

it slipped out before you could think.

“john — no, you have to pull out. you promised.”

and the minute you said it, you knew.

knew from the rough sound that tore out of his throat, from the way his hips stuttered for just a second before grinding deeper, harder, like he was trying to climb inside you.

“too fucking good—you’re so fucking wet, you want this so bad—fuck—don’t you?,” he groaned, voice cracking with it, low and desperate. “can’t. can’t stop now.”

you tried to wriggle, nails digging into his broad, sweat-slicked shoulders, some weak little protest about how you weren’t ready. about how this wasn’t what you agred to.

but your cunt betrayed you — clenching down, wet and eager, the thick slide of him dragging against every oversensitive nerve ending you had. and you hated how much you loved it.

“i’m sorry,” he groaned into your neck, and he wasn’t. not even a little bit.

his grip on your hips tightened, fingers leaving bruises he’d smirk at later.

“told you we’d start trying soon, didn’t i? i meant it.”

you felt his cock twitch inside you, that telltale pulse, and you were done for. the heat, the stretch, the desperate, filthy promise in his voice sending you right to the edge.

and when he finally came, it was a guttural, broken sound — hips jerking, cock spilling hot and thick inside you, enough to spill out around him in slick, messy drips.

he stayed buried to the hilt, grinding those last few lazy thrusts into you, unwilling to let any of it go to waste.

the room was heavy after that.

nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint hum of the ceiling fan above.

his big hand brushed through your hair, cradling the side of your face as he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“guess we’ll see what happens now,” he murmured, voice soft and smug, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

and you knew then — there wasn’t any going back.

you didn’t want to, either.

#.ᐟ.ᐟ #⤷ john walker #john walker thunderbolts #john walker mcu #john walker x reader #john walker smut #john walker marvel #john mcu #john walker #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#marvel #mcu #afab reader #female reader

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desigal-26 · 2 days ago

Text

So, I made the reader daughter of Dr. S Jaishankar and Kyoko Jaishankar because they seem very cool parents 😅

For anyone who doesn’t know them, here’s a small introduction: Dr. S Jaishankar is the Foreign Minister of India and Kyoko is his wife and they have three children together—Dhruva, Medha and Arjun.

That Desi Girl

Charles Leclerc x Desi!Reader

She was India’s favourite daughter; he was the Prince of Monaco

When the Saudi Arabian GP turns into a guest from India catching the attention of the Ferrari’s Il Predestinato

Warnings: SMAU. Sibling banter, Implied sex , one single hate comment, Flirting. Yeah, just that.

thatdesigirl just posted!

liked by dhruva.jaishankar, medha.jaishankar, drs.jaishankar, pinterest and 23987 others

thatdesigirl bringing a bit of desi to the Saudi Arabia

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dhruva.jaishankar enjoy your trip little sissy

thatdesigirl thanks bhaiya ☺️🌸

medha.jaishankar I heard there are a lot of handsome guys in f1 👀😉

drs.jaishankar no boys 😌

medha.jaishankar appa she is not 16 anymore 😭

thatdesigirl I am going for fast cars not boys, appa 🏎️

pinterest our fav desi girl 🤩

user not the eam himself making sure she knows no boys are allowed 😭

user he is a desi father though and though

user take me with youuuuu

user the pretty pretty lady

The Ferrari garage was alive with celebration, pulsing with the kind of unfiltered joy that only motorsport victories—however modest—could ignite. Laughter rang out, champagne corks popped, and red uniforms blurred in a flurry of high-fives, shoulder claps, and the echo of Italian-accented cheers. The Prancing Horse had finally galloped back onto the podium for the first time in the 2025 season, and the mechanics, engineers, and strategists were soaking in every second of the long-awaited triumph.

Charles Leclerc stood at the heart of it all��sweat still clinging to his brow, fire-retardant suit half-zipped down to his waist, his expression a heady mix of relief and satisfaction. After weeks of frustration and near misses, he had wrangled every ounce of performance out of the SF-25, dragging the temperamental machine across the finish line in third place. It wasn’t a win, but it felt like one. Lewis had finished in seventh, exactly where he had started. Respectable, yes. But tonight, the spotlight belonged to the Monegasque.

He moved through the garage like a prince returning from battle—gracious and grateful, shaking hands with the last of the crew who had worked tirelessly to give him the best they could. They clapped him on the back, their grins wide, their spirits soaring. Soon, many would filter out into the warm Jeddah night, likely to find music, drinks, and the kind of reckless laughter that only comes after a job well done.

Charles was just about to leave himself when something—or rather someone—stopped him in his tracks.

By the shimmering halo of the overhead lights, he spotted her: the girl he had been introduced to briefly on Friday. The daughter of the Indian Foreign Affairs Minister. The girl with the clever eyes and an elegance that didn’t need effort to announce itself. Tonight, dressed in a sleek outfit that caught the light like moonlit silk, she looked utterly radiant—like something out of an old Hollywood film spliced with modern royalty.

She was laughing—freely, unguardedly—as she spoke to Lewis. Her hands moved expressively, her voice rising and falling in a cadence that sounded like a melody, even though he couldn’t make out the words from where he stood. Lewis was clearly enjoying the conversation too, nodding along with a smile, occasionally interjecting, though mostly content to listen.

And yet, for reasons Charles couldn’t quite name, the sight made something shift in his chest.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. Lewis was his teammate, his friend. But there was an unfamiliar tightness curling low in his stomach, something sharp and warm and irritatingly magnetic.

He wanted to be the one she was talking to like that.

He wanted to hear her voice—up close.

He wanted to know what made her eyes sparkle like that, and he wanted to be the reason they did.

Fueled by the confidence of the podium, emboldened by the buzz in his veins, Charles squared his shoulders and walked over to the pair, his signature smile—half boyish charm, half practiced charisma—lighting up his face. The fans loved that smile. It had won over reporters, sponsors, and hearts across continents.

“Bonsoir,” he greeted smoothly, his accent curling around the word like silk. His eyes met hers, and this time, he made sure not to look away too quickly. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. But Lewis turned, grinning knowingly as though he sensed exactly what was happening.

“Not at all.”

If voice could kill, the Monegasque would have been six feet under.

Her words were soft, but sharp enough to cut through the noise around them—sweet and melodic, like a siren’s call laced with danger. That voice could wrap around your throat like silk and leave you breathless before you even realized it.

“Congratulations on the podium,” she added, offering him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, though the glint in them said she knew exactly what kind of effect she had.

Charles chuckled lightly, his ego soothed by the fact that she hadn’t dismissed him outright.

“Merci,” he replied, shifting his weight just slightly, hands tucked into the waistband of his race suit. “It was a tough one. The car fought me the whole way, but I suppose it finally surrendered on lap 47.”

Lewis laughed at that, clearly amused. “You make it sound like a duel to the death.”

“It felt like one,” Charles said, his gaze flickering back to her. “But worth it in the end.”

“Victory always is,” she replied, her tone effortlessly composed. “Even small ones.”

There was something deliberate in the way she said it—like she was testing him, weighing his response.

“And conversations like this?” he asked, smiling with a playful tilt of his head. “Do they count as small victories too?”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching as he subtly stepped back. “On that note, I think I’ll leave the two of you to it.” He nodded to her, then to Charles. “Don’t stay out too long. Press starts early.”

“Noted,” Charles said, barely sparing his teammate a glance as Lewis disappeared into the crowd.

Now it was just the two of them.

“So,” he continued, emboldened by the fact that she hadn’t turned away. “Are you enjoying your time here? Jeddah’s a bit of a chaotic introduction to Formula One, but it has its charm.”

“I’ve been to more chaotic places,” she said, crossing her arms casually, the soft fabric of her blouse catching the garage lights. “But I’ll admit, this is more… lively than I expected.”

“Wait until you see the afterparty,” he said, voice low and teasing.

She raised an eyebrow. “There’s an afterparty?”

“There’s always an afterparty,” he replied smoothly. “And tonight, some of the drivers are heading to a club in the Corniche district. Nothing too wild, just music, drinks, and maybe a little dancing.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and in that silence, Charles felt the pulse of the night slow to a beat that matched the rhythm of her gaze.

“Are you asking me to come?” she asked finally.

“I am,” he said, bold now. “Come with me.”

There was a flicker of something behind her eyes—surprise, curiosity, and a hint of amusement.

“I don’t usually accept last-minute invitations from podium winners,” she replied, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smile that could start wars. “But… I suppose I can make an exception. Just this once.”

Charles grinned, the victory sweeter than the one he’d earned on track.

“Then it’s settled. I’ll have someone send you the address.”

“Lead the way, mon prince rouge,” (my red prince) she said, brushing past him, her perfume lingering like a secret.

And just like that, the night had only just begun.

Sunlight filtered through the beige curtains that shielded the suite from the brightness of the outside world, softening everything it touched. The air-conditioning purred in the background, a gentle hum of civilization in an otherwise quiet space, heavy with the stillness that only follows long, chaotic nights.

Somewhere beneath a mess of tangled sheets and sleep-heavy limbs, her phone vibrated insistently across the nightstand.

A groan escaped her lips as she blindly fumbled for it, her body refusing to rise. Her fingers found the device with the same desperation as a drowning woman might reach for air. Bleary eyes squinted at the glowing screen, struggling to focus on the name flashing across it.

Medha calling.

With a sigh that sounded far too dramatic for seven in the morning, she slid the green icon and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Had fun last night?” came her sister’s voice, bright and far too chipper for this hour. It sliced through her skull like a poorly mixed cocktail—sharp and unforgiving.

“Mmngh,” she mumbled, burying her face deeper into the plush pillow. “Why are you like this?”

She could hear Medha grinning. Probably curled up in her favorite armchair, purple-highlighted hair messy from sleep, nursing her daily cup of overpriced green tea.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Medha teased. “Which tells me you had plenty of fun.”

“Can we please talk later?” she grumbled, shifting slightly as something—someone—moved beside her. A hand brushed against her hip, warm and very much real. Her eyes opened just a little wider. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder yet.

“Oh?” Medha’s tone sharpened with mischief. “Busy with a certain Monegasque currently?”

The silence that followed on her end was damning.

“You are, aren’t you!” Medha squealed, absolutely delighted. “I knew it.”

“I swear to god, Medha—” she hissed under her breath, careful not to wake whoever was sprawled out next to her.

“Don’t swear, darling. You’re in international company now,” Medha shot back smugly. “Tell Charles I say hi. And use protection. Monaco doesn’t need another scandal.”

Before she could sputter out a response, the call disconnected, leaving her fuming and flustered in equal measure.

She let the phone drop back onto the mattress with a sigh and finally rolled over, heart drumming unevenly. Her gaze landed on tousled brown hair, a bare shoulder, and the unmistakable slope of a back she’d seen countless times on the podium screens.

Charles Leclerc lay peacefully, face half-buried in the pillow, his breathing slow and even. One of his arms was draped carelessly over her waist, possessive even in slumber.

Her mouth parted slightly in disbelief as fragmented memories of the night came back in flashes—laughing at the bar, dancing too close, his breath against her neck, and that kiss that had undone her completely.

Oh. Oh no.

She stared at the ceiling, one thought echoing through her pounding head: What the hell have I gotten myself into?

She lay still for a moment, hoping, praying that he’d stay asleep just a little longer while she composed herself—physically and emotionally. But of course, the universe had other plans.

Beside her, Charles stirred, a soft groan escaping his throat as he rolled onto his back. His arm, which had been casually draped over her, slipped away only to find her again and pull her back in with lazy familiarity. She let out a tiny squeak of surprise, which made his eyes blink open, unfocused at first, but then slowly sharpening with awareness.

And then came the smile—that disarmingly sleepy, boyish grin that could melt glaciers.

“Bonjour,” he murmured, voice gravelly and thick with sleep, his accent lacing the word like velvet. “Didn’t think I’d wake up next to actual royalty this morning.”

She rolled her eyes, though her cheeks betrayed her with a faint heat. “Stop talking.”

“Why? Embarrassed?” he teased, the smirk deepening as he propped himself up on one elbow, his hair a glorious mess that somehow made him look even better. “Because I’m not. Not even a little.”

She stared at him. “We were drunk.”

“Tipsy,” he corrected, raising a finger. “And very enthusiastic.”

She shot him a look.

“Okay, maybe slightly drunk,” he admitted, chuckling. “But… not that drunk.”

There was a pause—brief, but weighted.

“I remember everything,” he added softly, eyes on hers now. “And I don’t regret any of it.”

That threw her off more than anything else. She’d expected awkwardness, maybe some strategic forgetfulness, a polite exit with promises of staying in touch and we should do this again sometime lies. But not this. Not him looking at her like she was something rare and real in a world full of smoke and mirrors.

“You’re serious,” she said slowly. He nodded. “Dead serious.”

A beat passed before he sat up a little straighter, his expression shifting from sleepy flirtation to something more earnest.

“I was actually going to ask you this before last night happened, but I got a little… sidetracked,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Would you want to go out with me?”

She blinked.

“Like, a real date,” he clarified. “No parties, no champagne, no nightclubs. Just… you and me. Dinner. Maybe a walk. Something normal.”

She stared at him for a moment, trying to decide whether this was some elaborate morning-after damage control or if he genuinely meant it. But Charles Leclerc had many talents, and lying didn’t seem to be one of them—not when his eyes looked at her like that.

“I—” she started, but the words didn’t quite form.

He leaned in, his voice gentler this time. “No pressure. But I’d like to get to know you properly… not just the version of you who looks unfairly beautiful in a club under flashing lights. The real you.”

Her heart did something uncomfortably theatrical in her chest.

“Okay,” she said finally, unable to stop the small smile tugging at her lips. “Dinner. Walk. Something normal.”

His grin returned, brighter now, victorious in a boyish kind of way. “Perfect. Just don’t tell your sister yet. I feel like she already knows too much. And your dad too.”

She laughed, burying her face in the pillow. “God, you heard that?”

“Hard not to. Your voice isn’t exactly a whisper when you’re hungover,” he teased. She groaned again, but this time with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

And just like that, the chaos of the night before began to settle—into something slower, softer, and unexpectedly real.

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thatdesigirl just Jeddah things 🏎️ ♥️

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scuderiaferrari the real royalty 🤩♥️ liked by the author

dhruva.jaishankar did appa approve of the slit?

thatdesigirl well…😅

medha.jaishankar don’t enjoy too much 😏😉

thatdesigirl 🤫🤫🤫

user omg we found Charles’ girl!!!!

user that dress and those legs 🫠

user Charles is dating her now? She is not even that beautiful

user are u serious?

user she is literally so pretty 🥺

lewishamilton it was great to have you in paddock 😉

thatdesigirl it was amazing to be there 🌸

drs.jaishankar I thought we established no boys?

thatdesigirl appa 😅

drs.jaishankar what he means is have fun 大好き (loves) ~ Kyoko

user Kyoko being supportive of her youngest is the most Indian mother thing ever 🤣

charles.leclerc magnifique, mon amour 😍 (gorgeous, my love)

thatdesigirl merci baby 😘

drs.jaishankar 😑

drs.jaishankar Mr. Leclerc, you are invited for a conversation with myself about the recent developments. Be there for evening next Thursday.

charles.leclerc yes sir 🫡

user omg the diplomat’s dinner

user u mean the eam’s dinner 🤣

user may god be with charles 😂

user am I the only one who wants live updates from the dinner?

#f1 social media au #f1 smau #f1 2025 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc smau #desi!reader #f1 x you #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x desi!reader #charles leclerc x desi!reader

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trexiejan · 1 day ago

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umm Jonboy literally talked about Dick and Kory being a thing in his book which means he had plans for both

and I'm sorry but BruceBabs came out first in the TV not in the comics LMAO looks like you didn't even watch the show. Babs was flirting and lusting all over Batman. In fact there are more BruceBabs scenes compared to Dickbabs scenes.

The video of Barbara sleeping with Batman got millions of views on youtube. It's far more popular than any of the canon dickbabs comics.

Yes Brucebabs was controversial too but did the hate and backlash stop Brucebabs from selling the show??

and lol "everything has to do with sales"??

The Suicide Squad movie and videogame were a flop yet James Gunn and DC continue to push for them because its one of their favorite dc teams. You'd think they'd stop making suicide squad content due to lack of sales and interest from the community but no DC recently announced a japanese suicide squad anime series.

It all depends on the higher ups interest. If they personally like something they would push for it no matter how much it makes

and how many times do you have to say Have a great Sunday as if you're leaving the conversation but then come back again, lol pls stop pretending you ain't bothered.

and I forgot to tell you Batman Lego the movie made 300 million in the box office and guess who is the pairing? Brucebabs

So yeah maybe everything depends on sales indeed. They should really push for BruceBabs because it's the ship that makes more money than Dickbabs 😂

Dick and Kory weren’t just a couple — they were narratively built for each other. Marv Wolfman and George Pérez crafted them with parallel arcs, emotionally and thematically. Dick, the disciplined human struggling with identity outside Batman’s shadow. Kory, the exiled alien princess learning humanity, freedom, love. They grew together. Their relationship was emotional, spiritual, ideological — not just romantic. They were equals who challenged and bettered each other.

And then editorial got messy.

Enter Babs, whose original purpose was not even romantic, but Batman's girl counterpart and suddenly she’s being wedged into a love triangle like it’s CW drama. Not only that, but they deaged her, rewrote her dynamic with Dick from “older mentor figure” to “quirky same-age love interest.” That’s not evolution, that’s surgery on continuity with no anesthesia.

They butchered Dick’s history with Kory just to make room for a status quo that’s more palatable to a Bat-centric branding. They erased an engagement, deep emotional growth, and cosmic-scale love just to reduce her to a “fling.” That’s not just disrespect to Starfire, that’s disrespect to decades of storytelling.

It’s no coincidence that Dick and Kory’s relationship flourished when they had autonomy outside the Bat office. The Titans gave them space to be messy, raw, radiant. And it’s telling that when creators have the chance to write them freely (like in Titans, DCeased, Injustice, Future State) they gravitate back to DickKory. Because it works.

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ryannnblake · 13 hours ago

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YOU HAVE LOST UR DAMN MINDS.

this really shouldn’t have to be said, but this fanbase especially this side of it don’t know when to stop. some of y’all are genuinely stupid for jumping to “paige is cheating on azzi” DELUSIONS just because she got dinner with a girl that wasn’t azzi. like… are women not allowed to have female friends anymore?? that girl is LITERALLY a team manager for the wings. she’s not a mystery, not a scandal, literally part of the wings team.

it’s ironic that the same people who constantly complain about paige not posting or being online, are the ones who create spaces for her to not want to. every fucking time she’s seen out in public—smiling, talking, breathing near someone, disloyal comments get involved. i genuinely feel bad that she can’t be seen enjoying a moment with anyone without being “shipped” with said person. she literally remove the god damn tag off her page.

azzi LITERALLY hard launched their relationship, but a dinner photo has you convinced paige is a cheater? be serious. some of you lowkey hate that they’re together and have some weird animosity towards their relationship. their boundaries are nonexistent when it comes to some of you. and it will forever be odd to me.

posting ≠ proof of loyalty. stop with the conversation that because paige doesn’t post azzi as much, that she doesn’t love her.

privacy ≠ guilt. just because their relationship has been launched, doesn’t mean that it’s still not theirs, and still not PRIVATE.

you don’t know these people. you don’t know paige, you don’t know azzi, and you ARENT in their relationship.

stop projecting, stop reaching, and maybe let women live without turning every interaction into a scandal.

yall are annoying dawg.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi

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tojisteddy · 21 hours ago

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Could we please get more general meanie!simon headcannons?

No need to rush but have a good day!

general meanie!simon headcanons

now playing: landslide by fleetwood mac

a/n: I live for this, thank you for requesting!!! You have a good day too!!

Cannot do large crowds. It’s too loud and theres too many people and too many different conversations. He can do loud on the field, quick changes of action when it’s do or die. Just not at home. It spikes his anxiety up ten fold, make him more irritable. So he only grocery shops in the early mornings when the old ppl shop or he leaves it up to you. If you want to go shopping with him for new clothes, it’s get in and get out. Same with concerts. It has to be an artist that’s rare to see for him to go.

He’s extremely chill compared to how he was when he was a teenager/young adult. Hes sent a couple folks to the hospital, used to get into it with his team mates so bad John sent him to anger management and wouldn’t allow him back unless he got his act together. And he despised it at first, hated the happy go lucky therapist who lead the group, the fact that it was in a damned church basement, and that he had to talk to strangers. But it actually did a number on him. In a good way. Healed a few parts of him to make him into a better man, much easier to deal with, he’s slower to anger now. And if it comes storming down on him he might go for a smoke, take a few deep breaths, go walk a few paces. Price is proud of him and for once Ghost— no- Simon is proud of himself. Happy he stumbled upon you after he got his shit together. It makes him want to work harder at improving himself even more. He’s not the best, but he’s trying. He always go to group therapy every Wednesday when he’s back home, right after work. He brings home dinner, a little more- chipper.

Really doesn’t do too much talking when he’s off. He definitely a teaser, playful, but even with you, he doesn’t have much to say. You both like comfortable silence when you’re gone for cuddle together.

Doesn’t complain about the amount of stuffed animals you have or how you decorate. You’ve made his house a home, even after he fixed it up himself, it never felt good to be alone there. These are ghosts hiding there. But you brought a breath of fresh air into the place. Hes more than greatful, hugging onto your stuffed animals when your gone for too long.

Likes to do chores together, even if it’s folding laundry or walking the dogs or washing dishes— he loves being in your space.

hates your dog Fish because he’s a wild thing no matter how hard you train him. The little shit only listens to Simon for some reason when Simon only likes his dog, Slugger. Doesn’t mean the man isn’t gonna pet the cute one year old puppy though.

Squints a lot when reading the coffee signs, he definitely needs reading glasses but says hes too young for them (hes almost 35)

can talk about his favorite movies for ages, loves the classic westerns and sci-fi flicks from the 80s. Knows the actors ages and if they’re alive or not. Talks to you about them like a history lesson, you never get bored though. His voice is perfect.

A little insecure about the scars on him, that’s why he’s covered in tattoos. Some tattoos mean a lot to him, others he just got for fun.

Has a motorcycle, rides it here and there. Has taken you for a drive to meet Alice, an older woman about 80 from anger management. She’s like his grandma, he speaks softer (and smaller) when he’s with her. Alice babies the hell out of him.

His closet is more than casual, multiple black shirts and denim jeans, a few plaids, some leather jackets, bomber jackets— it’s not too serious. He’d rather invest in you, let you play dress up in your closet and watch you twirl for him. And he pays attention to every detail. What you like and don’t like. His cute fucking baby.

When he blushes, which is rare, it won’t show on his face, won’t smile at all or get red in his face— but his ears. Bright red. Be on the lookout when his mask is off.

Can knit and stitch. Not too good at stitching but he knows how to get that job done. Knitting? He joined Alice’s knitting group, club meetings to gossip are once a month of the first Saturday. He never misses a meeting.

Helps out the neighbors with their broken equipment. Broken lawnmower or mixing machine? He can fix it. He’s pretty handy. Stand off-ish but kind to his neighbors.

Spends some days drinking beer or whisky on the couch or going for a drive. Just to think about nothing but sometimes everything. Take a look at the scenic view, he takes you sometimes, kisses your hands and holds them tight without saying a word.

Physical touch junkie, loves holding hands without saying it, brushing fingers, playing with your braids or curly hair, pinching your cheeks, having your legs in his lap— something.

Does not like clowns. Not scared but he finds them annoying. Same with mimes. Stays ten feet away.

Swears by Fleetwood Mac album ‘Rumours’, will always play it and never gets tired of it. It’s brought him out of multiple dark places. Won’t sing but will mumble the lyrics. So cute. Swears by To Noise Making (Sing) and Sunlight by Hozier and Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) by Deftones.

Two other random hobbies? Lego building and painting. He’s shit at painting, but he does it anyway because he enjoys it. Now Lego building, hes good. As in there are a few self made projects around the house that look like real masterpieces, good. Simon spends a buck and then some on them, Soap teases him for it but he always shows them off to you, they’re amazing.

a/n: I hope this was okay anon. Let me know. Been waiting for someone to ask but meanie!simon going to anger management is like a big part of the reason I don’t write him so toxic (just a little bit like a little extra salt though). I don’t think he’s at that point in his life anymore. Also sorry for all the posts today. My bad.

most recent masterlist past meanie!simon hc

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @bruisedfig @tessakate @sevikasblackgf @mocha-the-muse @nightfwn @mims900 @lillybunni

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johnlock-meowmeow · 2 days ago

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This post reminded me of some of the things I felt starting to find my gender identity during quarantine. I’m wondering if anyone else felt this way.

I remember I didn’t want to like he/him pronouns because that would make me a man. The main conversation I heard then was that men were gross and not needed. I definitely agreed with having those conversations about how men often can abuse their power in our patriarchy, and think about what we could do without one. But I think there’s a way that can backfire into just hating on the idea of men and masculinity.

Also the stereotype of trans women I saw then was that they’re all turning into something more beautiful, they have beautiful names and look beautiful. But the stereotype for trans men was that they were gross, just like the cis men, they were “rats” and would choose weird and dumb names. They weren’t becoming something more beautiful, they didn’t seem to be becoming anything.

Putting aside the reasons why James Barry's trans identity is erased, the thing that sickens me the most is the fact that "empowering cis woman" is something people will celebrate more than an empowering trans man. Like, it feels like the attitude is "oh, he was a trans man and not actually a woman? lame :/" we can't even be happy and celebrate the accomplishments of a trans man. A trans man's accomplishments aren't even to be celebrated.

A trans man's accomplishments aren't even celebrated the ways a cis woman's accomplishments are and there is something so, so, so vile about that.

#transmasc #anti transmasculinity #anti-transmasculinity #trans men #transandrophobia #transgender

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kxsagi · 9 hours ago

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“𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧”

a/n: everyone say thank you, landon! he hurt me and now i wrote angst. i’ll never forgive his bitchass for cheating on liz (yes i’m still mad about it) and i pray that she heals fast and thoroughly 🙏

ft. itoshi rin, isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito, bachira meguru, ness alexis

itoshi rin

he doesn’t say he misses you. instead, he shows it by keeping everything the same. your mug is still by the sink. your shampoo still in the shower.

he trains harder than ever, but there’s a hesitation in his eyes, like he’s searching for something beyond the net, like scoring without your "good luck" feels hollow.

he deletes your contact but memorizes your number. blocks you, but checks your socials with a burner. his pride won’t let him reach out, but gosh, he wants you to notice he’s suffering.

sometimes he thinks about bumping into you “by accident.” at a café. bookstore. anywhere. but he never goes because he’s scared you’ll already be with someone else.

he dreams of you. and in those dreams, you always leave again.

isagi yoichi

he blames himself. rewatches every conversation in his mind like game tape. where did i go wrong? where could i have passed better? loved better?

he still talks about you like you're part of his life. "she loves that song." "she would’ve liked this." even though the room goes quiet after.

he keeps every gift you gave him. your first silly drawing, the bracelet you made at some street fair. it’s tucked in his drawer like sacred things.

you told him once he overthinks everything, so now, ironically, he overthinks that, too. did you mean it as a joke? were you serious? were you already halfway out the door?

he wishes you’d just tell him you hate him. because silence is worse. silence is hope’s cruel cousin.

itoshi sae

he lets you go with a poker face. you’d think he didn’t care. but it’s the first time in years he misses a penalty kick.

he deletes your pictures. not because he doesn’t care, but because he does. too much. and seeing your smile in that yellow-tinted light makes his chest cave in.

he scrolls through your old texts when he's drunk. replies to them like you're still there. never sends them.

he never begs. never asks you to stay. but every time someone mentions your name, there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes, like grief dressed in quiet clothes.

he used to be bored of everything. now, he’s just tired. especially of pretending you didn’t matter.

kaiser michael

you were the first person to tell him he didn’t have to perform all the time. that you liked him even when he wasn’t loud, golden, brilliant.

he didn’t believe you. not really. until after you left. now the silence around him feels unbearable, like a stage with no audience.

he flirts more now. louder, emptier. it’s all performance, a desperate echo of who he used to be when you were around to bring him down to earth.

he keeps expecting you to walk in, roll your eyes, say "you’re so dramatic." but you never do.

sometimes, he talks to you when he’s alone. not the real you, the memory version. and she’s always a little kinder than he deserves.

shidou ryusei

he doesn’t cry. he doesn’t talk about it. but suddenly, the fire in him feels more like self-destruction than passion.

on the field, he’s a menace. fouls more. gets carded more. you were the only one who calmed him down, reminded him of softness. now there’s no balance.

people call him reckless. a lunatic. but they don’t know he’s trying to feel something. anything.

he won’t admit it, but your absence tastes like metal in his mouth. bitter. sharp.

sometimes, he punches the wall and pretends it’s not because he remembered your birthday and realized he has nowhere to send the gift.

mikage reo

he’s always had money, always had power. but losing you? it’s the first time he couldn’t buy his way out of pain.

he tells himself you’ll come back. that it’s just a break. that if he levels up, scores more, shines harder, you’ll notice.

goes to the places you loved together, always ordering your favorite drink and leaving it untouched. “just in case.”

he practices apologies in the mirror, over and over. never sends them. because every version feels too small for what he broke.

his smile is still perfect, still charming, but if you look too close, it doesn’t reach his eyes anymore.

nagi seishiro

he doesn't understand why you're gone. he replays the breakup like a confusing side quest with no clear ending.

sleeps way more than usual. not because he’s lazy, but because dreaming of you is easier than being awake without you.

when he plays games now, he keeps losing. rage quits more often. "it's boring," he says. but it’s really because the person who used to sit beside him is missing.

keeps your shirt. cuddles it like a plush. doesn’t say a word when reo comments on it.

still texts you sometimes. “this meme reminded me of you.” “you’d laugh at this.” you never reply. he still sends them.

karasu tabito

he jokes more than ever. laughs louder. flirts harder. but his humor has a sharpness to it now, like he’s constantly daring the world to notice he’s hurting.

people say he's “the same as always,” but they don’t see him standing outside your apartment for 30 minutes just to walk away with a heavier heart.

started journaling again. you told him once that writing helped with healing. he writes like you’ll read it one day.

won’t admit it, but he plays dirtier now. more aggressive, less patient. “love made me soft,” he says. like it’s a curse.

he misses your voice. not just your words. the sound of you saying his name like it meant something.

bachira meguru

he paints you. over and over. sometimes with wings. sometimes with broken glass in your smile. always with love.

still talks to his "monster" about you. "you think she hates me now?" "do you think i scared her off?"

he’s still sunshine to everyone else, but when he's alone, the silence is suffocating.

your absence changed his art. darker colors. messier strokes. people praise his “emotional evolution,” but he just misses being happy.

he goes to the park where you first kissed and sits on the swing for hours. waiting. just in case you remember, too.

ness alexis

he always said you made him feel seen, not just as a shadow to kaiser, but as his own person. now that you’re gone, he forgets how to exist without comparison.

overcorrects. becomes louder, flashier, more dramatic. like if he’s impressive enough, you’ll regret leaving.

still wears the cologne you bought him. even though it makes him nauseous with memories.

he swears he’s over you. but the second someone mentions your name, his hands start to shake.

keeps your photo as his lock screen. “aesthetic,” he says. “nostalgic,” he means.

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carlislefiles · 2 days ago

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first fight | gojo satoru ╰►you and your boyfriend, gojo never fight. it's like your whole schtick. you love each other sooooo much that nothing is ever important enough to argue over. sure, you get annoyed with each other, but you're both adults who love each other very, very much. nothing is worth jeopardizing your relationship over, and you're both perfectly capable of having mature conversations with one another. it drives his students crazy, how gojo pulled such a 10/10 and how you never fight, your relationship is just perfect. until it isn't. until you tell gojo the one thing he never thought you'd say, the last thing he ever wanted to hear from you. 3.8k words

a/n: I love disgustingly, sickeningly, disturbingly in love couples, because what do you mean people actually experience true joy and unconditional love??? anyways, this deals with some self-esteem issues, insecurities, etc. from both parties, some are more physical, others are more mental. just want y'all to know that I love you, even though I don't know you, because you all deserve that :)

you arrive at jujutsu high in the same car every morning, the same soundtrack playing, the same thermos passed between your hands. gojo insists that coffee tastes better when it’s made by you, even though he’s the one who set the timer on the machine at 6:00 a.m. sharp. you just roll your eyes and let him say it, because he looks at you like you’ve just invented the concept of caffeine.

everything about the two of you is too much.

you walk through the school like you were born holding hands. you teach separate classes, sure, but somehow you still manage to be in the same rooms at the same times, overlapping missions and sparring demos and paperwork like you planned it. which—okay—you did. kind of.

lunch is shared. not in the “sitting across from each other like normal people” way, but in the “you’re eating from his bento and he’s picking the mushrooms out of yours” kind of way. shoko once joked that if she took one of your lunches and swapped it with the other, you’d both starve out of muscle memory.

gojo didn’t even deny it. he just said, “honestly? probably true.”

and somehow, you make it work. him with his chaotic, oversized presence, and you with your quiet steel. it’s like watching a thunderstorm fall in love with a garden. beautiful. slightly horrifying. weirdly functional.

the students, of course, are suffering.

“do they ever fight?” nobara asks one afternoon, watching you flick a piece of eraser at gojo’s head during a grading session.

“they don’t even disagree,” megumi mutters. “it’s like they’re possessed.”

“they’re just in love,” yuji says with a dumb little smile, arms behind his head. “it’s sweet.”

“it’s unnatural,” nobara grumbles. "I saw them high-five after a kill last week. who does that?”

“they make up little handshakes,” megumi adds darkly, like he’s sharing a war crime. “one for every type of curse. I've seen it.”

you two are oblivious, or maybe just immune. gojo’s got one leg thrown over your chair, bent over your shoulder as you work through lesson plans, humming some off-key pop song into your ear. you tap his nose with a pen when he gets too loud. he steals your glasses and wears them dramatically until you threaten to break his fingers. everyone assumes it’s a joke. (it’s not.)

even utahime has given up. "I hate him slightly less when you’re around,” she admitted once, after a mission. “don’t quote me. I'll deny it.”

“quoting it,” gojo chirped, already grinning like a child who’s won the spelling bee. “printing it. framing it.”

she almost cursed him on the spot.

and nanami—well. nanami sighs a lot these days. "I assume you’ve figured out how to file joint mission reports by now,” he says without looking up, already anticipating gojo’s attempt to dump his paperwork on him.

“oh, we file jointly,” gojo replies with a smug little smirk. “she writes, I supervise.”

“she works,” nanami corrects. “you annoy.” but nanami doesn’t say much else, and he doesn’t really have to. you know he doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to. the two of you get the job done. your students are thriving. you and gojo—well. you don’t fight. you just don’t.

there’s never been a reason to. you annoy each other, sure, and he leaves his socks on the floor and you use his fancy hair stuff without asking, and sometimes you both forget that not every disagreement has to become a twenty-minute philosophical debate—but none of it matters. none of it’s important. nothing is ever more important than each other.

and everyone knows it. you’re the couple. not just a couple. the couple. the blueprint. the “they’re so gross it’s kind of beautiful” pair that makes everyone feel like maybe love is possible, if you just find the right balance of infuriating and perfect.

the first time you attend one of the sorcerer galas together, it feels like a fairytale.

gojo’s tux is crisp and sleek, his blindfold replaced with thin designer sunglasses that let his smirk gleam underneath. you wear black satin with a slit that teeters on the edge of scandalous, and he damn near short-circuits trying to pick his jaw off the floor. you aren’t fond of crowds, not fond of being seen, but you do it for him. for your boyfriend. for the strongest.

“damn, baby,” he breathes into your neck that night, one hand on your waist, the other around a champagne flute. “do you want me to get assassinated? ‘cause you’re killing me.” you laugh. your heart glows. you stay close to his side all night, tucked under his arm like his favorite secret.

the second gala is a little harder.

the hair takes longer. the heels are higher. the dress clings tighter. it’s blue this time, and gojo whistles when you walk out of the bathroom. but he doesn't notice how long you took to put on your eyeliner. how many times you changed the part in your hair. how much of your dinner you didn’t eat. you stay quiet. smiling. you know how to play the part.

he keeps you close again, proudly introducing you to a blur of other sorcerers and cursed clan heirs and political figures whose names all sound the same. you hold your glass delicately and shake their hands and say all the right things. you don’t notice when you start holding your breath.

by the tenth event, it’s a routine. you wake up with your stomach in knots. you force yourself to eat something light. you do your makeup, wash it off, and do it again. you think about skipping it. you think about canceling. you know he'd say yes, bend to your every whim, probably even comfort you if you asked to stay him. you think about asking him to go alone. but he’s so happy when he talks about you. when he holds your hand and introduces you as his person. when he leans over during a speech to whisper, “if you weren’t here, i’d be asleep under the dessert table.”

you’re his anchor in a room full of masks and monsters. and god, you try. you try so hard.

you wear the tight red dress, even though it makes you feel like you’re stuffed into someone else’s skin. you suck in your stomach. you smile at the compliments that don’t feel real. you nod along to conversations you don’t understand. you rest your hand on satoru’s chest like it belongs there, even when you want to disappear into the floorboards. you do your job. you perform. but the thing about performance is that it’s exhausting. and eventually, even the strongest burn out.

it happens on the way home. you’re riding in the passenger seat, skin prickling, heart thudding like it’s run five miles without you. your hair is pinned perfectly. your lipstick hasn’t smudged. your hands are shaking in your lap, the ocular headache you have right now is blurring your vision, and satoru doesn’t see it because he’s humming under his breath to the radio, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching for yours like always.

you pull into the lot. the engine cuts. he gets out first, stretches dramatically, then opens your door with that lazy, dazzling grin. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he says, extending a hand. “let’s get you out of those murder weapons and into something cozy.” right, heels. torture devices.

but you don’t move. not right away. your eyes don’t meet his. and then you climb out of the car, slowly, shakily, the sound of your heels against the pavement almost too loud in the night.

he notices it then—the way your fingers fumble with your clutch, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re bracing for impact. your lip trembles. your eyes are bloodshot, glassy and wet. you're crying.

his heart skips so violently he thinks for a second it might’ve stopped altogether. “hey—hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice shifting into panic-soft, the way it only gets when you're sick or hurt. “what’s wrong? what happened? did someone—did I—?”

he takes a step toward you, and your breath catches.

your arms wrap around yourself. your chin drops to your chest. "I can’t do this,” you whisper, and it’s not dramatic, not a plea—it’s just...honest. defeated. tired.

gojo's entire world narrows to the space between you. the space that, for once, isn’t shrinking.

he doesn’t understand it yet—not fully—but the panic starts to rise. because his girl, his perfect girl, his one-in-a-billion miracle who never asks for anything, who has stood beside him through missions and injuries and political bullshit and nightmares—you’re crying. right here. dressed like a goddess and shaking like a leaf. and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea how to fix it.

……

you make it up the stairs in silence. gojo unlocks the door like muscle memory, eyes on you the whole time, one hand still ready to catch your elbow, your waist, anything. just in case. just in case you fall. just in case you run.

you don’t do either. you step inside, and the door clicks closed behind you. the red dress is suffocating now. your shoes pinch like punishment. the golden light of your apartment feels wrong—too bright, too cozy. like you’re tainting it just by existing here, dressed like this, breaking like this.

“I'm sorry,” you say suddenly, too fast, too quiet. satoru blinks. you won’t look at him. "I know I'm being dramatic. I just—I just can’t do it anymore. I'm so tired.”

he’s next to you in a second, hands gentle but firm as he guides you to sit on the edge of the bed. kneels in front of you, big hands on your knees, eyes frantic behind his sunglasses. “talk to me,” he says softly. “please. tell me what’s wrong, baby. tell me what I can do.”

you shake your head. “it’s not you,” you whisper. “it’s me. I mean—god, that sounds stupid. I just—I can’t keep doing these things. the events. the meetings. the fake smiling and fake laughing. I know they’re important to you. I know I'm supposed to be...whatever I am to you. a partner. a face. something pretty on your arm.”

he flinches at that. you don’t notice.

"I keep trying to be enough. I keep thinking, maybe if I wear the right dress, or say the right thing, or pretend I'm not awkward and shy and fucking uncomfortable in my own skin—maybe I'll feel like I deserve to be there. next to you. with you.”

his voice is soft, low, trembling. “you do deserve—”

"I don’t.” you don’t raise your voice. you don’t need to. the words come out like a knife’s edge. like a breath you’ve been holding for months. "I don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “I'm not pretty enough. I'm not confident. I'm not exciting or charming or strong. I'm not anything.” not anything compared to you, but you aren’t quite brave enough for that yet. or maybe you are and you’re worried he’s the one that’s not brave enough.

satoru’s hands tighten on your knees. “that’s—baby, that’s ridiculous. you’re—” he laughs, like it’s absurd, like it’s a joke. “you’re gorgeous. you’re funny and smart and—”

“I'm not, satoru.” the sound of his name stops him cold. you only ever call him that when something’s wrong. "I know you love me,” you say. “and I love you so, so much. but I feel like I'm waiting for the moment when you wake up one day and realize what everyone else already knows. that I'm not good enough for you. that I never was. that you deserve someone...better. someone funnier, someone prettier. someone who can actually handle this world you live in. someone more like you.”

and that’s it. that’s the line. the one thing you never should’ve said. the thing he’s been waiting—terrified—to hear. because he’s always known you’d leave him. not because you’d stop loving him. no. because you’d stop loving yourself. because you’d look in the mirror and only see the ways you think you fall short, and you’d believe them. because he’s spent every damn day of your relationship thanking the stars you even looked at him twice—and now you’re here, thinking he’s the one who’s out of your league.

like your love isn’t the first real thing he’s ever had. like he doesn’t spend every waking moment terrified he’ll mess it up.

the silence is heavy. you don’t look up. you can’t. because if you do, if you see the look on his face—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartbreak—you’ll crumble.

and you can’t fall apart now. you’re already too far gone.

satoru says nothing. for once, he says nothing.

you don't know what to do with that. you brace yourself for an argument, a denial, a joke—something. but the silence wraps around you like a blanket just a little too heavy. it's not punishing. it’s not cold. it's aching. and when he moves—when he stands and reaches for your wrists—it’s slow and reverent.

you flinch, just slightly. you think he’s going to hug you. you brace for it. and you think—don’t. please don’t. because if he hugs you now, you’ll crumble. you’ll drown in it. in how good it feels. how wrong it feels. how unearned.

but he doesn't pull you in. he turns you around. guides you across the room with hands light on your back. and before you know it, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, your red dress riding above your knees.

he’s still taller than you. even like this. and then—you freeze. because he starts taking out the pins in your hair. one by one. slow. delicate. like you’re made of spun glass. like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he pulls too hard.

it’s the most careful he’s ever been. you usually just claw them out with a groan, drag a comb through, and fall into bed. but satoru’s fingers are sure, gentle. reverent.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

then come the makeup wipes—cool against your cheeks, your lips, your lashes. he doesn’t scrub. he doesn’t rush. he just erases—soft and patient and tender. the face you wore tonight, the mask you built so carefully, peeled away in layers. one wipe. then another. then another.

and still, he says nothing. but there's a tiny smile growing on his lips. not amused. not teasing. content. because the woman on this counter—bare-faced, heavy-limbed, emotionally wrecked—is his. and that alone is enough to undo him. he finishes the last swipe, tosses the wipe into the trash, and sets both hands on either side of your thighs on the counter. close. steadying himself. like if he doesn't hold onto something, he might spin off the earth.

"I don’t know how deep this thing runs,” he says finally. quiet. low. barely above a whisper. “and I won’t pretend I can fix it in a night.” you blink. swallow. nod. “but I need you to hear this. really hear me.” his voice is steady. soft, but unshaking. “maybe there is someone out there who looks better on paper. someone more suited to the job. someone who would’ve made sense in a perfect little sorcerer marriage. someone the higher-ups would’ve picked for me. but the second I met you—” he breathes out through his nose, like it still stuns him, “—the second I met you, that version of me—the one who ends up with someone else—died.”

you blink hard. he presses on.

“you’re not my arm candy. you’re not my accessory. you’re not here to make me look good or fit into some mold. if that’s what I was meant to have…god, I never would’ve subjected you to that, to the whole performance of it. I'm so sorry that you’ve been feeling like that this whole time.” you exhale. shaky. but the tears slow.

“and yeah, I'm loud. I'm obnoxious. I'm exhausting. I was told my whole life that I was too much, and I believed it—until I met you. you never once made me feel like I was too much. you just...let me be. let me love you.” you nod. tiny. barely.

“and now you’re the one who thinks you’re not enough, and I swear to you—on my life, on everything I am—you are. you are. maybe we’re both a mess, but if that’s true, then we’re the only kind of mess I want to be. you and me. no masks. no roles. just us.”

and finally, finally, your tears stop. you breathe in, and it lands. it sinks in like rain into dry soil. like something alive. something healing. you slide off the counter. unzip your dress, slow. you grab an oversized shirt from the drawer. toss it on. you pull out a pair of sweatpants and hand them to him without a word.

he changes, quietly, mirroring you. and then you both sit. on the bed. cross-legged. until you climb into his lap like it’s instinct. like your body knows where it belongs. your fingers trace the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, his lips. and you look at him like he is holy. like you’re not worthy—but you want to be. and gojo—satoru—melts.

he’s not the strongest sorcerer in the world. he’s not special. not here. not in this room. not with you looking at him like that. he’s just yours. yours. yours.

you breathe, trembling. “I'm sorry.” he opens his mouth. you keep going. “I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know that’s the thing you hate hearing. I know it’s what they’ve always told you. that you’re too much, too strong, too untouchable, and I used it against you, even if I didn’t mean to. I just—i didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I love you so much I—”

“hey,” he whispers, hand sliding up your back. “hey.” you stop.

"I get it. I do.” his hand moves in slow circles. "I know what it’s like. to feel like you’re not enough. I know exactly what that voice in your head sounds like. I hear it every time I look in the mirror.” you press your forehead against his. he kisses the corner of your mouth. “maybe we’re not perfect,” he says. “but I know we’re enough. enough for ourselves, and enough for each other. and I've never asked you to be enough, I just want you to be with me. that is enough.”

you nod. you don’t trust your voice. you curl into him. let the rhythm of his breath soothe you. let his fingers write love letters into your spine. and then—through the snot and salt and stifled giggle—you whisper: “is this our first fight?”

satoru groans dramatically. "I hope not. if it is, we’re already terrible at it.” you snort. he grins. “but,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “it damn well better be our last.”

satoru is not stupid enough to think that this is solved, that he's perfectly put you back together and that you'll never feel another insecurity ever again. if you were at a point this low, in which you thought he was something to deserve, and even worse that you somehow didn't...that's not something that will be magically changed by a couple of compliments in one evening.

but that doesn't change the fact that he's trying, and that he'll continue to try. to make you see yourself in the way that you see him, in the way that he sees you. perfect, beautiful, everything all at once.

……

the next morning is…normal. which is to say, it’s perfect.

you wake up tangled in limbs, mouth dry, vision blurry, and feet sore. gojo’s hair is a catastrophe. your shirt is on backwards. neither of you cares. he kisses your nose and groans, “babe, I love you, but if you don’t get off my arm in the next ten seconds I will have to gnaw it off like a wild animal.”

you snort. “aren’t you into the wild animal thing?”

he grins like it’s the cleverest thing he’s ever heard, even though it’s so, so stupid and probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said. “down, girl.”

it’s the same routine. brush teeth together, jostling elbows. you steal his shirt. he steals your breakfast. he fake-gasps like it’s a betrayal. you threaten his life. he says, “as long as it’s in your arms, baby.”

there's a little weight there, that wasn't yesterday morning. you both carry it on your shoulders, but at least you're not carrying it on your own anymore, satoru thinks. he's more than happy to carry it with you.

you drive together. park crookedly. link pinkies the whole walk into the school. take your usual spot on the bench by the vending machine. except now—it’s not just routine. it’s not autopilot. every moment feels intentional. you do everything together, but now you feel it.

every sip of shared coffee. every brush of fingers. every sideways glance in a too-long meeting. every dumb joke from yuji that makes you laugh just a little too loud.

and speaking of which—yuji stares at the two of you from across the courtyard as you sit on a bench, sharing a smoothie like that’s a completely normal thing for two fully grown adults to do. yuta, nobara, and megumi watch too, with something more akin to disgust.

yuta squints. tilts his head. “hey, do they ever fight?”

megumi sighs like he’s aged thirty years. “don’t ask.”

"I mean, they must fight. but they’re like, weirdly in sync about it. maybe they fight in their minds. like telepathically. like—maybe they’re fighting right now,” yuji says animatedly.

nobara socks him in the ribs. “shut up, rom-com boy. some of us are trying to enjoy the one healthy relationship in this entire war-torn hellscape.”

yuji wheezes. “oof. I'm just saying—they make fighting look like flirting.”

"that's because they probably are flirting, you dumbass. gojo finally got a girl and he's never gonna stop talking her up," megumi says, because he knows way too much about your relationship. gojo tells him much more than he'd ever like to hear.

gojo, across the yard, sticks his tongue out and flashes a peace sign without even turning around. you don’t even notice. just sip the smoothie again. business as usual.

gojo doesn’t show up to any major events with you for a while. he goes alone sometimes—just enough to keep the higher-ups off his back—but even then, he’s ghost-like. there. visible. but untouchable.

the public misses his usual flare. the loud suits. the outrageous jokes. the smug charm.

he saves all that for you, now. and then—one day—he brings you. you don’t dress up. you don’t pile on the makeup or style your hair into something that takes three rounds of heat damage and an exorcism to hold. you just throw on the linen sundress he always stares at a little too long. (it’s the one he once called “a religious experience.” you told him to shut up. he told you it was too late, he’d already ascended.)

your hair is down. soft. natural. windswept from the drive. you slapped on some makeup at 6:00 a.m. that morning and didn’t bother touching it up. and to him—you look like a dream. not the kind that fades when you wake up. the kind that follows you. that clings. that changes you.

you don’t talk to any of the council members. you don’t need to. you talk to him. you talk to the students. you let ino talk your ear off about his promotion, and you smile like you mean it—because you do. you’re proud of him. you’re present. you’re glowing.

and the council members do look your way. they glance, whisper, measure. but gojo doesn’t even let it start. one look from him—one icy flash of his eyes, a fraction of his power slipping out like a cold wind—and the room resets. no one says a word. you are not a weakness. you are not a mistake. you are not a prop on his arm. you are the axis his world spins around. you laugh at something he says—head tilted back, unguarded, radiant—and he thinks: I could give her the world. every inch of it. and still want to give her more. because you’re happy. you’re not grinning for the crowd, not posing for a photo. you’re happy. and that is more than enough.

dividers by @cafekitsune

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sweetsbelcva · 22 hours ago

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Castle Crumbling | Jack Abbot x Reader

⟡ He seems to know you better than anyone. A bloody nose and a quiet moment get him talking more than he wants to and feels the wall crumbling.

— fem!reader. No body/appearance descriptions. Age gap (20s and 40s). Reader is a resident and Jack the attending. Mentions of blood. Moments before a mass casualty event. Grumpy x Sunshine kind of.

a/n: This will have more parts because i want to explore this dynamic and i have more ideas but feel free to request and join the conversation!

Jack has never met someone that keeps him on the edge. Never. Veteran, an attending physician, and famous for his stoic face. There's no way you're breaking him.

"Hey, give me a break alright?" you say, sarcastic tone on each of your words.

Jack lets out a scoff that seemed a little too amused, arms crossing over his chest at your request. He looked at you like he was about to tell you to suck it up and get back in the ring.

"A break?" he asked, but his tone was softer than usual. Not exactly concerned,because this was you, after all. But still. "You okay?," his eyes lingered on your face for a moment too long. "You look like hell."

"I know, thank you!" You chuckle, getting ready to go stand close to the pink zone with Mel. Looking around the ER everyone looked tired until a second ago, a mass casualty coming in.

"Where do you think you are going?" he asked dryly, stopping you in your tracks with a firm hand on your shoulder although it was obvious it was a command. He looks for your gaze, you do look like hell.

He didn't even need to tell you why. You already knew exactly why he was pulling you back. He knew you hated being treated like a kid, but there was a slight look of worry on his face. He knows you, maybe too much already.

"But- Dr. Robby said..."

"I don't care what Robby said." the grip on your wrist tightening a little bit as he pulled you closer by his side. He had an annoyingly good way of making you feel so small, basically wrapping you up in his palm.

"You go to the sidelines" Or with me, his mind finished, but he didn't dare say it out loud. "Until you feel better" his eyes scan your face.

"Mel needs help," you say, knowing any excuse that i give him isn't enough.

Goddammit. He heard your excuse, rolling his eyes again. He was so tired of the constant power struggle between the two of you. You were relentless when it came to trying to defy him. He had an urge to just throw you over his shoulder and put you in the break room just so you wouldn't get into any trouble.

"You are my resident." He argued. "That means you listen to what i say."

You look at him, his gaze is heavy on you. Looking for any sign on his face. Her reminds professional, but also controlling.

"Alright," you say, hiding the smile that was coming off your lips. It falls as a smirk. "I’ll do what you say, fine"

He caught your smirk for a flash, raising an eyebrow as he noticed you trying to hide it. But he said nothing about it, letting his hand slowly drop from your wrist.

"Good" he said simply, returning to rearrange his go-bag with a few practical kits. But before you could run free again, he caught the slight frown on your face "Come with me."

You nod, following him. At the center of the pitt Dana is yelling the first ambulances will arrive in exactly five minutes.

Jack gave one last look around the entire pitt before he started walking, keeping a close watch on you to make sure you were following.He lead you to a spot in the hallway with an empty gurney, resting his left hand on the bed as he gestured for you to sit.

"Sit there" he said dryly, disappearing into a small supply closet before he pulled out a pack of gauzes.

"What?" you ask, sitting down. Then you see him disappear but a strange ring in your ears comes, blood running down your nose. You see him come out of the supply closet. It’s like he knew.

You place your fingers on the bridge of your nose, pinching softly and lean your head back. "How did you know?"

Jack rolled his eyes again at your shocked and confused face, letting out a soft scoff as he walked towards you— stopping right in front of you.

"i know you more than you think, smartass." He confesses. He gently, but firmly, grasped your chin between his fingers. "Let me see."

You gasp at his touch, the blush in your face doesn’t go unnoticed.

"It's fine" you say, letting him take care of you. Your heart beats so fast you’re scared he will listen. Your blood soaked hand hanging in the air.

Jack lets out a soft grunt as he took your hand in his. He always seemed so stoic and expressionless to everyone else, but he he was actually a huge softie when it came to you. In his head, at least.

Jack started to clean up the blood with a gauze, soft touches, making sure to clean you up without hurting you unnecessarily.

"I told you not to overexert yourself"

"Seriously, how did you see this coming?"

"I have my eye on you all the time." he said bluntly, throwing away the soaked gauze in his hand. He gently held your chin again, tilting your head towards him to properly look up your nose. He had a serious yet focused look on his face he was more concerned than he let on.

"I'm fine, Dr. Abbot" you say, it comes out more unsettling, your feelings bubbling up inside you. You can't help but smile softly at the fact he has his eye on you.

Secretly, he’s enjoying looking after you, care touches and his controlling demeanor.

"The hell you aren't, smartass" Jack said, scoffing softly as he leaned in closer and he started to help plug up your nose, pausing to look at you again.

"Well, you are a smartass too"

"Sure" he shrugs, his touch leaving your skin. Already missing the contact. "It helps me to do my job, but somehow you always seem to disarm me"

There was an amused look on your face as he secured the gauze properly in your nose. The bleeding would stop soon and you'd be able to go back to work.

You froze once he spoke, raising an eyebrow at his confession. Disarm?

"Is it because we argue?" you ask, your tone shy now.

"Oh please," he said dryly, his attention now directed back to you. He couldn't ignore the way his breath caught up on his throat as he looked at you. "Everyone knows you have some sort of way to get under my skin"

"Oh... But it's fun" you say, shrugging your shoulders.

"Fun?" his face not changing from the usual dry look. He was used to everyone looking at him with respect, never daring to push his buttons. But you did.

"Thank you... by the way"

You fall into a silence, a comfortable one. While you admire his features and he turns away, grunting and looking around the ER.

Jack places his palms against the gurney, and each arm around you almost cages you in. The sound of the ambulances and people already running out to help gets him out off his trance. He grunts again, getting up to stand tall again and not looking at you. He had said some things to you... It was better not to speak again unless its work related.

"Let’s go save some lives, Dr. Abbot" you break the silence again. Ignoring the pang in your chest as he pulls away from your body.

He knew you were right, it definitely wasn't the time to be distracted by you. He'd be an idiot to say that you weren't distracting, but he had to focus on work right now—not whatever it was that was going on between the two of you.

⟡ If you like it please reblog and comment. If you want more you can request!

⟡ dividers by cafekitsune / gif by patrick-stewart

#jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x y/n #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x f!reader #jack abbot x fem!reader #the pitt x you #the pitt x reader

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