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drchucktingle · 4 months

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my masks

hey there buckaroos. due to all of the attention the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION situation has gotten i am going to take a minute to talk about my personal way as an autistic buckaroo. im going to tell you about my masks.

im doing this for a few reasons, some are good FUN reasons full of love and some are not so great.

lets start with the GOOD STUFF. first of all, i am talking about this because speaking on my way can help other buckaroo feel more comfortable speaking on there own way, ESPECIALLY if they are good at ‘passing’ for neurotypical like chuck is.

unfortunately the NOT SO GREAT reasons im talking about all this dang stuff are two fold. reason one: i have been put into a position of having to explain and justify my needs and boundaries by the TXLA. this is not something that i WANT to be taking up all of my time, but when large organizations do not make space for those who they have pledged to support, it puts us smaller buckaroos into position where were have to defend our existence. it is not plesent but it is necessary.

the second NOT SO GREAT reason is that ‘passing’ bisexual and autistic people like myself are ALWAYS just seconds from being gatekept from folks both outside and inside these communities. there will probably be a day on chucks deathbed where i take off my mask and say hello to this timeline (mostly so you can all see how handsome i am under here but I DIGRESS). i KNOW with absolute certainty (the same way other bi and autistic buckaroos are probably nodding along right now) that when that day comes i will STILL be accused of ‘not being real’ and ‘faking’ because i ‘dont look autistic’ and i have a beautiful ladybuck partner in sweet barbara.

ALL THAT IS TO SAY, i am taking a moment today to talk FOR THE RECORD about my neurodigence and my particular needs. hopefully i will not have to keep diving this deep every time an organization takes a discrimantory action against me, but i will also say this: at least it is a good fight on an important battlefield

anyway buds, here is the story of my way on the spectrum

when i was a young buckaroo i knew that my thought process was different. i could socialize easily, which is unique in contrast to many autistic buds (it is a spectrum after all), but my social ease was for an interesting reason. I ALWAYS KNEW WHAT OTHERS WERE ABOUT TO SAY. it was like a strange ‘human game’ where someone would say one thing and i would think ‘well you actually mean something else’ in a sort of logical way (this is why i later related to DATA from star trek so dang much). at first i remember thinking ‘well i am just NOT going to play along with this human game’. i quickly learned neurotypical buckaroos do not like this, that there is a BOB AND WEAVE to social interactions that must be learned.

later i realized ‘actually if i WANT to make friends and prove love is real then i can do this like an expert because i can SEE the game where most cant’. this got chuck many buds and took me on many adventures. please understand, i am not saying these connections are not important to me, they are just different. they are full of love, but i express this in my own unique way.

HOWEVER, while growing up i felt disconnected from this timeline in other ways, like an alien or a reverse twin trotting along in a world that is not quite my own. i did not feel emotions the same way my buds did. they would get upset over the ‘human game’ interactions and i would not be moved at all, HOWEVER i could see the way sunlight hit a window and start crying my dang eyes out over the beauty. so my emotion was still there and VERY STRONG, i just felt it in more existential ways (like hearing the call of the lonesome train). these days that feeling has progressed to where i am pretty much in a constant blissed out state of cosmic emotional connection (make of that last sentence what you will, but it is the truth). when i make existential posts online i am not just FIRING OFF SOME CONTENT, i really mean every word. this is really my trot.

anyway as a young buckaroo these feelings made me worry sometimes. i thought about various mental health dianosises and marked the parts and pieces that matched with myself. am i this? am i that? sometimes, instead of just being’ different’ i worried i might actually be ‘wrong’.

when i saw david byrne on letterman in my younger days i immediately recognized something connected to myself. i thought ‘wow this is the mystery being solved before my very eyes.’ i could hear it in the music of talking heads too. i started doing research and realized that i might be on autism spectrum, something that was later confirmed by a therapist (back then the diagnosis was called asperger's). it was a glorious and fulfilling moment. i was SO EXCITED TO BE AUTISTIC LIKE MY HERO. i felt very cool because of it, and i still feel very cool because of it.

one of the big reasons i talk so much about being autistic these days is because i want to make sure OTHER buckaroos can have that same moment that i did. they can see chuck and think ‘wow i really like this autistic artist, maybe being autistic is cool’

so what does an average day WITHOUT wearing the pink bag look like for me?

my thought process is exactly like ROSE from CAMP DAMASCUS, which is part of why i wrote the book. we have the same stim (complex order of finger taps), we prepare for social interactions the same way, we analyze things in the same logical trot that neurotypical people might think feels ‘detached’ but for me feels natural (certain reviews of camp damascus are very funny to me in this way. you can tell when a reader is just very confused by existing in an autistic brain for 250 pages.)

from the outside you would not be able to tell that i am on the spectrum. in fact you would probably find me very socially adept.

the problem is, all of that masking can take its toll. i spent years trotting in and out the emergency room, talking to confused doctors who could not figure out the chronic phantom tension and pain that radiated through my body. i eventually accepted the fact that i would either live a life constantly on heavy painkillers or just stop living altogether.

eventually, however, i started noticing a correlation between the way that i felt, and the space that i allowed for chuck and the pink mask. i was exercising that tension, allowing my mental mask of neurotypical existence to take a rest. i started practicing physical therapy and this time THE RESULTS STUCK because i was approaching from two sides, MIND AND BODY. after a while, i got my pain down to about 5 percent of what it once was. i still have flare ups in times of stress, but the healing has been very real and life changing.

lets get VERY specific now. if i attended the TXLA confrence without a mask and gave my talk i can tell you this: i would do a dang good job. i can work the heck out of a crowd and (not to reveal too much about my secret way) I HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO DO THIS ON OCCASION VERY WELL. however, going home from this event i would very likely be in pain. i would likely need to do physical therapy. i would likely need to stim for a while. i would NOT be emotionally fullfilled in the same way. in other words, without my pink mask i can charm the heck out of buckaroos, but THE SPACE OF CHUCK TINGLE IS NOT THE SPACE FOR THAT. the pink bag is a place for me to not have to put up with that tension. it is a place for me to unmask mentally by masking physically.

this pink bag space SAVED MY LIFE and i am not going to risk blurring these lines. if and when that ever happens it will be MY decision, not someone elses. that is my boundary. the part of me that neurotypically masks could handle a library conference in a purely technical sense, but the part of me that chuck represents absolutely cannot and should not be asked to do that without the pink bag. unfortunately, the complexity of this point makes it even MORE difficult for me to think about and takes up even more of my time, because it forces me to START QUESTIONING MYSELF and my own needs. to be honest, that is the most insidious part of other people questioning your identify and refusing to accept your accommodation needs without ‘proof’.

the thing is, while all of this discussion of disability and accessibility is important, i have a much larger point to make by writing these words.

a conference should not uninvite someone with an unusual physical presentation or a strange way of speaking REGARDLESS of it being classified as a disability. it does not matter WHY i look the way that i look and wear what i wear. i should not have to spend all day writing this post instead of writing my next book, just because my sensibilities are unique and my presentation is unusual.

fortunately the solution is very simple: let other people be themselves. its not hurting you to simply accept and nod at the buckaroos you think look strange. let us exist

#actually autistic #chuck tingle #tingleverse #buckaroo lifestyle

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melonn-soda · 9 days

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❝GIDDY UP & GO!!... ❞

word count: 3.3k

warnings: subbot! male reader, domtop! boothill, genitals are not explicitly mentioned, grinding, no actual penetration, unnecessary descriptions how much there is of spit (sorry if ur not into that), predator/prey if u squint, nd gunplay if u squint really really hard (is implied), lots of pentnames, praise, save a horse ride a cowboy but I change a factor, cowboy hat rule because RRGHGHGRHRGHHGHGHG

prompt: boothill has made it his life mission to cash in the money he gets when he lands you behind bars. however, when it becomes apparent as to why you let him pursue you, he begins to chase you for an entirely different reason

notes: lost 50/50 to yanqing (he's still my kid nd I love him regardless YANQING HATERS LEAVE!!!!) when wishing for aventurine. now I'm pulling for boothill if I don't get my little gambler (if Sunday is playable and better than boothill then im sorry to my fav cowboy yeehaw) not beta read

fem aligned dni

“Oh, my.”

Boothill hates your guts. That’s a given.

He hates the way you carry yourself, the sly remarks you’ll make if you spot even one hint of insecurity, the slight draw on certain syllables to give a mocking tone- you, in general. Although he’s more on the bothering side than the bothered, you’re just so much more annoying than he thought even possible. Guess that’s why you’re known as a high-end bandit.

He’s been on your tail for weeks, chasing any leads (a lot of them, like you wanted the chase) he could get his hands on. He’s even seen you slinking around taverns, poker tables, run-down hotels- for fucks’ sake, even on horseback racing down a dirt path while attempting to rob a moving train. To feel the satisfaction of seeing the credits Boothill would obtain after putting you behind bars is all he wants to experience because this is just getting ridiculous.

So, why the hell now, is he bound up to the ceiling with chains thicker than his own ankle after finding your base?

The amused smile finds its way upon your lips and Boothill wants to do nothing more than to kick it right off. You were in a vulnerable position before he decided to sneak in, with your chair tipped as your feet were kicked up on a busted wooden table, a bandana resting over your eyes to block out the sunlight that dared to drift into the room. Boothill made the dumbest mistake by alerting you of his presence through triggering a well hidden trip-wire. Perking you up, you began to rise from your seat, swiftly removing the bandana from your eyes and fingers instinctively on the handle of your revolver that sat on the gun holster strapped to your thigh. The trap triggered so fast, Boothill’s sensors barely had time to react to it before the ‘snap!’s and ‘crack!’s echoed throughout the room and he was pressed against the ceiling within seconds.

Sharp glares were stabbing through your form as your hand rested on your hip as you whistled, looking up at the ranger in slight surprise and smugness. Aeons, he hated you.

“Wow, such a reckless move to jus’ prance yer way in here, no? Hey, aren't cha a Galaxy Ranger or somethin’?” You tease, swiveling your chair so that you could sit backwards on it, crossing your arms atop of the back rest so you could rest your chin on your forearms, “Surely, ya coulda suspected that I woulda set up a trap. But why waste all yer precious time on someone as measly as me? I ain’t nothin’ but a lil’ ol’ bandit.”

“You better seal yer pretty lil’ lips, doll.” Boothill hisses at you, his voicebank glitching to censor the words he so desperately wanted to say, “My bullets don’t take too kindly to sweet talkers n’ foxes.”

A laugh echoes throughout the falling apart structure then settles into a hum as you stand up and kick the chair against the wall, “Ya sure like to talk big. Kinda fits ya, though.” The chair slams right under Boothill and you slowly make your way towards it, the clinking of spurs on your boots highlighting every step you take.

Looking up at the suspended robot, your left foot raises and rests on the seat, leaning in to provoke the cyborg even further, “It’s kinda cute how ya keep pursuin’ me despite all these failed attempts. How ‘bout I give ya more of a reason to keep chasin’ me than only doin’ it for jus’ the credits?”

Boothill’s eyebrows creased in suspicion as your hand raises up to his face, contemplating just biting your fingers straight off until he hears the click of the safety and a metal barrel against the human skin of his jaw. His teeth clench in anger as you nearly laugh at his compliance, reaching above his head and snatching his hat right off.

Oh, he was going to kill you for sure-

The hat plops onto your head and you wink at him while sticking your tongue out.

What.

There wasn’t-

There was no way.

“Catch me if ya can, cowboy.” You say dismissively, briskly turning around and walking out of the rundown hideout. However, before you could get out of his line of sight, your head turned to face him and you said, “I’ll be waitin’. As always.”

Dumbfounded and a half an hour later collapsed on the floor from the wooden boards snapping- which loosened the chains, he replays that minute over and over again. He didn’t want to believe that had actually happened but his memory told him otherwise.

There was no way that you...

Whatever. He’ll think about it later. He needs to get his damn hat back.

The first time Boothill finds you, it’s in a more forest-y area. You’re on your trusty steed, talking to some other criminals with little interest. The cowboy watches the interaction, paying special attention to your reactions to see if you’ve noticed his presence. From what he could tell, you didn’t seem to see that he was watching while using the shrubbery to cover him and the horse he was on. The people you were talking to he recognized from some wanted posters, only worth some credits. Not as much as your bounty, though.

...

...You’re still wearing his hat.

“Look, partner,” Your voice dips into an exhausted, low, sigh, “I need that shipment as soon as possible, ya hear? I ain’t got too much time left before she’s reached her time. Ion care how ya get it, I need it in at least a week! Otherwise she’ll get real snappy and I’m gonna hafta put some lead in some poor person's head.”

One of the bandits flashes a worried look to another, “Boss, ya don’t understand! The Xianshou Luofu’s been havin’ sum sorta delay! We ain’t gonna get those packages ‘til some long period of time!”

Boothill’s interest peaks as you begin to snap, “Did ya not hear me? I said, ‘Ion care how ya get them!’ Find a way! Talk to that Trailblazer everyone’s been praisin’ about or somethin’! Jus’ get me my stuff before ‘m gonna start blowin’ some brains out-”

A rustle causes you to pause your sentence as you draw your weapon immediately, the barrel facing his direction and bullets fly. Boothill’s horse had begun to munch on the bush, which gave away his position, but thankfully he moved quick enough to get out of the way.

You decided to book it when you caught sight of the familiar white and black hair, spurs hitting the sides of your horse as you begin to get out of the area to leave nothing but a trail of dust. Boothill doesn’t hesitate to race after you, whipping the reins of his horse to get her going.

Branches and twigs tug at Boothill’s hair as he chases you through the forest, lowering his torso so that he could lessen the wind resistance as his horse’s hooves slam against the ground. You’re quite the distance away, mostly because your horse is pretty speedy. It’s how you get away from crime scenes so fast. However, Nellie, the horse Boothill is riding currently, is also quite fast.

Although, not fast enough because in the end, he still loses you.

The curses he spits all get censored immediately as he slows into a stop, head turning in every direction to see if you left any trail behind. Only to see none. Didn’t expect as much from a skilled criminal.

The second time he spots you is in the tavern, playing a game of poker with people that had their pockets stuffed full of cash. ‘Rich folk,’ Boothill grimaces as he could see them tilt their chin up like the world owes them something. If you rob them, he won’t feel even a sliver of remorse.

He knows that you can see him as he leans against the wall to watch the match, some of the rich getting intensively frustrated as they begin to fold after betting so high. Judging by the scheming smile on your face, he could tell you have a winning hand. Then again, when are you never smiling like you have something up your sleeve?

Finally, in the showdown, you and the person you’re going up against reveal your cards and you win with a four of a kind. Lucky.

The people at the table groan and push their chips in your direction, getting up to leave as their attitudes have just been soured over that singular match. Boothill takes the opportunity to walk over to you and remove the gun from his holster and press it right up against your lower back, hand coming up to snatch his hat that rests atop your head.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

A window shatters behind him and he could hear flames begin to roar but he doesn’t dare tear his eyes away from you. Only when he feels cold metal press against the nape of his neck does his actions falter and his eyes turn to face whoever decided to draw their weapon.

He blinks in shock to see a figure completely made of water, his gaze returning to you and seeing you sitting on the edge of the table with your gun pressed against his forehead. Shit. He’s lost again.

The tavern completely surrenders to the flames as people scream at the sight of fire, swallowing up the alcohol and wood. Boothill can hear his fans whirring to prevent himself from overheating but the attempt is futile as the room begins to get unbearably hot. He’s not sure if it’s just the fire that’s causing him to overheat or it’s because you look insanely good with all this red and orange light.

...

What is he even thinking right now?

“Y’know, it’s gettin’ real fun toyin’ with ya, cowboy.” You speak, completely unbothered by all the heat in the building. He can’t even see a single drop of sweat on your face. Even so, you continue, “But I think ya can do a little better than this.”

The ranger’s lips purse in offense, glaring at you as best as he could. The gun you had pointed lazily at his forehead falls to the floor and Boothill isn’t sure how long he can last in this heat. Before his system could finally shut down because of overheating, he could feel your lips press against the area where your gun was pressed up against. Then, he falls over as his system forcibly turns him off.

The third time Boothill sees you, he’s lying on a metal workbench with cold water floating above him and fans blowing in his direction. He’s confused, obviously, and on his toes as he realizes he’s not in an area he’s not familiar with. He attempts to sit up to find a way to escape only to realize that he can’t move his arm. Now, he’s terrified.

“Relax, cowboy.” Your voice coos from behind a computer, typing away at something as you're taking a tip from a glass. Presumably water. “I’m cooling ya off. You’re welcome... You should be able to move now.”

Boothill shoots up from his spot and rips off the cables that are attached to his left arm, head darting around to look for his gun. He hears a click and once again finds himself with a gun pressed up against his jaw.

“Lookin’ for this?”

The crosshair that replaces his once human pupils flit over to your direction, noticing that you were holding his revolver in your dominant hand. Boothill swears that you must like pointing a barrel in his direction for how many times this has been done. He also sees that you’re wearing his very cropped jacket over your usual attire. ... And you’re still wearing his hat.

“That’s mine, pretty boy.” The ranger gives you a half-assed growl as his censor kicks in once more, already getting annoyed at your sly behaviour, “Ya really got a knack for takin’ stuff that’s not yours, huh? No wonder yer a criminal.”

You giggle at his words, tossing his gun on the metal workbench, “It’s not loaded, neither is your little gun hand.” You tell him, like he was going to start unloading mags into your skin. Turning around, you walk back to your computer and open up a drawer on the desk it sits on, “Well?” You ask after a momentary silence, leaning on one of your legs as you crack open a bottle of whiskey and begin to pour it into your empty glass.

“‘Well’, what?” Boothill narrows his eyes at you, picking up his revolver and shoving it back into his thigh holster. He’ll just have to go to the nearest mechant and buy more bullets.

“Ain’t ya gonna, I don’t know, take yer hat back?” You ask him, taking a sip of the alcohol that gives a slight burn down your throat, “We’re in an enclosed space, barely any room t’move around, exit’s right behind ya ‘n all. Perfect chance t’arrest me, if I dare so say m’self.”

He blinks. There’s got to be some sort of trap if the setup is this perfect. He’s not going to make the same mistake he did before, not again. So, his sensors scan the room quickly, which leaves you unamused, and he sees that there are in fact no traps in this room. Boothill almost doesn’t want to believe it.

“Are ya playin’ some sort of game with me?” Boothill’s eyes begin to squint in suspicion, carefully trying to think of a situation you might pull that puts him on the losing end of the stick, “Yer jus’ gonna let yourself get arrested? Jus’ like that?”

“What? Ya don’t wanna do it? Too scared?” You taunt him again, causing the cowboy’s circuits to boil in animosity.

“Ya know what?” Boothill smiles a tense one, taking long, menacing steps in your direction, “I’ve ‘bout had it with your attitude, pretty boy. Seems like ya didn’t have anybody ta teach ya proper manners.” All of a sudden, you felt yourself being slammed up against the wall behind you with a grunt, Boothill’s right hand keeping your wrists together and his left hand tilting your chin up to look at him, his eyes glowing a dangerous red, “I mean, after that stunt ya pulled in yer lil’ base, it seems like ya wanna be caught by me.”

“Hah.. guilty as charged.” You laugh, attempting to keep your smooth facade up, only for it to crack once you could feel his metal knee nudge between your thighs. A whine rips through your throat as he keeps his knee still, not bothering to give you the pleasure you oh so wanted from the day you saw him.

“How ‘bout it, doll?” Boothill sneers at your pathetic expression, lips getting dangerously close to yours, “I can give ya a better punishment than jail could.”

One thing’s for sure: Boothill’s mechanical body does not have any built in... pleasure devices, he’s nearly as smooth as a doll. However, there is a slightly large bump on his pelvis in the shape of an oval that if you were to grind just right up against, you’ll-

“O-oh!”

Boothill’s lips curve up into a smirk as he sees you push down hard against his metallic form, trying to settle your trembles by wrapping your arms tightly around his neck to stabilize yourself. It’s cute, he thinks, seeing you all desperate for sexual relief. The way you hopelessly cling to him like he’s the last thing keeping you alive. He can’t believe he actually thought about putting you behind bars if getting you wrapped around his finger was this satisfying.

“How’s it feel, pretty boy?” Boothill whispers in your ear, causing a shiver to rack your spine as his grip adjusts to settle on your lower waist, pushing you even further against him, “Feel like yer gonna explode yet?”

Whimpering in response, your shaky fingertips grip onto his shoulders as your forehead now presses against his. Soft pants fill the room and Boothill can practically see the hearts in your eyes as your hips continue to move against his. You both still have your clothes on but this all still feels so intimate, probably better than actual penetration.

The ranger’s hand reaches up to tug his hat that still rests on your head, fixing it back from its tilted state, “Ya look like ya wanna kiss, doll.” He teases, bringing your chin closer to the point where your noses brushed up against one another.

“Pl-please..” You say breathily, gently tugging at his hair.

“Attaboy.” Boothill snickers in response, “Looks like yer finally learning.” His freakishly long tongue slithers past his lips as soon as they press against yours, slipping into your mouth as saliva begins to spill down your chin. Aeons, you’re just so cute.

Soft moans are swallowed up by Boothill’s greedy mouth, his thumb coming up to pull against your bottom lip before he pulls away and the only thing that connects your mouths is the thin trail of spit. His robotic thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing against your tongue as drool continues to spill down your pretty lips. He could get used to this.

He notices how much faster your hips move, calculating that you were close as whines and whimpers flood the room. The smile on Boothill’s face only widens even further, bumping his hips up to catch you off guard. He knows he succeeds when he hears a shaky squeak come from your mouth.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy? Ya gonna bust?” The ranger sneers, the thumb in your mouth shifting so he widens your lips by pushing at the sides, “Y’know, I could easily deny ya of that relief. Ya kinda deserve it for teasin’ me this whole time.”

You shake your head violently, already too close to be pulled away now. Boothill snickers in response, “No? What makes ya think you can tell me what to do?” A pleading look flashes across your features and Boothill has half the decency to make you beg for release. He decides to have mercy on you, though, “Mmmn, I mean, I guess ya have been pretty obedient. Go on and blow yer load f’me, pretty.”

With a shudder and a slight bite on Boothill’s metal thumb, your pants get soaked in your fluids, staining the fabric. Your hips jerk a couple of times to ride out your orgasm then you started slumping onto his chest in exhaustion. Boothill’s other hand rubs at your hip to soothe you, letting you rest in place to calm the trembles that still cause your body to twitch in overstimulation.

“Good boy.” He says softly, pulling his thumb out of your mouth, watching as it dripped since it was slick with your spit. Letting you catch your breath for a moment, he waits before he decides to ask, “So, what package were ya waitin’ for?”

“Baby stuff.” You sigh, face burying into Boothill’s neck, “My sister’s expecting ‘nd her wife’s been tellin’ me to get that stuff as soon as possible. The Luofu has been delaying their packages for a bit, somethin’ about shippin’ difficulties. Can’t believe ya’d remember something like that, though.”

The cowboy huffs in response, “Bein’ a cyborg’s got some perks. The only bad part is that ion got a dick to fuck ya with. Woulda been nice to see ya unable to walk for a few days.”

You sit up and give him a weird look, hands resting on his shoulders, “Ya do know strap-ons exist, right?” The way you said that made him feel much stupider, like you were pointing out the obvious to him.

“...Oh.” Boothill’s face flushes embarrassingly hot as his fans kick in once more.

Aeons, he hated you.

#x male reader #male reader #x bottom male reader #bottom male reader #hsr x male reader #hsr x reader #hsr boothill #boothill hsr #boothill honkai star rail #boothill x reader #boothill x male reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x male reader

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tenpintsof-sundrop · 1 month

Note

Hii !! From the smut prompts (stop rolling your eyes, I know Im predicatable!) could I request "Accidentally Sending Nudes", "Sexting" and... a secret third thing (the choice is yours, go hogwild) for Jason x Fat Fem Reader? I'm leaning more towards sub!reader but shes def a little shit about it :3

Thank you in advance if you write it !! 🌼

See, this is why it pays to send in a request with me, because even if I don't answer it right away, I keep requests in my inbox for months and come back to them later!!! (This is from December 2023)

(Also this request is just plain fun) (because Star knows exactly what buttons to push to get me lmao)

DC Titans Requests - OPEN

How would Jason react to you accidentally sending him a nude?

(Jason Todd x Fem!Thick!Reader)

Warnings: set specifically in the Titans!verse - set during season 3/mentions of season 3 plot points; spoilers for major plot points of Titans (including character deaths on the show); this is kind of enemies to lovers? (enemies to fwb, I guess); the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; the reader is described as being fat/plus sized; passing mentions of Gar x reader (I couldn't help myself); dubious consent - because of the nature of the trope, Jason sees the reader naked without her explicit consent, and he decides to keep the picture without her consent - but it does spark a consensual sexual relationship between them; passing mention of using nudes for blackmail (that does not happen); this isn't really proofread; (generally, I consider this post to be a fucking mess because it was written in Tumblr but I was still trying to have fun with it lmao.)

...

Jason is minding his own business when it happens.

(For once in life, he is fully, completely, minding his own business.)

He's back in Gotham and he hasn't seen you in months - and if asked, he would say that he hasn't thought about you. He doesn't have time to think about you because he's been too busy with this therapy bullshit, training, trying to get back his title of Robin. Trying to get back in the cape. (And trying to get back in Bruce's good graces.)

But that's not exactly true. He's thought about you a lot.

(Most of those times have been with his hand around his cock, but again - he won't admit that.)

There is an occasional time that you cross his mind and it's because he's wondering genuinely how you're doing - wondering if you're well, how your training is going, wondering if you're doing okay under the Dickhead's reign. But he can't ever pluck up the courage to text you and simply ask. Because that would be admitting that he cares, and that would make him look like a weak little prick.

And that's why he's so damn surprised when you text him first.

He hasn't heard from you since he left the Tower (well, since he stormed away from Donna's funeral in what you called a 'toddler fit' - something that ended in a rather vicious text argument between the two of you). In fact, the last thing in the text history between the two of you is you calling him a 'giant, petty, whiny baby who can't deal with his own emotions'.

(You had no clue what had happened between him and Rose, so that did inform a lot of your opinion on the matter.) (And that was probably the reason why Rose still had all of her teeth after you had seen her at the funeral.)

But all of that was aside from the point.

The point being - Jason found himself smiling when your contact name popped up on his phone.

He has you in his phone as 'Pretty Girl' - along with a contact picture of you sticking your tongue out at him in response to having his phone shoved in your face with the knowledge that he was taking a picture of you. (That tongue always makes him think certain things, so even though you intended for it to be some rude thing to ruin the picture, it makes it so much better for him.)

(1) new photo

That instantly catches Jason's attention.

Perhaps you were sending him a picture just to flip him off, or sending him a picture of a dumpster to ask him if it reminded him of home - a common joke you used to make when he still lived at the Tower.

Jason grabbed his phone and opened the message, expecting another tired joke, and-

Holy fuck.

The last thing he was expecting - your naked body. Your gorgeous naked body.

(He likely would have expected a nuclear blast or for the Joker to clean up his act and actually become a decent, sane citizen before he expected this to happen.)

Jason brought his phone closer to his face, making the picture full screen in order to examine it better - he needed to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating, or that this wasn't some weird dream. But fuck, he definitely wouldn't be able to dream up this.

You were so perfect - so fucking perfect in a way that was so very real.

The picture was a fucking stunning side profile of your body - rolling curves, lacy underwear that could clearly barely contain your impressive hips with sweet little stretch marks jutting out from the fabric (jagged little marks across the softness of your skin that made Jason want to act up) - soft fat for him to grab onto, and the perfect teardrop shape of your breast, now bared to his eye in a way that he had only dreamt of before. Something that he had stared at through the oversized tee shirts you wore to bed without a bra, just wondering what you looked like underneath.

And fuck, this was so much better than anything he could have dreamt up.

Jason's cock began to harden almost instantly, and laying in bed, he reached over to his nightstand for some lube, ready to milk that picture for all it was worth, when-

His phone buzzed again.

Pretty Girl: 'Delete that.'

Jason hadn't even considered that you had sent it to him by mistake. He had been far too busy enjoying to even consider the intention or the psychology behind it.

So, he took his hand off the waistband of his sweats and texted back the first thing that came to mind.

'No.'

(He didn't hear your annoyed growl on the other end, frustrated at his downright typical Jason behaviour.)

'It's not my fault you made a dumbass mistake. Besides, it's the least I get after all the nagging from you.'

Then, something else came to mind as the bubbles popped up, meaning you were busy formulating a reply - an annoyed one, no doubt.

'Who did you mean to send it to anyway? Who are you fucking whose name starts with J that's not me?'

(You hesitated.)

Pretty Girl: 'I didn't type in J.'

'???'

Pretty Girl: 'I typed in G. And it turns out the first contact that popped up was Giant Baby. That's you.'

Jason felt annoyed and insulted on all levels. The fact that you were going to Tiger Boy for dick instead of him, and the fact that you had used such a mocking contact name for him. But when he realised that such a pathetic string of events had caused him to accidentally see you naked, he couldn't be too upset.

'I'm still keeping the picture 😈'

Pretty Girl: 'You're such an asshole' Pretty Girl: ... Pretty Girl: 'You owe me one'

'Fine, I'll owe you one'

Jason shrugged it off, thinking he had won, until -

Pretty Girl: 'No, you owe me a cock.'

This made Jason's stomach jump. You couldn't possibly mean-?

Pretty Girl: ... Pretty Girl: 'You owe me a picture of your dick. You know - an eye for an eye type stuff.'

Jason wanted to ask questions - what did you plan to do with the picture? Should he shave his balls first? Did you want more than one?

But his cock got even harder at you asking for a picture, at you demanding to see his cock, and he couldn't properly think - he couldn't even reason that you might later blackmail him with the picture.

No, instead, he found himself ripping down his pants and turning on the bedside lamp for good lighting, pumping himself up to peak rigid hardness and grasping the base of his cock in hand. And then, without hesitation, he snapped a picture for you. He made sure to get his abs in the photo - a collection of his best assets, with his pants pulled down to mid-thigh, showing off his tight stomach, the deep V leading down to his dick, and his thick seven inch cock in hand surrounded by some well-kept dark pubic hair.

(He was proud of it - and that ego was one of the things that annoyed you most about him.)

He sent it without hesitation and then you began typing several times and stopped once again. Jason's stomach churned with nerves until -

Pretty Girl: 'Fuck you' Pretty Girl: 'I thought it would be smaller'

Jason had no clue how to respond to that, and he was busy racking his brain for some clever reply, when -

Oh. Oh fuck.

(1) new photo

You had sent him another picture. And this time it was definitely on purpose.

It was a view between the plump, beautiful thickness of your thighs - your hand was inside the pretty lace of those panties, and your fingers were visible working on your clit while your needy hole dripped wetness onto the fabric.

So you had liked what you had seen.

Pretty Girl: 'What would you do if you were here right now?'

Jason's brain short-circuited then. He thought of so many things - eating your pussy until you screamed, flipping you onto your stomach and fucking you until you begged him to stop, gripping onto those gorgeous thighs, pinning them to your chest and pounding into your cunt until you finally surrendered and said that you had liked him all along, fucking your smart little mouth to finally shut you up-

Pretty Girl: 'Come on, Jay. Don't disappoint me.'

Oh, he won't.

(Another thing Jason won't admit - he came back to the Tower just for you.)

...

DC Titans Masterlist

#star-mum #my lovely moots #requests #requested #sundrop writes #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x plus sized reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd smut #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #dc titans #titans #dc titans fanfiction #titans fanfiction #titans x reader

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moonstruckme · 2 months

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spencer reid holding hands 4 the first time : ( 've been rewatching cm and i miss my boy sm : (( you're most recent peter fic is so sweet btw im absolutely obssessed!!!!! love you bunches

Thank you sweetheart <3

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 665 words

You and Spencer have had a very…tentative beginning to your relationship. Normally, when you think of a first date, you’re worried about how much the other person expects. (Will they want to kiss you? Will they want more? What if you don’t want to? How do you say no without making it awkward?) With Spencer, there’s been none of that. You’re on date three, and he’s kept completely to himself the entire time. When you met up earlier in the week he’d let a hand hover near your elbow when you nearly tripped over a curb, but you’d barely felt the whisper of his skin against yours before he was putting it back in his pocket, the danger having passed.

You’ve always thought that you’d prefer to take things slow, and Spencer seems that way too, but now you’re itching for something more. Just something tangible to show that you like him, that he likes you too, that you’re not just going on these dates for no reason at all.

So, bold thing that you are, you let your hand hang in the empty space between you as you walk. An offering.

The first time Spencer’s knuckles brush across yours, knobby and skimming, he almost stops talking. He’s been saying something about Alexander Pope and Eliza Haywood (and you’re doing your best to follow along, honest), but he falters mid-sentence, his hand stuttering in its movement.

“And, uh, actually,” Spencer goes on, getting his verbal feet back under him, “it was only in the late twentieth century that her works started surfacing in academia…”

You nod along but don’t move your hand, letting Spencer’s graze past it again. This time, you lean into the touch, pushing your knuckles into his almost imperceptibly. And this time, Spencer’s hand doesn’t continue along its trajectory. He lets it rest alongside yours, your skin brushing up against each other’s with the movement of your walking. After a few seconds, his pinkie teases yours.

You bite back a smile, crooking your pinkie so it hooks around his. Spencer moves his hand, and for a second your heart drops, but he’s only bringing it to the inside of yours, interlacing your fingers loosely.

“Is this okay with you?” he asks, careful and to-the-point.

“Yeah.” You look up at him sheepishly, wriggling your fingers in his to get them closer. “I’ve been wanting to do this.��

“Me too,” Spencer says quietly. Your heart balloons until you’re sure it’s about to float off and take you with it.

His palm is rougher than you’d expected. Spencer comes off as such an academic, sometimes you can forget that he’s in the literal FBI. He handles guns and had to go through training, and you can feel it in the light scratch of his calluses against your palm. Slender fingers stretch over your knuckles, deft and capable. His touch sends a pleasant tingling all the way up from your hand into your buzzing brain.

“Sorry,” you say softly.

Spencer looks confused. His thumb runs the length of yours, a thoughtless movement or a soothing touch, it doesn’t matter. If he does it again, you’ll puddle down onto the pavement for sure.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks.

“I sort of interrupted you.”

A little smile teases the dimple in his cheek. “I don’t mind.”

You give his hand a gentle tug, feeling brazen. It cracks something open in him, and his smile comes out for real, the familiarity between you suddenly so natural.

“Tell me about Eliza Haywood,” you urge. “Did Pope just hate her because she was a woman?”

“That was definitely a big part of it,” Spencer allows, and his voice seems to go back into the conversation while his face stays somewhere else. He’s still wearing that smile, eyes squinted just slightly like he’s having some trouble figuring you out and it might be his new favorite game. “But also it had a lot to do with the perception of novels…”

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daniswoso · 4 months

Text

Short sight.

Leah Williamson x Reader.

Warnings: Angst, breakup, reader overthinking, reader breaks up with leah, online hate, overthinking, anxiety, self doubt.

Summary: In which you can’t see that you’re perfect for Leah like she says you are after a social media post gets negative attention.

*******

“Y/N, what the fuck are you on about?” Leah asked, incredulous. She couldn’t believe you were breaking up with her, she thought you were happy. She thought things between you were good! And better yet, she had allowed herself to actually fall in love again, to believe that she was allowed to be loved.

Well, that all went to shit, didn’t it?

“Leah, I’m sorry. I love you, you know I do. I just-“

“Just what, Y/N?!”

“I’m not right for you!” You finally snapped, tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked at her. She looked back at you as though she had been burned. It broke your heart more and more with every second longer you looked at the crease in her eyebrow deepen.

“Y/N, what? What do you mean ‘not right for you’?” She asked, her voice was softer than it was before, clearly she held some semblance of guilt for yelling.

“I’m sorry, Leah.” And with that you were out the door, your bag planted firmly on your shoulder.

She briefly considered chasing after you, but realised it was no use, you were already driving off in your BMW (A/N: im a bmw girl, sue me.) and leaving your relationship behind. But why?

She never did figure it out, not even a week later.

She had hardly left the house, much to chagrin of Katie and Beth who had been trying to make plans with her for the past 3 days. None of them knew, it’s not like Leah could tell them without there being a massive row, especially since Beth no matter how well she knew you from national teams, would always back Leah. And Katie… Well she bullied you enough on derby days, as you played for the blues of London, and Leah shuddered to think what she’d do to you if she actually had a valid reason to.

Meanwhile you weren’t much better off, having been crying in Sam Kerr’s lap for the past week. Which is where you still were now, Kristie rubbing your knee gently as you laid with your head in Sam’s lap.

“Sweetie, you never actually told us why you and Leah broke up.” Kristie pressed, tilting your head so you’d look at her. You sighed and sniffed, wiping your tears and lifting your head from Sam’s lap.

“There… We posted a picture. Of us at the beach. And it was a hard launch, I guess? She was kissing my cheek in it, all lovey dovey like.” You started, both of them silent showing support and patiently waiting for you to explain.

“And the comments were all just talking about how she could do better. I- I didn’t think much of it, y’know? Just thought it was another bellend on the internet, but then it was all the comments were filled with. I started to believe it.” You shrugged, picking at your nails, leaning forward. The two older women exchanged a worried look over your head.

“Y/N, Leah adored you. She wouldn’t have given you up for the world. And also she could never do better! You’re the best damn player on our team, minus me, and she’s lucky to ever have had you!” Sam insisted, her voice firm, but playful.

You chuckled, shaking your head.

“Maybe.”

Things with Leah were going much less smooth than they were going for you. She hadn’t left the house in days, skipping two training sessions in favour of wracking her brain desperately trying to find out what you meant.

Then it twigged. She found the post, scrolling through the comments.

“Oh, Y/N… You fucking idiot.” She breathed out, pressing her contacts list, finding your name and allowing her thumb to hover over the call button.

*******

A/N: Im evil, i know i know. BUT! p2? 👀

#woso #football #woso imagine #woso x reader #futbol #woso fanfics #writer is not english #footy #angst #futból #breakup #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson x y/n #leah williamson x you

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mangosrar · 5 months

Text

cerebral

matt sturniolo x fem reader

this isn’t proof read 😛😛

suggestive ???

i knew this would happen. it happened with the last guy i went on a date with, and the guy before that. they just werent him. it was such a horrible feeling to sit across from someone in a restaurant searching their face for a more familiar one, one that had memories etched into his smile lines, one that had a piece of you with him. but the feeling of having him, but not being abel to have him, wasnt much better.

it was hard, finding the middle ground between my ex and my best friend. we both promised that if we ever broke up nothing would change between us. but it did. i was more cautious of him. i picked my words carefully when they left my mouth. i studied his body language whenever i was close to him. he was like a ticking time bomb. he could be set off at any minute.

lazy footsteps could be heard before i saw matt pad his way into my living room before he plopped himself down next to me. he let himself in. of course he did. he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees before turning to look at me with a sad smile on his face.

"you okay?" his voice was hushed. like if he spoke too loud i might shatter. i just nodded with a gloomy smile on my face.

"so why do you look so sad y/n?" he knew me so well and i hated it. i couldnt differentiate wether he knew me so well because he was my bestfriend for so long, or if because he was the love of my life at one point.

"just the date. i dont think you wanna hear about it" i let out a sad laugh as i spoke. his eyebrows furrowed for a second before he replied.

"youre still my bestfriend y/n. just because youre my ex too doesn’t mean you cant tell me about the new guys" he sounded genuine. like he didnt care about the new guys. like he wasnt mad about them. but he should be. i wish he was. i wish he was repulsed at the thought of me ever being able to move on from him. but he wasnt. i kept my eyes trained to the ground. there was a heavy silence as he searched my face. i could feel his wandering eyes burning holes into me. like he could see straight into my brain.

"he called me cerebral matt" i paused, eyes still boring holes into the carpet beneath me. "i didnt even know what it meant" i raised my eyebrows and let out a huff of air through my nose. "would it have killed him to call me pretty instead?" i finally looked up at matt to see his eyes still on me. a look on his face that i couldnt decipher. i hated that he could see my walls crumbling.

"you are pretty y/n" he cooed, his voice so sickly sweet. matts hand moved onto my leg. rubbing slow circles with his thumb. i hated this. i hated that he could sit there and tell me this and not be mine. how could he promise to soften every edge and hold the world to its best when he was killing me.

"you cant say thing like this matt" i pushed his hand off my leg and just like that the walls were built back up again. his eyes dropped to his hand that was now slumped onto the sofa then back up to my face. he knew this was coming.

"why not?" he knew why. he just wanted to hear me say it. i paused momentarily. weighing up my options. deciding wether to say the real reason or to just leave it hanging in the air and say something that we both know is a lie. i didnt know where i stood with matt. he would treat me like in still his girlfriend in some ways, caring for me, being a shoulder for me to cry on and always being there to hold my hand when i needed him to, but he would drop it after a few seconds, leaving cold, heart shaped scars in his wake.

"because im still in love with you" tears were threatening to spill as i spoke. his face didnt move a fraction. he didnt even blink, just staring at me like he was deep in thought. this was old news for him and he probably could have beat me to it but atleast he was kind enough to let me say it. matt didnt even speak. he just kept staring at me as he brought a gantle hand up to the side of my face.

before i could even pull his hand off my face his lips were on mine. i didnt have the type of self control to pull away. i leaned into him, craving the closeness, luckily he got the hint and pulled me into his lap so i was straddling him and the kiss grew heavy, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth, his wandering hands grabbing and groping whatever skin he could. he moved his mouth off mine and began trailing wet kisses down my neck and jawline making my breath hitch and my eyes close.

he began sucking and biting the skin on the side of my neck making me while. my hands found home in his hair, tugging softly, earning a satisfied hum from matt before he spoke against me.

"lets just get back together mh?" i was so lost in the way his lips felt on my skin i didnt even register what he had said until a few seconds later. i immediately pulled his head away from me and stared at him with wide eyes.

"what?" surprise evident in the sound of my voice.

"i dont see what the problem is, we both still love each other and i hate seeing you go on dates with shitty guys so why not?" i couldnt even reply to him. i just stared at him with my wouth hung open. what the fuck.

"if you dont want to, ill stop, but if you do, just say the words and ill give you whatever you want." he sounded so sure.

"yes" that was all he needed before he smirked and brought his lips to mine again, kissing me, hot and heavy.

the kiss was sloppy and desperate, both of us urgent for a touch we craved so badly. he ground his hips up, pressing his hard on into my heat making me whine into his mouth. i felt him smile against my lips before he kissed down my chin and throat before licking a stripe up it, pulling a moan from me, causing my hips to stutter against his involuntarily.

make up sex is good for the soul.

pt 2 coming soon an it’s spicy 🤓

taglist: @christinarowie332 @biimpanicking @soursturniolo @freshlovehacker @urmyslxt @kitaysworld @kvtie444 @chrisenthusiast @flowerxbunnie @mattsd0ll @itsjennarose @hearttshapedkisses @lovingsturniolo

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vampykween · 6 months

Text

Second Chances (part 1)

i wanted to write about singledad!ghost x teacher!reader (which is so self indulgent as im a teacher hehe) and thus this was born summary: little poppy is simon riley's entire world and you've just had yours turned completely upside down. despite everything, it seems like everything falls into place when you're with each other. this is going to be a little series - i already have a few drabbles written and have l more ideas up my sleeve, but feel free to let me know all of yall's ideas too!! dedicated to @suimon since you love my dad!ghost so much hehe mwah

Simon is just short of pulling his hair out. He’s spent all morning wrestling with a five-year old who, last night was bouncing off the walls excited about her first day of school, but now is inconsolable and quite frankly working his last nerve.

“Poppy, love, please just get dressed. We don’t have all morning for you to mess about.”

Poppy shrugs her shoulders and blows a raspberry right in her father’s face. “Let me go, I’m not going to school,” the five-year old squirms in her father’s grasp, less than thrilled at the prospect of getting dressed for school.

Simon briefly considers whether he should invest any more energy into their morning battle or if he should just concede and let his daughter win this round. Despite her protests, he keeps his hold on Poppy and tries his best to calm her down enough to reason with her. Sometimes Simon couldn’t believe this was his life, he was tussling with his daughter about getting ready for school, when in a past life all he was ever worried about was backing his team throughout a mission. He used to be a trained killer now the only thing he’s an expert at is making silly voices for all the book characters at bedtime.

“You were so excited about school just last night, what happened lovie, what’s going on with you?”

Poppy just stares at him with her big doe eyes, the ones that look exactly like her mother’s, and makes Simon’s chest ache painfully. It’s moments like these that make him feel like the grief would never end.

After a drawn-out minute, she finally squeaks out, “What if I don’t like school? What if people are mean to me?” Simon’s heart breaks at his little girl’s admission, he, of course, worried about those things too; he wasn’t sure he even wanted to send her off for hours every day, but he also knew that Poppy could handle it.

Simon grasps both of her much smaller hands, “You’re the best girl I know, what’s not to love yeah? I’m sure you’ll make lots of friends, sweetheart.” Simon isn’t sure who he’s reassuring more at this point, but he’ll say anything to get them both through this day and all the ones that come.

Poppy sighs loudly and by something short of a miracle, she concedes with getting dressed; Simon let her pick out her own outfit, in hopes that it would rekindle her previous excitement. It helped, but only marginally.

Standing in the doorway of the classroom, is not the teacher Simon had been expecting. When he thought of teachers, he imagined either super strict, uptight older women or bright and bubbly young women fresh out of university. You were neither of those – you wore a bright smile that reached your eyes, and your voice had the most warm and comforting lilt to it. Contrastingly, you were dressed head to toe in an all-black outfit, but it didn’t make you look dark and dreary, no, on you it worked quite well. Poppy finally, but reluctantly revealed herself from behind her father’s legs, and stepped forward to greet her new teacher.

“Hi! What’s your name?” you were clearly not from anywhere near, and Poppy immediately comments on it.

“My name is Poppy, like the flower, and you talk very funny.”

Simon groaned, “Poppy, that’s not very polite, love.”

“No, no it’s alright. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that this morning,” you laugh breezily, not affronted by the little girl’s observation. The sound of your laugh is like a mirage in a desert, and Simon is taken aback at how much the sound affected him. You crouch down and introduce yourself to Poppy, then rise to greet Simon as well. You hold out your hand, clearly in an attempt to shake his, and he shakes his head to clear his stupor and takes your hand. Your hands are much smaller than his own, and much softer, not calloused from battlefields and the hardships of life.

❀

You hope you’re coming off as a well put together adult, one who’s supposed to be in charge of people’s most precious gifts. Threatening to ruin your façade is the fact that you’re shaking hands with quite possibly the hottest man you’ve seen since you upturned your life and moved to London a few months ago. This is your student’s dad, jesus get a grip, you hastily remind yourself. You can’t help yourself though, and your eyes are roaming over his massive hands searching for a wedding band. You’re not sure whether it’s a good thing or not when you see there isn’t one. He’s hot, but he’s got a child, and you’ve just had your heart shattered into a million pieces this summer. The last thing you need is to be lusting after your student’s unreasonably hot father.

You’re not even sure you want to be here; nothing had gone the way you planned and now you’re a million miles away from your family – who had forewarned you that your ex maybe was not worth moving across the world for, but you were in love, you didn’t want to hear that.

Poppy, who seemingly gained some confidence, breezes past her father and finds her way easily into the classroom. You looked back up at her father, realizing you hadn’t caught his name – he tilts his head ever so slightly at you as if he’s trying to discreetly assess you and it makes your palms sweat.

“I didn’t catch your name, can’t call you Poppy’s dad all year now, can I?” you prod causally, laughing despite the stifling air that was forming between you two.

“You can call me Simon,” he replies elusively and suddenly you’re overcome with the feeling that there’s something mysterious about this man – and as attractive as he is, the revelation also makes you feel unnerved.

taglist: @happy-mushrooms @lunamoonbby

banners from @reveriesources and @cafekitsune pic creds: @ave661

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #dad!ghost #dad!simon #simon ghost riley fluff #oc: poppy #second chances au #mic writes

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gayvampyr · 2 years

Text

this shouldn’t have to be said but if someone who struggles with cognitive issues due to things such as fibro fog, autism or adhd etc has difficulty speaking or getting their point across, do not point it out. im talking about stuttering, misremembering words and definitions, using the wrong words in place of other ones, mixing up words or merging them together. you are allowed to help us find the right word but wait for us to ask first and give us a chance to find it ourselves. blurting out random words causes a lot more confusion for us and we often end up losing our train of thought.

also, in a similar vein, we may pause to think about what we’re going to say next, and it’s important that you not interrupt. for me, my train of thought is already on the verge of derailing. if i stop talking mid-sentence, give me a second to find my words and sort out my jumbled mess of a brain. don’t start speaking like we’ve finished our sentence and please don’t just abandon the conversation. it’s very frustrating, especially when you make jokes or tease us for forgetting words or misspeaking and it makes it much harder for us to get to our point. and tbh it’s embarrassing and it sucks because our brains aren’t doing what we want or need them to do and we don’t need a reminder every time it happens.

like the jokes might seem harmless or lighthearted but it hurts nonetheless because we are constantly in a struggle against our own brains. it seems like it should be such an obvious thing, not to tease or make fun of someone with cognitive issues, but so many people do it, including some of you who don’t think you do— particularly if you don’t think the reason behind it is a disability. it’s not the same as joking about your friend making a typo in the group chat. those are minor slip-ups and they happen to everyone. for a lot of us, they’re constant. we’re almost always trying to get our brains to work with us rather than against us and pointing it out only makes it that much harder to concentrate on actually articulating our thoughts instead of focusing purely on avoiding misspeaking so you won’t point it out again. obviously this will vary from person to person, not everyone with these symptoms feels the same way i do, but i think it’s a good rule of thumb to just. not interrupt and/or draw unnecessary/unwanted attention to our speech problems. i don’t think it’s too much to ask.

#disabled #disability #spoonie #chronic illness #cognitive impairment #fibromyalgia #fibro fog #adhd #autism #neurodivergent #text post #top posts #3k #4k #5k

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reve-writes · 1 year

Text

—dense; kaz brekker.

ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 2,2k words. ʚ you're a bit clueless as to why the dirtyhands do the things he does, like call you schatje and pay you to steal something when he clearly doesn't need to. ʚ fluff. ʚ a/n maybe ooc kaz im sorry. more at the end!

Ketterdam is a marvel from afar, a pretty little flower offering promises of its nectar—new life, new opportunities, debauchery—only to catch you in its trap and swallow you whole. All the way up on the clock tower, roughly centralised in the port city, the Barrel is nothing more than bright lights emanating from bar signs and glittering roofs.

The bell rings, reveberating to signal the change of the hour. It's time to work, finally.

Your boots thump as you make your way down the spiraling concrete staircase, paying attention not to step on the chunks flaking off of the edge. Whoever was responsible for building this was clearly cutting cost, the concrete is about as fragile as clay.

A painting. It is an annoying job to do on your own, but your contractor offered a lot of Kruge for it—perhaps too much, but if Mr. Kikkert is willing to scrape his pockets for it, then you're more than happy to accept. It is more Kruge than you would ever need for a while, so you won't have to scrounge for scraps in this Ghezen-forsaken town. Moreover, it's been a while since your last job and you're frankly not doing too well.

You step lightly over the rooftops, hopping from building-to-building with sure, steady steps. You have done this for most of your lives, to avoid being stomped into the vile muck at the bottom of the Barrel, you learned to hide near the skies.

Where the painting is being kept isn't far from the Canal, just on the rows of overpriced apartments for rent. You were told that it was housed on the third floor of the corner building. Everything is going well. Your journey is uninterrupted and the stadwatch aren't on alert.

Until you spot him.

The familiar curve of his black hat. The high collar of his coat. The shining leather of his gloves.

Brekker.

You strut towards him as if you are neighbours crossing paths on your evening walks. When in truth, his Crow Club is on the other side of the town and you never come to this area without reason. You call his name sweetly. His head whips around immediately, finding you in the dwindling foot traffic of the street.

He says your name in a warning tone, suspicious of your being here.

“What? Can't I come and see an old friend?”

Brekker scoffs. “I don't know. Can you, schatje?”

You almost turn around and leave when you hear the term of endearment. He knows it gets under your skin—it always does. Your heart skips a beat or two and your train of thoughts gets interrupted whenever he calls you that. He means it as a jeering nudge and your head is wholly aware of that. Your heart, though. What a fickle little thing.

“A bit of a walk from the club, isn't it?” you say, falling into step next to him as he turns the corner towards the apartment building. “I assume you must be up to something.”

“Ah, but I'm always up to something.”

“I can't say I disagree,” you snort. “You don't happen to have a job around the area, do you?”

He halts, his cane knocking against the stone pathing. He turns to look at you and your elbows brush against each other. “Do you need anything? I have important matters to attend to.”

You bring a hand to your chest exaggeratedly, feigning a frown. “How callous. Call me schatje and throw me aside. Is this how you treat everyone, Kaz?”

“Only you, mijn schatje.”

You roll your eyes, unsure how to behave. Huffing, you say, “Stop calling me that.”

“I was under the impression that you liked the nickname.”

Oh, you do.

“I'll be going now. I've something to do. Stay off my job,” you warn. “You still owe me literal crown jewels from last time.”

Kaz's neutral expression shifts into fond nostalgia as he recalls the incident you're referring to. The crown jewels in question were under dispute by a pair of soon-to-be divorcees. One of them hired the Crows' help. The other called on you. One thing led to another and the item ended up in Kaz's hands and you went home empty-handed.

“I won that fair and square,” Kaz retorts. “Your current job wouldn't involve a certain painting, would it?”

Judging by his smug thin smile, you know that he knows.

“Tell me it isn't what you're here for.” You sigh exasperatedly. “Stay off of it, Brekker. I can't afford to lose another job.”

You think to be threatening, bluff your way out and tell him you'll tear down his Crow Club if he gets in your way, but you doubt it will work against the Dirtyhands. After all, you're one person and he has the whole Dregs behind him.

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow for a moment and for that terrible moment, you think that he may be there for the same reason you are, but he shakes his head lightly. “Fortunately, schatje, no. Stop looking as if you're going to murder me in my sleep.”

An involuntary smile blooms. “I wouldn't dream of it, Kaz.”

“Go on, then,” he says. “Be careful.”

You bite the insides of your cheeks to keep from smiling. “You too.”

With that, you part ways with Dirtyhands, entering the building. Your acquisition of the painting goes smoothly and the deal is closed swiftly a few hours later. It's too easy. You know it is. You're missing something.

Miss something, you did.

You push open the door to the Crow Club carelessly. The loud chatter mixed with atmospheric radio surges to meet you as you push your way past sweat-slicked bodies and drunken patrons. Your eyes dart back-and-forth, trying to spot the familiar curve of his black hat or the shiny glow of the head of his cane.

Jesper spots you from one of the open gambling tables.

“If it isn't my favourite thief,” he says, inclining his glass towards you. “Fancy a game?”

It isn't until you stop by his table that he sees the downward slope of your frown and the sharp glare you're giving. He instinctively sits up straighter, taking his shoes off of the corner of the table.

“Where's Brekker?” You ask, to-the-point, without indulging in your usual chit-chat whenever you visit.

The other three patrons on the table freeze—sensing the tension on your shoulders, too. They look between you and jesper, both confused and intrigued to know more. What is Ketterdam if it doesn't have rumours and secrets whispered about?

Jesper's brow furrow. “Are you okay? What's going on?”

To Jesper's knowledge, you and Kaz are on friendly terms, despite the frequent bickering. Hell, he assumes you're more-than-friendly, with the way Kaz gives you a nickname—an endearment, to be specific. Is it possible that you're going through a lover's spat?

“Brekker, Jesper. Where is he?”

A familiar rasp cuts through the rowdiness. “Here.”

Your head whirls around and you shoot an accusatory stare at the source of the voice. You stomp your boots as you make your way towards him. As you pass by him, you tug on the sleeves of his coat.

“We need to talk.”

“Hold on, schatje,” he says, still trailing after you. His cane knocks against the hardwood of the floor. “About what?”

You make your way up the stairs, to the second floor and swing the door to his office open as if it belongs to you. He has an eyebrow raised when he enters after you, closing the door behind him. He leans back against it, waiting for you to speak whatever it is that's on your mind.

“Kikkert,” you snarl. “You paid him to pay me.”

“That's quite a conclusion. How did you come to it?” His voice is level, not betraying whether or not you've spoken the truth.

You're pacing in front of him. “He says, and I quote, ‘If you're so close to Brekker, why doesn't he ask you himself to do this?'”

His eyes furrow and he runs a hand through his combed hair. He sighs, holding a hand up in a you-caught-me gesture. “Kikkert clearly has no idea what discretion means.”

You glare at him. “Do you think this is funny?”

He seems taken aback. “I don't see why this is a big deal, schatje. It's a job. You're paid. I get the painting. What's wrong with it?”

“Why are you doing this, then? Pay me for something you clearly are able to do yourself? Hell, whose painting was it? Was it yours? Did you pay me to steal from you?”

He doesn't reply, but the way he shifts his gaze away from you let's you know. It's as clear as a verbal admission.

“It was yours. That's why you were there. From your safehouse, wasn't it?” You stare at him in disbelief. “Is this amusing to you? I'm sorry if I don't quite see it as such.”

“Schatje—”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

You can't wrap your head around Kaz Brekker's thinking process. He pays someone to pay you to steal a painting he already owns. What's his plan in the long run? To embarrass you? Hurt your pride? Is this some sort of ploy to rope you to be indebted to him?

He sighes. “You were struggling. I only wanted to help.”

“Dirtyhands doesn't help people. You don't run gangs the way you do charities,” you retort.

Is that all you see him as? The demjin? The one who's willing to stain his hands for the right price? Is there no other version of him in your eyes?

“You're forgetting the man behind the monster here,” he says softly.

“Am I?” You approach him, leaving a little over two steps in-between the two of you. “Who exactly is the man behind Dirtyhands then?”

He pushes himself off of the door, taking one step forward. The thump of his cane practically echoes in the room. The hustle bustle of the Crow Club is nothing more than a muffled sound. There's a sudden tension in the air—the same one that hangs over you whenever he calls you his schatje, but this one is heavier due to your lack of light-hearted banter to parry.

“Do you really not know?” he asks, as if the question is staring at you in the face. As if it's the most obvious thing in all of Kerch. His stare is heavy, dark irises acting like magnets that pull you in. He scoffs, “You really are dense.”

“Well, enlighten me, Brekker! None of this is making a lot of sense to me.” You let out a frustrated huff of breath. Your hands move wildly to stress your points. “You know what? Whatever it is, I don't want to know. Just — quit doing it. I'll never take another job from Kikkert. I'll stay away from your damned club and all your friends. I'll stay away from you. I'm a capable enough thief without your pity, Brekker. I don't need it. You can shove it up your—”

His gloved hand wraps around your wrist as it's flailing in the air. Your speech immediately comes to a halt and your eyes widen.

“You are impossible,” he says.

You snort. “And you aren't?”

“At the moment, no,” he retorts.

His stare is intense. It isn't until then that you realise you've taken a step forward during your rant, decreasing the perfectly amicable distance and turning it into a heart-thundering one.

“It wasn't pity,” he says. “You're capable, I have never doubted that, but even the most capable ones struggle sometimes. My intention is to help. Trust me on this. I know you're too prideful to accept any, so I paid Kikkert.”

“But why? Why bother?”

“Why?” He blinks, sighing loudly before continuing. “Why? Have you ever stopped and thought, for a moment, that I've been calling you schatje. Do you think that was out of pity?”

You bite the insides of your cheek and shake your head. “It was something else.”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that it's because —ghezen forbid— I may actually harbour fondness for you?”

You blink once, twice. Kaz thinks he much prefers breaking into the ice court than having this conversation right now. His hand trembles when he brings them to brush your cheekbone lightly. He lets out a relieved sigh when you don't pull back. Your hand wraps over his gloved one, the leather cold on your skin. You lean into the touch.

“I thought it was one-sided,” you say finally. “I'm quite fond of you, too, you know.”

“You do a horrible job of showing it.”

“Says you,” you argue. “Just—don't do it again. Let me handle my own problems, Kaz. I'll let you know if I need your help.”

He hums in agreement. “You'll let me know.”

“I will.”

The two of you jump apart abruptly when there's a loud knock.

“Boss?” Jesper's voice sounds muffled through the door. “Everything okay? I hope ___ hasn't murdered you yet.”

“I haven't,” you answer, half-chuckling. Turning to look at Kaz, you say, “It's funny how he doesn't assume you'll murder me instead.”

Kaz shrugs. “He knows I can't.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Can't or won't?”

“Both,” he answers. “Can we not talk about murdering each other after what just happened?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. What just happened is you practically professing your little (well, maybe not-so-little) crush on him.

“So, is Kaz okay?” Jesper shouts again.

“Fine,” Kaz answers. “You can go back to your table.”

[ ]

i wanted to write something cute. schatje is taken from google and inspired from a kaz fic i read that used 'schatz' as a nickname. the plot is slightly ehhh? because it didn't really end the way i intended it to and i didn't proofread (when have i ever?). i was hoping to turn it into a two or three part series, but this is what we've ended up with & im quite happy with it. thank you for reading!

#kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x reader #—ki writes 🍯

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northsoulss · 3 months

Text

breakaway - leah williamson

(a/n: im so sad about jen leaving arsenal, but shes in bay fc now so i hope we get news about her soon :”). also i LOVED leah’s cover of breakaway by kelly clarkson and it inspired me to to write this lol. also i’ve just been sad and stressed sooo. part 2?)

it was a gloomy day in your apartment, your clothes strewn all over the floor, dishes pilling up in the kitchen. you laid in bed, unable to move, absolutely heart broken. leah and you had parted ways not too long ago, the memory of her telling you she couldn’t do this anymore fresh in your mind.

you remember seeing leah hunched over at the dining table, phone in hand, not even acknowledging your presence. you could feel her pulling away from you, spending almost all her days outside and away from you. you really wanted to ask her what was wrong now that you’ve caught her at home. you’re sick of her silence and you want an answer.

“leah, what’s wrong?” your voice small, afraid to provoke her.

“nothing’s wrong, __. i’m fine.” she says in a deadpan voice, a slight bite to it.

“no leah! we aren’t fine! you don’t even call me baby, and you won’t even look at me anymore.” you lose it, your voice booming.

“yeah, i’ve had alot on my plate lately okay?!” she snaps back, and you finally see her face. her hair unkempt, eyes full of tears, her signature frown on her face. oh how you wanted to reach out to smooth her brows, your hand coming up to cup her face, but her hand pushes you away.

“well that doesn’t mean you get to just keep me out of it! i’m your girlfriend for goodness sakes. i want to be there for you.” your voice breaks, and you feel that familiar fear creeping back into your body.

she’s going to break up with you.

“look, __. i just can’t anymore.” leah says exasperated, hand pulling back her hair. you search her eyes, trying to find any ounce of love left, but all you saw was coldness.

there it is. that dreaded feeling.

“that’s it? you’re just going to give up?” you had more anger in your voice than you expected, the tone making leah flinch.

“i just can’t. you keep pestering me and i’m sick of it. i’m sorry.” and like that, she left your apartment, leaving you standing in your hallway, the extra set of keys to your house clutched in your fist. you sunk to the floor the moment she slams the door shut, your knees hitting the ground with a loud thud. a part of you felt empty, a vacant spot left in your heart. you spoke a language only she understood, and now that she was gone, no one will be able to understand you.

it stung, knowing that you didn’t know the reason why she left, but you couldn’t take it anymore. you couldn’t just sit in your apartment all day, not moving while the world keeps spinning. you sit up, and immediately get hit with a memory of leah. you see your guitar collecting dust in the corner of your room. you haven’t played since ever since leah left, for it was too painful to have to relive every waking memory of her each time.

one of your favourite memories of leah was singing with her. you were classically trained in guitar, always pestering her to be your singer while you played. eventually when she relented, you would always beeline to your guitar, whipping it out from its case and taking it to where she sat.

one of your favourite songs to play was “break away” by kelly clarkson, it being the first song leah sang with you. you remembered the first time she did, her voice sounded like warm honey to your ears. your ears flushed and face warm as she sang, her eyes trained on you, watching your agile fingers strum the strings. from then onwards, you always asked her to sing while you played, wanting to only hear her angelic voice.

that memory was like a punch to the gut, knowing you can no longer hear her voice other than on the arsenal women’s Instagram which you still followed. you shook away the thoughts, a long sigh escaping your lips as you massaged your temples. you look around your house, and immediately start to clean up, slowly putting things away.

after a few hours of cleaning up, you collapse on your couch, completely exhausted. you open your tiktok, planning to doom scroll till midnight when a video of jen beattie and leah pops up. you forgot you were still following jen, becoming good friends with the older woman the moment leah brought you onto the pitch two years ago.

you instantly sat up straighter, eyes fixated on leah who sat next to jen, hoodie over her head with a smile. jen held her guitar, and the moment her fingers started to strum, your heart wanted to jump out of your chest. leah’s voice, oh how you missed it. she’s singing it again.

“shes singing our song.” you mumbled to yourself as you watched, a small smile growing on your face. you read through the comments, some of them mentioning you. you were a public figure as well after all, known for playing finger style covers of different songs. when leah and you started going out, you started posting videos of you two singing and playing, the very first video being that song.

“is it true? did they really break up?” “i miss your videos with __ leah!!” comments like this made your heart ache. you went MIA the moment you two split, not posting videos for over two months now. you really missed her, so much. after watching the video, you decide, fuck it. leah doesn’t get to ruin your love for guitar, and you sure as hell are not going to step playing just because she’s not here.

deciding to finally play again, you felt a sense of relief wash over you as you strummed, a sigh escaping your lips. propping up your phone, you record yourself, you play the introduction to breakaway, singing softly. you weren’t used to singing, only ever playing with an accompaniment. certain parts of the song hit harder than the rest, you felt tears welling up in your eyes.

trying hard to reach out

but when I tried to speak out

felt like no one could hear me

wanted to belong here

but something felt so wrong here

so I pray

i could breakaway

when you finished, you look up to the camera and stared wordlessly. this was the first time you truly saw yourself post breakup, and goodness. you looked terrible. hair in a disheveled bun, eye bags big enough to fit your dog in, bloodshot eyes. you’ve definitely had better days, and this is just the start.

“i’m sorry i’ve been gone for so long. i’m currently going through one of the toughest periods of my life, so have this song for old times sake.” you say with a smile, and stop recording, posting it without any second thought. you fall back onto your bed, ignoring the ringing of your phone. things are going to become better, you thought, yet another heavy sigh escaping you.

leah’s cover: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSFLBWYhs/

#leah williamson #leah williamson fluff #leah williamson woso #leah williamson lionesses #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson arsenal #wlw #lgbtqia #wlw post #woso x reader #wlw yearning #woso fluff #alessia russo #katie maccabe #woso fanfics #wlw love

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floshav · 1 year

Note

more rodrick PLSSSSS it can be anything

omg this is my first req ever and im so excited thank you!!

you wanted more Rodrick well here's more Rodrick.

part 2 out now!!

summary: Rodricks your best friend but thats not enough for you. As much as you hate to admit, you like the boy. That's why you show up drunk and high at one of his infamous house parties after he'd ranted to you about how he was so so in love with Heather Hills.

warnings: angst, heartache, kissing, Heather Hills, pining, weed, alcohol, crying, one sided love kinda, self hate

wc: 1k+

"She was so pretty."

"Oh yea?"

"No. I dont think you understand, like the way her hair smelled when she strut past me, the smell of..... smell of something light. Fresh! Pink even."

Rodrick practically had stars in his eyes when he described how his crush was at school. You'd be ecstatic if the crush was you, but the world is cruel so here you were talking about Heather Hills for the last hour or so.

"Y'know... I heard she spat on Louise last week. Poor kid, was dosed in her icky saliva for the whole day." Y/n was selfish but she tried to paint Heather in a bad light.

"Shit i'd pay good money for her to spit on me."

Well that backfired she thought.

"Freak" Y/n lightly laughed as she fell back onto Rodricks soft bed. Chest heaving up and down whilst her mind felt clouded.

"What can I say, love makes anyone a freak."

There was that word again. Love. How could he be bloody in love with little miss Heather Hills. The queen of highschool. The perfect girl. Pretty blondie. Pretty face. Y/n quickly began to realise there were plenty of reasons for Rodrick to crush on her. Y/n was a nobody. She thought her face ugly, her style wack, her eyes too uneven. She hated, hated, hated herself and wished she looked like Heather.

"Oh. My. God. I just had the best fucking idea" Rodrick exclaimed with the dorkiest smile he could produce, each fine line below the thickness of his eyebrows seen under the dim lighting of his room.

"Hmm?" Y/n buzzed as she basked in the coolness of his sheets

"M'gonna throw a party" "Heather would definitely come, i mean its one of my parties we're talking about."

Flashbacks to Rodrick's last party hit y/n's head like a train when she remembered how chaotic and horrible the experience was. Drunk teens shouting and chugging unknown beverages, shoulders brushing against shoulders constantly as she tried to find a room she could breath in without having to see another damn couple absolutely devouring eachother. Each and every minuscule second she'd spent in that house made her want to puke. The sight that made her want to puke the most was Rodrick's clearly drunk self throwing himself onto Heather, eyes sparkly with hope whilst she just sat there smiling so sweetly it was sickening.

Quickly she was sent back to reality.

"D'you think that's a good idea?" she questioned, tired.

"Course it is! she always comes to my things"

"Kay' whatever you think is gonna earn you your little dream girl specimen."

"Trust me, this times different." That's what he always said.

--------------------------------------

It's ok. It's ok. I-It's.... it's gonna be fine. she told herself as she admired the makeup she'd put on for tonight's occasion, she'd tried to copy one of Heathers famous looks, but quickly realised it didn't suit her skin so she stuck to her usual and hated herself for it. It was dreadfully the day of his party. The day that she'd have to witness him openly flirt with Heather just because he had an excuse to down a dozen bottles of cheap booze. She swiped a smear of lipstick that somehow ended up below her lip and sighed as she adjusted her shirt. Why do you always give in? Just confess you idiot. No! what the fuck am i thinking. she scrunched her nose and took a deep breath in, abusing her vanity with the pressure from the pads of her fingers.

She really really didn't want to go. She couldn't bare seeing Heather show up with her annoyingly perfect face, her perfect nose, her perfect hair, her stupidly sweet personality that everyone gaped over. Fuck it. She hated herself and wanted to forget that Rodrick even existed.

She found her not so hidden stash of weed she'd carelessly left under a pile of worksheets from her chemistry class, something ionic bonding. She didn't know how long it'd sat there for but it stained the ziplock bag a dull yellow. The bag was crinkled and smelled like the thought of Rodrick. Whenever she was upset or mad at Rodrick she'd smoke weed to drown the thoughts out but she slowly realised it was ruining the drug as a whole for her.

She rolled a joint in a random piece of paper she'd found thrown on her floor and lit up the end, taking a deep whiff of it, smile playing on her lips.

-----------------------------

"Animals.....Elephants....Tiguurrrsssss!" She slurred as she laid flat on her disheveled bed scrunching the sheets as her eyes formed stars around her ceiling. She got up abruptly, hair a mess and rubbed her eyes deepening the pressure with every second. "Rrrr... What time? Uggggh" She sighed as she reached for her phone. Her room was cloudy and smelled of green. Beside her were a few empty glasses so she took a sniff, curious. Happy juice? No, Vodka she thought. She saw the emptied out bottle of cheap convenience store alcohol by the side of her feet a long with the yellowed bag of weed which was empty. it'd been around 2 hours since she blacked out on her bed somehow thinking about how her fan looked like the shape of animals. Shit, fuck, ass, asshole! she muttered under her breath as she plopped back down.

"Why not? What's thurrr worst that could happennn?" she mumbled eyes fluttering as she picked up her bag and stumbled out her window, careful not to wake anyone. She took the route down the tree that always worked for her but in a clumsy fashion as she fumbled down the hard branches of her overgrown escape buddy. Craaack, Creeeeak. The continuous sounds made her annoyed. "Uggggfh can't everyone just shut up!!"

--------------------------------------

There she was. Standing dumb, drunk and high in front of the booming house lit up by warm yellow light. She could already smell the familiar smell of cheap alcohol, body odour and weed. My kind of night she thought as she barely made her way to the entrance. There were already people outside partying like no tomorrow as some flipped their hair to some overplayed hip hop song that everyone knew. While some were more restricted, sipping on booze as they giggled with their friends. The true highschool experience y/n thought.

Bump.

"Hey! Watch it-"

"Y/n?"

It was someone with beautiful waves of blonde still visible from her clouded vision, pretty makeup and a perfect body. Heather.

"O-Oh hey Heather! Pretty little Heather Hills." Y/n slurred as her vision was still blurred

"Uhm... Y'alright?" She questioned looking back at her friends as if y/n was cuckoo.

"No. No. No. No! Y-you. You. You and your stupidly perfect self can go to hell!" y/n lashed out

"W-what? Y/n what the fuck is wrong with you?" Heather said clearly freaked out by the sudden aggression.

Tears started to cloud y/n's vision so she took in a deeeeep breath trying to suck in as much oxygen as she could.

"Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! You- You're all he wants. Heather, heather, heather! My perfect little heather with her pretty little face!" Y/n cried out as her knees began to weaken. She had no sense of shame, embarrassment or anxiety. She was too blacked out for this. So blacked out she just blurted her deepest darkest thoughts.

A crowd began to form around them, some curious at the sudden shouting girl who was crumbling a part, vulnerable in front of some people she didn't even know the names of.

"W-what? What are you even saying y/n." Heather said confused and disturbed as she began to back away.

Warmth began to spread at the small of y/n's back. Rodricks hand.

"Y/n? Why the fuck are you screaming?- Y/n s-shit you're not alright." Rodrick hastily slung y/n's arm around his shoulder careful with her as if she was a piece of fine china.

"S-sorry bout' that Heaths, trust me she doesn't mean anything she's saying" Rodrick stutters clearly not drunk enough, nervous as he realises that Heather is clearly agitated.

"Y-yea. It's okay Rodrick. It's not your fault, just get her far from here kay?" Heather said with sympathy and those stupid doe eyes whilst placing a hand on his shoulder. This should've made him tremble with pleasure, but the fact that she'd talked about y/n as if she was a monster made him angry.

"Yea. Yea alright." Rodrick scoffed, lightly rolling his eyes before dragging y/n's blacked out figure up his carpeted staircase, the carpet grazing her knees creating a friction which burned satisfyingly on her kneecaps.

"Fuuuck. Fuck..." Y/n softly mumbled, head tilting to the side of his shoulder as he firmed his grip on the side of her shoulder. Shoulders.... shoulders are for friends, real girls get hands put on their waist. Not shoulders. She managed to conjure the thought in her hazed mind.

He struggled to open his door as y/n's body weight pressed into the side of him as he suddenly heard silent weeps of sorrow erupt from her lips.

He set her on the foot of his bed, careful not to drop her anywhere harsh.

"Y/n? Y/n what's wrong, you're like black out drunk." He asked now bending down with both hands on his knees.

He slowly caresses his hand over the hill of her cheekbone and shoves a fly of hair away from her puffy eyes.

"You....i... Im sick of you and- and her." She sighs as a hysterical tear falls from her eye. Her face was the saddest Rodrick had ever seen and this broke his heart.

"Me and... me and who y/n?" He said so softly as he began to crouch so so close to her, his eyes looking up into hers with genuine curiosity and care. The mention of her name fluttered her heart.

"Heather" She breathed out involuntarily sniffling.

"You don't like me talking about her?" He slowly asked as if all the dots were finally clicking together.

"That's a stupid question." He lowly chuckled as he swiped his thumb under the pad of her eyes.

"I.. I really- I really"

"You really what?" He said again so so softly

"I really like you." She blurted before she felt that familiar rush of heat rapture her face.

Rodrick's eyes glance down to her swollen lips and he feels a strong ache pill at his heart. His best friend just confessed about her underlaying fondness of him and he'd been an ass talking about Heather all the time. He imagined how bad it must've sucked all the damn time.

"I-I'm so sorry I- I always talked about her."

"No! don't fucking be sorry you idiotttt." She slurred

"You- You don't owe me anything." She smiled softly as she fluffed up his hair.

"Maybe..." This is wrong he thought

"Maybe i do owe you an apology." He said slow and steady as he glanced down to her lips and locked with it for the final time.

He slowly moved in to plant a soft kiss on her puffy lips and her eyes widened in surprise.

The kiss felt like heaven and she tasted like everything he was used to. A hint of cherry chapstick, a lot of weed and something coconut. His lips felt so soft against hers and she breathed in every second of the experience. She almost wanted to whine when he pulled away.

"I- Fuck."

Y/n's euphoric high was quickly ruined at the notice of him clearly regretting his decision.

"No- It's fine Rodrick. I get it, it was just a in the moment thing." She sighed as she put both her hands to her face rubbing her cheeks and eyes as if she was trying to rid off the pain in her heart.

"No, no, no! it's not that."

"I just..."

"Fuck it." He went in for another kiss.

--------------------------(end)

thank u for the request!! i hope this was enough to satisfy ur rodrick need lol, if u ever want a smutty end to this lmk but yarrrrr

#rodrick heffley #doawk rodrick #rodrick x y/n #rodrick x fem!reader #rodrick #rodrick x reader #diary of a wimpy kid rodrick #rodrick imagines #rodrick fanfic #rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick heffley x fem reader #rodrick fanfiction #rodrick heffley fanfiction

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koiiiiijiii · 3 months

Text

windbreaker characters & their possible love trope (part 1)

warnings : no in general, maybe a ooc, but its my point of view, fluff

recommend : to turn on Lana Del Ray - West Coast

୭🧷✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🎀

Dom - arranged marrige. we take into account the fact that Dom is the heir of the yakuza. His father had long dreamed of the idea of uniting the two clans to expand the business, strengthen the position, and in general he was very close with the head of another clan, you know the type of male friendship when they brag about who has the coolest car and everything like that. (for about the same reason, you and Dom have an age difference of a couple of months) In general, when you were born, your fathers did not immediately decide that this would be a planned marriage, they still wanted freedom of choice for their children, but the two old men were too fascinated when you and Dom played together in the sandbox, or you two shared toys, and overall you got along great as babies. But as the years passed, interests changed, and from about 2-3 grades you began to have a "crisis in relationships", Dom were more interested in the "boyish" things, you in turn discovered the Internet and the charms of fictional characters (real footage of all of us). Therefore, your communication has gone from about infantile sympathy to childish antipathy when boys say "eeew girls, im not interested in them" and to the complete cessation of communication over the years. Well, your fathers also almost lost hope, trying to try on two fifth graders at holiday feasts, but everything ended up making faces at each other, and Dom’s first showed middle finger and yours first obscene phrases in response to him (later you both received a cradle from your parents) but the decision had already been made, and so everyone decided to just wait.

In fact, everything happened spontaneously. As it happens, girls grow faster, and there were no exceptions with you. So since you saw each other less often, Dom did not immediately recognize you, and of course refused to admit to himself that he liked you, and he decided to shove this sympathy away. A couple more years have passed, and you again super accidentally (no) met at one of your parents' clubs. This time it was your turn not to recognize Dom. And when you realized in the morning whose house you were in, you were shocked. So it tooks you two another 1-2 years to actually accept that planned things needed to be done and the idea of marriage in the first place wasn’t that bad.

Owen - forbidden love/ rivals/ competitors. While you honestly believed that your boiling hate for each other was mutual, Owen found it quite cute and intriguing how each time you trying to compete with him and how mad you get if you lose or if he jokingly flirts with you. Of course, he found you quite an interesting opponent, but you attracted him more as a girl, although it was still difficult because of your rival teams, and as Camila once told him when she noticed how he was staring at you at another training session, where he came intentionally before the rest of the Light Cavalry participants, "This won't be good for the image of our team." Usually you see him in training center, when your team finishes training, or when you wait for Light Cavalry to finish, or on the competitions and it always ends with your threatenings to his life or his bike. Of course you didn’t mean it so serious, it was kinda like tradition - he always so nice and jokes around while you all loud and screaming at him for his flirting lines.

Usually, you two never see each other somewhere in the city or on the streets, apparently you lived in different areas and everyday affairs were too different from each other, but somehow, now, almost at 11 pm, you look at each other in surprise, standing in the park, where both of you came to practice and free your heads from burdened thoughts. Owen wanted to break the awkward silence by greeting you, but you beat him to it by sternly asking “What are you doing here?” He smiled softly and running his hand through his hair, as he replied “I came here just to clear my head before sleep, shortcake. I hadn’t any intentions to interrupt you.” And looking up at you again, he smiled so sweetly, in his usual manner. You clicked irritably and went to meet him, “Then, since you're already here, let's have a race, and the loser is looking for another park, deal?” Again, she frowned so sweetly at her eyebrows, just the very seriousness - Owen thought to himself looking down at you from his height. Like all the smartest, the idea was certainly not bad, you even thought at the moment that you were about to win, because the agreed finish was already around the corner, when suddenly Owen jumped out from behind you and did a risky trick that allowed him to get ahead. But unfortunately, either out of surprise or confusion, you lost control and collapsed almost at the finish line. Your speed was decent, and your knees, shoulders and arms had a hard time now, all bleeding. Slowly rising from the ground, you felt such resentment and at the same time anger, either at yourself or at Owen. And all such a seething feeling of resentment, because of such a small mistake, to lose at the very finish, overwhelmed you with your head, and flowed out with tears from your eyes. You sat down by your fallen bike, hugged your bleeding knees and buried your forehead in them letting yourself cry. Suddenly you felt someone stroking your head and sitting down next to you, putting his hands on your shoulders. Looking up, as you expected, you saw Owen, and shrugged your shoulders and squeal at him “Get the fuck away from me! I don’t need your pity and help!” “Hey, hey, easy shortcake, im not a monster to let girl, who is also injured, be alone in park at night.” He tried to take you by the shoulders again. “I said get away!” You clearly didn’t planned to stop crying, and Owen understood that you’ll have a tantrum in a moment, so he decided to ignore your screams and pulled you closer, already hugging you completely. Of course, you didn't appreciate this gesture, you started pounding him in the chest with your fists, shouting for him to let go, for you to try again, that this time you would definitely defeat him and in general how much you dislike him. And Owen just held you tight, and let your screams and crying be drowned out in his sweater. After a couple of minutes, you were just crying into his chest while he pulled you closer, sat you down between his legs and just gently stroked your back.

When you finally calmed down and raised your tear-stained, red eyes to him, Owen gently put his hand on your cheek and quietly asked, “Well, have you calmed down? Will you let me help you now, shortcake?” taking a confused look away from him and blushing, you said, “If anyone finds out about this, you're finished, got it?” Owen laughed loudly and pulled you closer to him, and dropping his free hand on your cheek, gently kissed you.

Harry - hate/love or sunny/grumpy. Even ignoring the fact that you’ve been in the same team, he somehow never liked you. Honestly, he didnt even know the reason. You had such a bright personality, always nice to people around and guys in team,but still defended your interests and borders when it was necessary. Harry just couldn’t stand you. In his eyes you were quite ideal, he even accepted that you were kinda powerful at cycling. But most blood boiling fact about you were that Harry knew perfectly - he had a thing for you, but he decided for himself to hide it under mask of indifference and disinterest, because come on, feelings make you weak (such a men moment)

But the other thing about you that Harry absolutely couldn’t stand - is your tears. He saw it only twice, once when it was your first year with the Light Cavalry, the team came to wish you a happy birthday right at 12 a.m., and you burst into tears from the joy and sweetness of this act of attention. And the other time was when Harry himself brought you to tears, because you chewed his brains all day. He think that sometimes you have a bad habit activated, walking around and teasing him all day, offering to compete in something, and just dripping on his brain, because you probably have a pleasure to bring him to a white heat. And when he couldn't stand it one more time, he turned sharply at you and barked - "Are you a complete idiot? I think I told you to fuck off from me, leave me alone and go fuck someone else's brains out. How many times can I tell you, I don't intend to compete with someone like you," - and Harry took care to squeeze the word "like" like poison into your mind. And fortunately for him, as he convinced himself, you stopped bothering him after that time and resorted to communicating with him only in the most necessary cases. So for the first few days he liked how you avoided him, but after a week and a half of your absence from his daily life, he began to feel sad and guilty for being harsh with you... But wasn’t it your own fault!? That's right, it was your fault. But didn't he like your attention? Wasn't he warmed by the rays of your warmth?.. Damn, all these thoughts were difficult for Harry, and he did it easier - he left training earlier, stopped by the store on the way, bought a random gift that reminded him of you, went to your house and waited for you at the entrance to the house. To say less, you were shocked when you saw him near the building were you live, but decided to act all cool and just to pass by. He didn’t let you. Harry grabbed your elbow, but you tried to pull away, he turned you around to face him and grabbed your other elbow. “Let me go, you creep!!” You could feel how tears forming in your eyes. You didn’t understand why he even came here, he supposed to be in other place, he supposed to hate you, he supposed… “For the fuck sake just shut up and take it.” He handed you a gift. You were confused and looked up at him with an obvious question “why?” in your pretty eyes. Harry clicked tongue, left your elbows and started to walk away. When you softly mumbled “Thank you” he turned around and quickly closing the distance, he awkwardly hugged you. For the first few seconds you freaked out, but gave up and hugged him back and mumbled "You idiot" in his hoodie. Harry chuckled at your comment and squeezed your back harder "At least im not a crybaby as someone". He got a reminder that you can kick his knees pretty hard.

Hwangyeon - school crush. You were quite popular girl from his class - moderately smart, kind, but not enough to take advantage of your kindness, beautiful and friendly person in general. The fact that Hwang tried to get your attention by his money flex, “cool” - as he thought - actions towards other people in school, where so obvious, as the fact that he liked you. But you weren’t impressed by his shitty personality and usually you treated him coldly or mocked him about he is trying to assert himself at the expense of others. Was he mad at you for that? No, of course, he melted like butter in a hot frying pan from every second of your attention, and bragging to his boys that you two had “conversation”.

Actually his friends, everyone around and mainly Sangho were tired of Hwang’s whinings at home and he told him what to do. So here he is, standing in doors of your class begging you to help him with his english class. Since he asked you nicely and promised not to mock students as long as you help him, you agreed to tutor him for some topics that he couldn’t understand. So with time you two became a little bit closer and you even been in his place and know Hwang’s siblings. (both of them thought that he is paying you to be his friend*) In the midst of one of these preparations Hwangyeon was whining about how he didn’t understand anything and probably won’t pass this exam. You hated the fact that he was giving up fast and easy, but luckily you knew how to motivate this guy. In a second, you grabbed his cheeks with both hands, turned his head towards you and said “Listen, we’ve been preparing for this for so long and you gonna drop everything because of small misunderstanding? I already wanted to take you out for ice cream if you wrote this test better than the guy who sits behind me at school, but since you've already given up, well, I guess i’ll have to go with him instead.” you said slowly letting his cheeks go. Hwang took your hand, to let it stay on his cheek and rise his eyes up on you and with dead serious eyes muttered “If my score will be higher than 75%, we will go for that ice cream.” You smiled at him and said that it is deal.

Spoiler : his score was 68% his friends and you laughed at him for his bragging before exam, but you still took him to that ice cream shop and kissed his cheek for a good bye.

*bonus

its been quite long preparation session for english final exam before summer weekends, so you decided to continue at Hwang’s place. it wasn’t your first time visiting his place, maybe third or fourth, so his siblings already knew you, when you enter the house. you greeted everyone, warned them that you would be preparing for the exam and went to Hwang’s room. after few hours of studying you were tired of punching and shouting at your friend so you left the room for glass of juice and in the dim light of the kitchen you met Sangho with his laptop and glass of something probably alcoholic. you stare at each other for a second and you awkwardly announced that you came for pack of juice that two of you left in fridge. Sangho mumbled something softly and turned back to his laptop, when you were about to leave the room he raised his eyes from laptop again and asked in serious voice “did he pay you?”

you froze in place you were standing and on stiff legs, turning to him. “mhmm?”

“did my brother pay you to pretend to be his friend or whatever you two are?”

“n-no? he just asked me for help, t-that’s why im here!” he grunted something like okay and went back to his laptop. when door after you closed, Aria got out from behind the sofa and held out her hand to her brother. Sangho, in turn, pulled a banknote out of his pocket and gave it to his sister without a word.

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