#been building the collection for a while so

[thevillainswhore]

“Good girl,” he mumbles, running his fingers through your hair while looking at you.

So We Meet Again

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: A reunion between two old friends quickly turns heated.

Warnings: friends to lovers, fluff, smut, blowjob, mouth fucking, ball sucking, praise, pet names, cum eating.

Author’s Note: This is part of The Love In The Woods Collection ❄️ beta’d by the lovely @buck-star thank you my love 🥰 dividers by @saradika-graphics.

You didn’t know what to expect once your old friend opened the door to his cabin. It had been years — too many of them since you had last seen him and to say you were nervous was an understatement. 

The logs that had been carefully wound together to uphold the structure were beautifully cut, a deep mahogany that was rich in pigment. But you couldn’t help but quirk your lips at the beigeness of it all. 

A little splash of colour would do the trick. 

You had no time to internally decide what kind of palette you could imagine for the rustic cabin before the wooden door creaked open and a vaguely familiar face came into your view. 

“Bucky?” You gasped, the air knocked out of your lungs. “Is that—Is that really you?”

Far from the scrawny boy you had attended school with, your old friend stood before you transformed into a man. 

The stubble that graced his cheeks was new. The once long hair that he had chopped down into a short fluffy cut was also new. The muscle he had packed on that made the woolly coat he was wearing strain against his arms was definitely new.

All new territory that you had no idea what to do with. 

“Hey, Dolly. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that pretty, little face.” 

Oh, the deep voice was a welcome surprise too. 

“I—” You didn’t know what to say, shell shocked by the sight in front of you. “You’ve gotten taller.” 

Bucky laughed abruptly. “Well, damn. Thanks, sweetheart.” 

You let out a small huff of laughter for your own awkwardness. “What I meant to say was you look good.” 

Though a lot had changed since you last saw Bucky, one thing that had stayed the same was how bashful he got over the slightest compliments. 

Rubbing the back of his neck as a hue of red blossomed on his cheeks, he smiled. “You know how to make a man blush, don’t ya?” 

Just as you were about to reply, a gush of frosted wind made you stumble. Bucky shot his arms out and grabbed you before you could fall. “Shit, let’s get you inside before it gets nasty out there. Come on, you.” 

With his arms still keeping you balanced, Bucky brought you over the threshold and into the warmth of his home. He shut the door with his foot and continued to smooth his hands down your coat covered arms. 

“This place is beautiful, Buck. I can’t believe you made this by yourself,” you said in awe. 

“I’m glad you like it. You helped me design it after all.” 

You spun around with your mouth open. “You did not keep those sketches after all these years!” 

Bucky shrugged with one shoulder and slid his palms into his pockets. “I did. I neatened them up a little here and there when I got the planning permission. But I kept them.” He pointed towards the fireplace with his head, a fond smile curving his lips. “Look.” 

After tapping the excess snow off your boots on the doormat, you made your way towards the mantelpiece that hung above a roaring fire. Low and behold, there were the drawings the two of you had made together years ago in college. Ripped out of your notebook and framed. 

“You believed in me when not many people did.” Bucky’s voice was closer as he came up behind you. “You didn’t laugh when I told you I wanted to build my own company. It's because of you that people took interest in this house and now I get regular contracts to keep me steady.” 

Unexpected tears began to bubble to the surface. You couldn’t believe your old friend had kept something so sentimental and created something so beautiful out of it. Sniffling, you faced Bucky and hugged him tightly. “I’ve missed you, Buck.” 

Instantly, his arms curled around you, holding you with just as much vigour. “I missed you more, Dolly.” 

The two of you kept huddled in your embrace for a while, savouring the feeling of each other after lost time. 

Suddenly, a thought popped up. You pulled back, though Bucky’s arms held firm around you. “Wait. Does this mean what I think it does?” 

Your excitment began to grow at the grin on your friend’s face. “Why don’t you go and find out?” 

With a squeal, you quickly toed off your boots — not wanting to dirty the cabin — and ran down the hallway. If Bucky hadn’t changed anything about the floor plan, you were sure to find what you were looking for. 

And to your delight, once you had ripped open the door, you found your most prized possession — the library. 

You spun around, unable to contain the emotion in your voice. “You really built it.” 

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised, sweetheart. I told you I would.” Bucky leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an unknown look in eye. 

“But—“ you tried to reason. 

Though Bucky quickly shook you down, already knowing what you were trying to say. “But nothing. You’re still my best friend no matter where in the world you are. No matter if we haven’t spoken in a while. This is for you, Dolly.” 

You swallowed the growing lump in your throat. “It's beautiful, Bucky. I love it.” 

“You’re welcome here anytime. You know that.” By the earnest look in his eyes you knew he meant it too. 

After you had explored the house some more, Bucky had ushered you to the table to get some food down you. His concern for your wellbeing hadn’t changed at all since school. He was always mothering you, making sure you were taking care of yourself. 

It was like the two of you had never been apart. Conversation came easily over his homemade meal. Laughter bounced off the walls of his kitchen. It was easy to fall back into your friendship. 

But there was something else brewing that you couldn’t explain. An added supplement to your relationship. 

There were lingering looks over the candles scattered across the dining table. There were flirtations that made you squirm in your seat. 

If Bucky wasn’t your friend, you’d have thought that you were on a date. 

But Bucky was your friend. And every time your eyes caught each other and his hand brushed over yours, you found yourself thinking of him differently. 

Snow pelted harshly against the windows and you looked outside to find the storm predicted by the weather forecast was raging in full force. You wiped your mouth with a napkin and sighed. “That’s just going to be great to drive in.” 

Bucky’s eyes snapped up to you in aghast. “You’re not actually thinking about going out in that, are you?” 

“What other choice do I have? I’ve got to get to my hotel.” 

“Absolutely not.” Bucky shook his head in finality. “You’ll stay here.” 

Your eyes widened in shock. “I can’t just stay here, Bucky. This is your home!” 

You knew you sounded stupid, especially when he raised his eyebrow at you. “My home is your home. You’re not riskin’ your safety just to stay at some deadbeat motel where the doors don’t even lock. Not a chance.” 

Bucky’s reasoning was sound. The room you had booked was kind of cheap and you shivered when you thought of the possibilities why. But after a night filled with inexplicable tension, you found yourself still weighing the options.

Bucky must have seen the indecision in your features. The groan of his chair pushing out caught your attention and you had to bite your tongue when he crouched before you to hold your hand.

“Come on, darlin’. You can’t go back out there tonight. Stay with me.” 

You would always argue it was his eyes that persuaded you. Bucky always had a way to make you give in to him with his steel blues. It was the same as college kids and you realised it was the same now. Only more dangerous. 

“Okay,” you whispered around a gulp. Squeezing his hand, you confirmed, “I’ll stay with you.” 

Bucky’s eyes lit up. Pulling you out your seat, his large arms wrapped around your shoulders and squeezed you tight. He nuzzled his nose into your hair and let go of a deep breath. “That’s my girl.” 

Your body shouldn’t have reacted the way it did. You were just glad that Bucky was too enthralled in your hug to notice anything amiss. 

Clearing your throat, you stepped back and smoothed your clothes. “Let me help you put all this away.” 

Immediately, Bucky took the plate you were about to grab. “Not a chance, Dolly. Go sit down and wait until I’m finished and then I’ll show you to your room.” With his free hand, he patted your lower back, enough for his fingers to skim the top of your ass and shooed you away. 

Once the kitchen was cleaned, Bucky lifted you off the sofa with his hand and guided you towards the hallway where the bedrooms resided. You weren’t quite sure why you faltered upon the first step, but you tried to control your breathing enough to push yourself to keep walking. 

The night wasn’t what you expected when you decided to visit Bucky. Maybe it was silly to have any sort of expectations after so many years apart from your friend. 

However, this new element came at you with no time to prepare. 

Especially not when he let you lead so he could place his hand on the small of your back. Not when you felt the movement of it gliding further down to rest on the curve of your ass. And not when he grabbed your hand to pull you back once you surpassed the open door to his bedroom. 

“So—um—the guest room is just next to mine.” Bucky looked down at you with what you could only call desire in his irises. 

“I know,” you breathed airily. “I helped you design the layout, remember?”

Bucky swallowed. “I guess I’ll say goodnight then.” 

“That would be best.” Though you made no way to retract yourself from his proximity. 

“Goodnight, Dolly.” 

“Night, Bucky.” 

The air became stifling hot, even as the cold crept in from the open windows around the house. 

Wetting his lips with his tongue, Bucky slowly moved forward with what you supposed would be a friendly kiss on the cheek. You kept deathly still as his stubble scratched against your skin, even though a shudder clawed its way down your back. But your attempts were useless when his lips hovered a little too close to the corner of your mouth. 

Bucky let himself linger before he pulled back. Though he could only manage to draw himself away from you slightly, allowing the two of you to breathe each other’s air. His eyes were blown, like he’d taken a hit and his hand squeezed your waist like it was painful for him to move. 

Who made the next move would continue to be debated for years to come. What you could both agree on with certainty was the instant connection the two of you felt when your lips finally connected. How perfect the two of you intertwined your bodies in a dance of fiery passion.

The nagging voice that had tormented you throughout the night vanished and you finally let yourself go, losing yourself into Bucky. 

“Fuck,” he murmured around your kiss. “I’ve been wantin’ to taste those damn lips all night, Dolly.”

You tangled your fingers into his fluffy hair, pulling harshly as his hands sneaked up your shirt to feel your bare skin. “Then shut up and stop wasting your breath.” 

His responding growl sent a shot of electricity between your legs and you couldn’t help but flick your tongue against his to hear it again. 

The two of you made out like a couple of horny teenagers in the hallway, unable to keep your hands off each other. It was as though Bucky was the oxygen you craved after being starved of air. You’d die if he let go of you. 

Bucky began to step back into his bedroom and the door crashed against the wall. You broke away when your feet recognised the soft carpet furnishing, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths together. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky whined while his chest heaved and his eyes were hooded in pure lust. 

Ignoring him, you dropped down onto your knees with a thud. His eyes shot open and you graced him with a sultry smile, licking your lips while you slid your palms up the denim covering his thick thighs.

“Oh, shit. You’re really gonna—”

You didn’t give him the time to finish his sentence. Adrenaline was sparking your momentum in that moment and any doubts about how fast you were moving were pushed out of your mind as soon as you tore his jeans and underwear down in one go.

Bucky’s heavy cock bounced out of its confines. He was all girth and length, a true testament to the rest of his bear-like physique. Although his dick was intimidating and you had to take at least a whole minute to stare at it in wonder, you got to work quickly.

There were no teasing licks, no hesitant strokes of your hand. You went all in, hollowing your cheeks while you began to feed yourself his cock. You held the base with one hand and slid your other further down towards his balls, beginning to massage them just as you felt the head of his length hit the back of your throat.

“Holy—D-Dolly, you gotta—fuck that’s so good—Slow down, baby. You’re g-gonna choke.”

Lifting your eyes to settle them on Bucky’s, you winked and hummed around him, watching in delight as his eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” he chuckled before biting his bottom lip, beginning to gently meet the rhythm of your mouth with his own thrusts. “Ain’t gotta tell me twice, baby.”

Spit drooled from your mouth, pooling onto the hardwood floor, while your eyes began to water. Any decorum had gone out the window and all that was left in its place was raw, shameful mouth fucking. Bucky couldn’t keep his jaw shut as he towered above you, watching how his proportions bullied the tightness of your throat.

“Good girl,” he mumbled, running his fingers through your hair while looking down at you. “Good fuckin’ girl. Gettin’ all messy for me.”

His hands tightened their grip, tugging enough for a sharp pain to sting your scalp. But it only served to rile you up more. Letting his cock fall from your mouth with a wet pop, you reached further down to suck his balls. 

Bucky choked on his own spit at the sensation of your tongue flicking against the thin, delicate skin and the warm wetness your saliva provided him. “Sh-Shit, Dolly! Uh-huh, baby—Just like that.” 

Cradling the back of your head with one hand, Bucky used the other to hold his cock. He wanted to see the tears glistening over your waterline. You hummed as you made eye contact with him and the vibrations ran through his whole body and lit his nerves on fire. 

“That’s right, suck my fuckin’ balls. Look so pretty on your knees for me and your own damn spit covering your face.” With a grunt, Bucky pulled back, almost regretting leaving your hot mouth, and grabbed your chin, spitting on your awaiting tongue and shoving his dick back down your throat before you could blink. “Show me how much you missed me, baby.” 

Your body was like a live wire, sparks shocking your nerves and leaving you pent up and on edge. The pure animal had come out of your best friend — a side to him you had never had the pleasure of seeing before — and it only made you crave your own stimulation. 

Your jaw ached and your throat cinched in pain every time the fat tip of Bucky’s cock hit the back of it. But none of that mattered when you watched the harmony of pleasure across his face. How he looked at you like you were an angel on your knees, serving your god. 

You grabbed the base of his cock with your hand and pulled him out of your mouth. “Paint my tongue, Bucky.” There was a hoarse rasp to your voice but you swallowed and began pumping his length. “I wanna know what you taste like.” 

Bucky’s eyes gained a new gleam, one that frightened and excited you. 

“Fuck my life. What the fuck have we been doin’ all this time?” Grabbing the length of your hair and twisting it around his hand, he pulled, forcing you eye to eye with his crotch. “Come here, Dolly. Lemme feed you my load if you wan’ it so damn bad.”

Bucky fed you his cock and widened the stance of his legs, his free hand framed your chin — smothered in a combination of saliva and pre cum — and began to thrust. 

Spit flew out of your mouth, each squelch and gag leaving no room for anything but Bucky’s thick length to take ownership of you. Your cries fell on deaf ears as Bucky became a man possessed. 

“Gonna take it, sweetheart? Gonna swallow my cum and fill up your tummy?” 

You nodded as best as you could, moaning around his girth and trying to convey with your eyes how badly you wanted him to use you. 

Bucky licked his lips, panting viciously. “You’re mine now, Dolly. Do you understand?” 

When you didn’t answer, too drunk off his cock, he harshly tapped your protruding cheek. “Answer me, sweetheart. Do you fuckin’ understand?” 

You gargled around his length, tears streaming down your cheeks as you screamed your muffled agreement. 

Bucky swiped his tongue across his teeth and grinned. “Good. Cos’ I ain’t letting you go.” 

Your nails dug into the meat of his thighs, trying to steady yourself from the cruel thrusts. Bucky began to grind his cock down your throat, leaving you depleted of oxygen and struggling to form a single coherent thought. 

“‘M gonna cum, baby. C-Can’t hold it any longer.” Bucky’s legs started to shake with his impending orgasm, his words slurring the closer to his end he got. 

So with a sudden bout of eagerness, you slid your hands around to his ass, gripped each cheek and pulled him impossibly further down your throat until you couldn’t breathe. 

Bucky didn’t even have a chance to warn you before his cock began to pulse, not a second later shooting pearls of thick, white cum from his tip to coat your tongue. 

“D-Dolly—baby—I can’t. F-Fuck, I’m cummin’ so much. All this fuckin’ cum for you, sweetheart—” he rambled. Stumbling over his own words until his dick finally began to settle and his load had all been released. 

You struggled to hold the vast amount of cum in your mouth, some of it sneaking out from the corner of your lip and joining your tears as they rolled down your chin. Your bloodshot eyes, rimmed with red speckled veins looked up to Bucky, watching the pure elation on his face while his fingers started to carefully unfurl from your hair. 

Slowly, once Bucky’s length began to soften, he retracted his hips, letting his cock fall from your mouth. His thumb rested on the dimple of your chin, rubbing back and forth as he caught his breath, a new hunger in his eyes. “You still got my load in that pretty little mouth, baby?” 

Tightening your lips, you nodded, chest heaving and nostrils flaring with an adrenaline that hadn’t been sated. 

Bucky smirked wolf-like and kneeled down on one knee to match your height. “Wanna show me?” 

Caught up in the boundaries the two of you had surpassed, that threatened to untangle the very purpose of your being, you held your friend’s eye and leisurely stuck your tongue out. White cream, thick and musty, balanced on your tongue, exposed and vulnerable. 

Bucky’s eyes darkened and you barely had time to anticipate his intentions before he threw himself forward and kissed you. 

You squealed, panic surging through your limbs and stiffening your body. But Bucky grabbed your waist and hoisted you up onto his lap, manipulating your legs to wrap around him. 

The shock of him tasting his own cum left you paralysed, unable to reciprocate his kiss properly. However, the deep groan that rumbled from his chest at the motion of your tongues colliding and his load falling onto his own kick started your body. You kissed him back with reverence, a fire rekindling in your lower stomach. 

Your faces were a mess of spit and cum, though the two of you were more concentrated on each other, content in getting lost in the new development of your relationship. 

The kiss eventually died down, Bucky leaving a couple of intricate, slow pecks to your lips before seperating. He kept close, noses teasing each other while you caught your breath. 

Tenderly, he swiped the gooey liquid lingering around your mouth with his thumb and tapped your cupid's bow twice, a plea to open up. You complied, allowing him to enter and you were quick to enclose your lips around him and suck. 

“Good girl,” Bucky whispered, watching you with wide eyes. “You’re such a good girl for me.” 

Before you could reply, he lifted the two of you up with ease, keeping a firm grip around your midriff, and laid you down on his bed. 

“Let me see what else you’ll do for me, Dolly.” Bucky’s eyes bore into your own gaped ones, still trying to wrap your head around the events of the night. “Please.” 

There was no other answer. Not when he caged you with his thick arms and not when he delicately trailed his nose along the sensitive skin of your neck. “Okay, Bucky.” 

You couldn’t have imagined where that night could have taken you. Nor could you have conjured up how the hell the two of you ended up fucking until the early hours, singing songs of praise to each other and experiencing a pleasure that you thought would forever be a myth. 

And when you awoke in the morning, scared and worried of the consequences of your actions, you were sure you would regret it. 

But as Bucky tore your clothes off, pouring his adoration and devotion into every crevice of your body with more skin that was revealed as your heart beat as one, you couldn’t even try to muster up any feelings of remorse or anguish. 

You just wanted your best friend to fuck you until the sun came up. 

[sungiescheotluv]

mirror muscles ⭑.ᐟ na jaemin

pairing: na jaemin x gender neutral reader

word count: 2.7k

tags/warnings: fluff, established relationship, suggestive, gym talk(?)

summary: doing your new resolutions with jaemin has always worked in your favor, most goals ticked off your lists. however, when you mention going to gym, jaemin's enthusiasm reaches new heights.

notes: hiyaaaa! it feels like forever since i last posted (two days omg 🙄) but i do hope you pretty stars enjoy this very indulgent fic! as an aspiring gym girlie, i'd do anything for this kind of princess treatment (particularly from jaemin 😋) also, the title of this is based on the soft play song with the same name (emo jisung, lemme give u some music recs). ok, i think i'm done here. wishing u all the best, much loveeee! <3

Note to self: never, under any circumstances, tell Jaemin your New Year’s resolution. Because one peek at your ambitious list and Jaemin will pry you from your warm bed, at the ass crack of dawn (might you add) to go to the gym because ‘nothing beats a morning pump.’

If you weren’t stupidly in love with him, you would’ve dropped a dumbbell on his toe.

How you get to this point is a lot more wholesome. Since the start of your relationship, once snow trickles down for Christmas, you two sit at your dining table with your laptops opened on Pinterest and pin-point what goals you'd like to achieve the following year. This way, you’re not shouldering your ambitions alone, having each other every step of the year as you tick off box after box. So far, you’ve managed to complete most of your goals. Go traveling, learn a new language, cook more home-cooked meals, limit screen time (still working on that) and many more. Jaemin was also progressing well: dedicating more time in his photography, reducing his coffee intake, going to bed earlier and visiting his mother more. 

For this year’s moodboard, while collecting pictures of your next set of goals, fitness content shows up in your recommendations. People in pilates studios in their pastel pink gym-sets. The aesthetic draws you in, how content people feel moving their body besides getting their 10k steps a day in. More photos start showing up, people sculpting their pride in the gym, sharing personal stories of their fitness journey and how the gym has taught them so much about themselves. What they’re capable of, what they never thought they could do and what opportunities lie await now that they’re happier in themselves. It all seems promising, even more so when you reconsider how bright your best friend’s life’s become since making the choice. She’d rarely accompany you to a game of badminton and now she’s pioneering her own run-club, amassing a social media following the size of an army.

You’d have to ask her how to get started once she’s back from her influencer trip (maybe content creating is something you needed to hop on). Then again, peering over your laptop screen to Jaemin’s glowing face, you could simply ask him. He’s been consistently going to the gym for a while now, to the point where you fake-pleaded for SM to close their gym because your boyfriend's become too buff for you to function. He’s always been gorgeous, with a face that could charm a snake, but now that he’s carved like a Renaissance sculpture, you couldn’t form a coherent sentence around him. Of course, aesthetic reasons are what lured him into the space, but he relays it’s become a lot more than that for him.

“I want to be strong, not only to build my confidence but to also protect my loved ones,” he looks directly at you, a serious hue to his eyes that has you breathless. “It’s another form of self-love, is my thinking. Showing up for myself, proving I can do hard things, even when I don’t want to. That I can step out of my comfort zone, trying new things and ultimately, living a longer life. Because at the end of the day, as much as I do this for me, I also do it so I can help you carry groceries. So that I can move furniture around when we move in together, be the one that my family calls if they need something physically demanding done,”

Fondness curves his lips, a flicker of timidity dart his eyes down to the desk before they flicker back up at you, astoundingly earnest as he says, “I’d also want to keep up with our kids. Carry them when they’re tired or run after them in a park. Those are my reasons.”

Something stutters in your chest. Then, leaps. Over the course of your three year relationship, it’s only natural that topics like this are mentioned, like marriage and children. Heck, you two shared a Pinterest board of decor ideas for the shared apartment you’d been on the lookout for. So, it shouldn't phase you but it does. How far into the future he sees with you. How he shares a bit of himself so effortlessly, in a way that lacks pressure and possesses good faith. Love and promise. All prominent themes throughout your relationship, one you thank your lucky stars for.

As a consequence, you flush. Folding like the early days of your relationships. “You’re getting bold these days. We haven’t even moved in together.”

“All in good time, angel,” he grins, looking a bit lovesick. “In any case, if this is something you wanna do, I’d be more than happy to help. Go to the gym with you so you don’t feel anxious, show you how to use the machines, get you workout clothes - whatever you want.”

You could marry this man.

You extend your arm across the wooden table, hand finding his as your fingers interlace, the same song and dance you’d hope you’d spend your life doing. “Thanks, baby.”

And now? Now, divorce weighs heavily on your mind.

In an effort to avoid the New Year’s crowd, Jaemin wakes you up early in the slum of days after Christmas where time doesn’t exist, cuddling into your half-sleeping figure with a gentle voice. Coaxes you to get up, slip on the new gym clothes you’d spent on his card (his treat, he said) and somehow, here you are, stinging eyes squinting under fluorescent lights with some EDM track playing faintly in the background.

“Oh, baby. Don’t look so down, you’re in good hands,” Jaemin coos, hand squishing your cheeks under your chin before pulling you into his chest, warm and comforting. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Couldn’t this wait until,” you glance at your fitness tracker, your own treat to yourself. “Midday? No one needs to be here at 9 am.”

“Maybe, but it’s a good way to start your day. Or get it out of the way,” he chuckles, spinning you out his arms before he wiggles his eyebrows. “Plus, who doesn’t want to see my muscles first thing in the morning?”

He drives home his point by kissing his bicep, something that should make you cringe out your skin or disappear without a trace, but no. Perhaps you’re still sleepy, shielding a snicker with your hand because of how lame (said adoringly) he is.

“You said you’d usually start off with thirty minutes on the treadmill, right?” You nod your head. “Okay, I’ll go with you. I’ll run for fifteen and row until you're done. So you don’t constantly have me in your ear.”

You laugh, because as grumpy as you’d been on the way here, you could never grow tired of him. All his carefree and mischief nature, his sweet and generous manner - you couldn’t even if you tried. 

Few people populate the modern gym, near to none in the cardio section as Jaemin refreshes your memory on all the buttons before you begin. Beside you, he does sporadic sprints, no heavy breaths clouding his chatter with you. You, on the other hand, keep it relatively reserved for your first time, upping the speed when you want to challenge yourself, surprising yourself with the distance and time that flies by. Soon enough, Jaemin’s squeezing your hand and moving a few rows back where the rowing machines are, leaving you with your walking playlist.

Again, in a flash, time passes by, upbeat songs blaring in your headphones that make you dance through the next fifteen minutes, a simmer of sadness coming when you’ve reached time with a whole host of songs still in the queue.

“You can listen to them next time,” Jaemin winks before leading you into a dark, LED room dotted with mirrors and yoga mats. This is one of the rooms booked for classes, but for now, it’s your stretching area where you cycle through some stretches and Jaemin jokes about folding you like a pretzel. 

The one other person in the room - a woman in her thirties - coughs, before smirking your way, the heat of your embarrassment migrating to your cheeks as you swat at Jaemin. He simply laughs, stretching to reveal his happy trail and suddenly, you forget why you’re even mad. 

When you’re finished, he shows you different sections - an assortment of cable machines, the weights area and then to an area with more machines. There’s a few people occupying the machines, immersed in their own world with flushed cheeks and sweat seeping into their clothes. It fills you with relief, that no one’s focused on you and your sweating figure as if you had ‘gym newbie’ written across your forehead. Jaemin shows you some of the machines he uses, depending on what he wants to work out but for the most part, lets you decide what machines you’d want to use - if any.

“Why do I need to put on muscle? You putting me in a headlock is good enough.” You fake-complain, feeding off the gentle approach Jaemin’s taken in trying to convert you to a gym rat.

“And you say I’m the dirty one,” he tsks with a matching grin. “You don’t need to do anything. All I’m doing is showing you the options you have. The more things you try, the more likely you’ll find something you lik-”

“Is that the slut machine?”

Jaemin’s head jerks back, eyebrows pinching together in confusion. “What are you talking about?’

“This one,” you approach the machine closeby, pointing to the photo attached along with its actual name - hip adduction. “Isn’t this the one where people like, open their legs like crazy?”

Jaemin shakes his head, amusement in the smile he swipes with his hand. “Yes, it is. Wanna give it a go?”

“Hell yeah,” you climb into the machine in a rush, finding the experience more exciting than scary as Jaemin makes sure everything is in order. “This is gonna be hilarious.”

“I’m setting it to a low weight. If it’s too easy, we’ll move it upwards and try and find your range,” he comments, looking at you through his silver hair. “You ready?”

“Ready,” and you go, the weight moving like nothing, so much so that when it sets back to its original position, you’re more caught off guard by how far apart your legs are spread. “This is so raunchy, ohmygod.”

“Good thing it’s facing the wall,” Jaemin laughs at you shielding in between your legs. He ups the weight, the number looking a lot scarier than anticipated. “Let’s try this then. You should be able to rep 10 of these.”

You shuffle, a bit unconvinced. Taking a breath, you engage the machine, exerting more effort than before but managing to do one rep. Then two, then three all the way up to ten. Enough to challenge you, but not strain you.

Jaemin howls, pinching your cheek as he says, “Look at you go! That was great.”

“Thank you,” you huff, the tingle in your thighs somehow the source of the happiness in your chest. “That was really fun, actually.”

“Isn’t it?” Jaemin smiles, using some paper towel to wipe after the machine for you. “Usually people do about three sets of those. Reps depend on what you want to do - build endurance, muscle strength, all that. But that was really great, I’m so proud of you.”

And you feel proud of yourself too. Having tried something new, feeling unsure but leaning into the feeling. Letting yourself see how far you can extend yourself, pleasantly surprised with the distance. 

So, this was what Jaemin was on about.

You continue your morning like this, getting a personalised tutoring session in how certain machines works and what areas they work out. Jaemin runs through his leg day, since you two were on the hip adduction machine, enjoying more exercises like leg press and goblet squats. By the time you get to the hip thrust machine to try, someone’s occupying it. Jaemin suggests using the squat rack, the scary thing with a long barbell and weights attached to it. Sensing your apprehension, Jaemin lets you know he’s got you, coaching you through the exercise and any queries you may have about movement or positioning. Eventually, it’s your turn to lean against the incline bench and despite your fear, you work your way through 8 hip thrusts. You don’t nearly enjoy it as much as people online talk about it, which Jaemin says,

“That’s perfectly fine. There’s so many exercises that work the same areas. You’ll find one you prefer.” 

Finished for your session, Jaemin asks for you to hold tight while he does some deadlifts. It’s maddening watching him pick up such heavy weights, concentration knitting his eyebrows together with his exposed arms flexing under the tension. Wearing a sleeveless top for the gym in theory is great, but for your mental health? Bad, so bad. 

Because even if your body rings with exhaustion, the kind that’s refreshing and ensures a peaceful slumber, you’re about ready to jump his bone. 

Ill with lust, as you’d joke. 

Jaemin snickers, snapping his waist belt off with one hand, which shouldn’t be sexy but is. Your eyes then trail to the barbell, the memory of Jaemin’s set vivid in your mind.

“Did you wanna try it?” Jaemin asks, reading your mind. “We can start off with no weights. Just the barbell. There’s also different variations of a deadlift, let’s see which one you prefer.”

Out of the three, you pick the most conventional one to start with, teeth sinking into your bottom lip at what you’ve gotten yourself into. Particularly after Jaemin loads weights on each end when you've rehearsed with the barbell.

“Think of the barbell cutting your feet in half - not standing too close so that your shins are touching it and not too far away that you have to lean to grab it,” Jaemin coaches, your feet shuffling into the right position. “Nice. Let’s move onto the hinge movement,”

From behind you, his hands settle onto your hips, pulling them back with him. He pats them, a chuckle left in his wake as he steps to your side to demonstrate without overly being horny. 

Bastard.

“Like you just did, you’ve gotta hinge your hips backwards until you can’t hinge anymore. Then, you’ll move a little into your knees, like a squat almost so you can grab the barbell,” you follow along, the barbell cold against your hands as you blow a breath.

“Great. Keep your body tense, engage your core and glutes. No arch,” his hand hovers over the arch of your back, something teasing in his smile. “Show your chest, keep your head up straight and lift the barbell up. Remember to keep it close to your body before you lower it down with the same hinge movement and movement into your knees.”

You puff out another breath, the same fear you’ve conquered throughout the session whirring in your chest.

“Don’t worry, angel,” Jaemin smiles, moving behind you again with hovered hands around your figure. “I’ve got you. You’ve got you.” 

Again, his words dawn on you. All the power in your hands, a feeling your heart wants nothing more than to run towards as you lift up the barbell, strength personified as you wait at the top of your stance, smiling at the “Let’s fucking go, you’re doing it! You’re doing it, angel!” in your ear. You hinge backwards, the weight knocked down to the floor with no tension on your back as expected.

Once you’re upright again, Jaemin engulfs you in a backhug, lifting your figure off the floor and kissing your neck, drawing giggles out of you. Joy moves through your body like warm light at his excitement that exceeds your own, belief not setting in quite yet.

“I can’t believe you,” he coos, the mirror ahead of you capturing the embrace he holds you in, the elation in his eyes as he does nothing but adore you. Like he’s always done. “Actually, I can. You’ve got a laundry list of things you’re good at. Can you believe it?”

“Not originally,” you admit, the confession somewhat bittersweet. “But after this, I think I’d better have more faith in myself.”

Fondness finds itself in his lips again, a kiss against your cheek as he gently guides you out the way, lifting the barbell onto the rack with his gaze in the mirror directed to yours. 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

And you fall into laughter, helping him slid off the weights before flexing in the mirror like you wanted, finding a different strength in yourself with Jaemin by your side.

[cha-melodius]

12 for henry & oscar for the hug prompts

(I love that you sent a Henry & Oscar prompt, and this one was so good for them. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this one is post-canon. read all the hug ficlets)

12: The “you know I’ve always got your back” hug.

One of Henry’s favourite outcomes of stepping down from his royal position was that he had more time to devote to the network of shelters that he’s been building with Pez. He loves planning the spaces, and visiting them, and meeting with the staff to figure out better ways to serve the community. Even the fundraising galas are less tedious when he can freely tell people to sod off with the ‘His Royal Highness’ nonsense and call him Henry.

These kinds of meetings he could certainly do without. Unfortunately, winning local city governments over so they’ll approve the necessary re-zoning and building permits is a vitally important part of the process, and so Henry is steeling himself for what is likely to be an unpleasant hour of his life. Usually, Pez would be here too—Pez is aces, as he puts it, with charming people, and all Henry has to do is sit there and chip in with a few key points when Pez prompts him. But Pez is travelling for some other business meeting, and Alex is stuck at home because of an important case, so Henry was resigned to facing this one alone.

That, as it turns out, isn’t quite the case.

“Cheryl Robinson will be your biggest opponent,” Oscar is telling him. “She represents—how should I put it—some of the less progressive interests in the city, and she’s unfortunately got a lot of sway. She loves dogs, though, so if you tell a cute story about David, you’ll soften her up.”

When Henry had made plans to stay with his father-in-law for this trip, he hadn’t really expected all of this, which, in retrospect, was probably silly of him. Oscar always seemed to delight in the opportunity to help them out, and unlike Alex, Henry has no hang-ups about accepting it. He’d insisted on driving Henry to his meeting and has been giving him a run-down on every city official that will be there, including every bit of inside information he has. Henry’s so grateful for the support he could cry.

He doesn’t, though. He sits in the passenger seat and takes notes—Foster, bad toupee, mention construction budget and local contracts—as they slowly make their way through LA traffic.

“Sure you don’t want me to come in?” Oscar asks when they finally arrive. He’s not wearing business-meeting clothes, but Henry thinks he probably doesn’t care.

“I think it’s probably best I don’t surprise them with a senator they’re not expecting,” Henry replies.

“Ah, you’re probably right,” Oscar says with a grin.

Henry smooths a hand over the folio containing his notes. “Thank you for all of this, though. It’s been immensely helpful.”

“Any time.”

To Henry’s surprise, Oscar follows him out of the car and stands next to him while Henry collects his briefcase from the back. When Henry turns toward him, he reaches up to straighten Henry’s tie and brush imaginary lint off the shoulder of his jacket. Henry’s used to such fussing over his appearance, though not from Oscar, and he’s certainly not used to it being the prelude to being tugged into a hug.

“They give you any trouble, you call me, ok?” Oscar says as he holds Henry tightly. “You got this, mijo.”

Right, Henry might actually cry now, which would definitely be counterproductive. He doesn’t currently trust himself to speak, so he just nods as he straightens up again, collects himself, and heads into the meeting a lot more confident than he’d been this morning.

[oneforthemunny]

also which eddie lowkey loooooves the feeling of a vibe

this answer might shock you!!

no it won't lmao, it's rockstar!eddie.

so story time!

it started off as pure curiosity. i would say engagement era, when the sex dungeon was being built. when you both are building and perfecting your toy collection.

eddie is wiping down and putting away some vibes from the night before when you two played. he's looking at this wand, and just remembering how loud you screamed, how quickly you came, how hard you came with it, and he's like, damn, is it really that good?

he decides to try it out on himself. plugs it up, lets it buzz, and then he's looking at it almost scientifically trying to figure out where to put it, where feels best, it's just not working out.

"what are you doing?"

eddie nearly falls over, dropping the vibe, dick out, pants around his ankles, looking at you with wide eyes, shocked.

"i just, uh, i was- i was just tryna see what this was all about." there's really no use lying bc he's been caught lmao. i mean it's pretty obvious what he was doing.

"yeah?" you grin, stepping towards him. "what'd you think?"

"i don't really see the hype around it." eddie shrugs, watching you pick up the still vibrating toy. "not that great."

"hm, maybe you're not doing it right." you purr, eyes batting up at him. "maybe you should let me try."

and that's how he ends up, hands loosely tied to the x cross while you worked him with the vibrator until he came.

[kiesbrainjuice]

— WILDFLOWER ! timeskip!atsumu

➥ pr : timeskip!atsumu x famous!fem!reader

➥ syn : after a tough argument with your boyfriend, you got in a car accident…

➥ wc : 3.1k

➥ tw : tough argument, car accident, injured reader, angst to comfort, crying reader, y/n employed a lil.

➥ a/n : trauma era ! (it’s weird I’ll stop)

The lights of Shibuya sparkled like they always did—a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of neon advertisements flashing bright against the obsidian night sky, painting the urban landscape in vibrant, electric hues of pink, cerulean, and electric blue. Massive screens flickered with advertisements, music videos, and breaking news, casting their ever-changing glow across the bustling streets below. But high above the cacophony of the city, inside the sleek, minimalist luxury penthouse that had once been their sanctuary, the air was thick with a different kind of electricity—raw, crackling tension that threatened to consume everything in its path.

The once warm and welcoming space now felt cold, almost suffocating. Gone were the soft throw pillows carefully arranged by interior designers, the artful photography capturing moments of their shared past, the subtle scent of sandalwood that typically permeated the air. Now, there was only silence punctuated by ragged breathing and the distant hum of Tokyo's nightlife.

Atsumu stood by the kitchen counter, a study in controlled fury. His muscular frame was tense, arms crossed over his chest, revealing the definition of years of professional volleyball training. His brow was furrowed, a familiar competitive edge that usually served him on the court now turned inward, sharp and dangerous. His blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, was slightly disheveled—a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil brewing inside him.

You were on the opposite side of the room, pacing back and forth. Your designer heels—Louboutins, a gift from a recent magazine shoot—clacked against the pristine marble floor in a staccato rhythm that matched the racing of your heart. Each step was a statement, a declaration of your growing frustration.

The penthouse, situated in one of Shibuya's most exclusive high-rises, had always been a symbol of your collective success. But tonight, it felt more like a pressure cooker, ready to explode under the weight of unspoken resentments and mounting professional tensions.

"I'm so sick of this, Atsumu!" you screamed, your voice a complex mixture of rage and profound hurt. Tears streamed down your face, tracing perfect lines through your meticulously applied makeup. Your hands, adorned with delicate rings from your latest endorsement deals, gestured wildly, punctuating each word with raw emotion. "You're never here! Never! And when you are, all we do is fight. I've spent the last five years supporting you, loving you, waiting for you—while I'm out there building my own damn career!"

The vulnerability beneath your anger was palpable. These weren't just the words of a frustrated partner, but of someone who had consistently placed another's dreams ahead of their own, only to feel increasingly marginalized and forgotten.

Atsumu's response was immediate, defensive—a reflex honed from years of facing down opponents on the volleyball court. "And what? You expect me to just drop everything?!" His voice was louder than you'd ever heard it before, a mixture of Osaka dialect and raw emotion. "You think bein' a professional volleyball player is just fun and games? That it doesn't take everythin' I have to stay at the top?"

His words were defensive, but underneath lay a deep-seated insecurity. The volleyball world was unforgiving, with careers that could end in an instant. Every moment not training, not preparing, felt like a potential threat to everything he had worked for.

"That's not what I'm saying!" you yelled back, your voice cracking with a complexity of emotions. As you wiped furiously at your cheeks, the carefully constructed persona of the confident model and actress momentarily dissolved, revealing the deeply wounded individual beneath. "But it's like I don't exist to you anymore, Atsumu! It's like I'm just a damn afterthought!"

You paused, inhaling sharply, gathering the last reserves of your emotional ammunition. When you spoke again, your words were calculated, designed to wound. "You know what? Maybe you love volleyball more than you ever loved me."

The silence that followed was deafening.

The sting in your words was palpable—a razor-sharp blade that cut through the carefully constructed facade of their relationship. In Atsumu's eyes, you could see a storm brewing. His pupils dilated, the golden-brown irises darkening with a mixture of hurt, anger, and something deeper—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.

His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching near his temple—a tell-tale sign of his rising frustration. The fists at his sides tightened, knuckles turning white, betraying the athletic control he typically maintained with such precision. Years of professional volleyball had taught him to channel emotions, to convert raw feeling into explosive physical energy. But here, in the intimate battlefield of their home, those skills failed him completely.

"Don't even start with that crap," he spat, his voice dripping with venom that was more pain than malice. The Osaka dialect grew thicker, a subconscious retreat into his most authentic self—the version of Atsumu that existed before the fame, before the pressure, before the constant performance of being a professional athlete. "You're the one out there posin' half-naked for the world to see! You don't even care about what that does to me, do ya? Every single time I see your face plastered all over those magazines, I'm reminded of how everyone else gets to see what's supposed to be mine!"

The words hung in the air, loaded with possessiveness, insecurity, and a deep-seated fear of loss.

You froze, his words slicing through you like a knife. The transformation was immediate—from emotional vulnerability to razor-sharp defensive mode. "Excuse me?" you said, voice dangerously low, each syllable carefully enunciated. The model's training kicked in—controlled, precise, devastating. "What's supposed to be yours? Atsumu, I'm not some possession you can just claim. I've worked my ass off to get where I am. And if you can't handle my success, that's on you—not me."

Your career hadn't been a gift. It had been a battlefield of its own—endless castings, brutal rejections, critical eyes dissecting every inch of your appearance, your talent, your worth. Each magazine cover, each commercial, each film role had been hard-won, purchased with countless sleepless nights and moments of self-doubt.

"Oh, so now I'm the bad guy?" he shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm that barely concealed his hurt. "Yeah, sure. Poor you. The perfect little model and actress who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter. Do ya even realize how lucky you are?"

The accusation hung between them—a gross oversimplification of a complex journey.

Your mouth fell open, shock mixing with the anger that burned in your chest like an uncontrollable wildfire. "Lucky?" you repeated, the word dripping with disbelief and mounting fury. You took a step closer to him, closing the physical distance between you, your presence electric and challenging. "You think my career is easy? That I haven't sacrificed just as much as you have?"

The vulnerability returned, raw and unfiltered. "You have no idea what it's like to have your entire life picked apart by strangers, to have people constantly criticize you, to feel like you're never enough no matter how hard you try!"

In that moment, the fight transformed. It was no longer just about time, or absence, or professional demands. It was about two individuals drowning in the expectations of their careers, of society, of each other—desperately trying to maintain their individual identities while simultaneously trying to maintain a relationship.

The room fell silent, heavy with unsaid things. The city continued its relentless pulse outside, indifferent to the emotional storm raging within the penthouse. Neon lights continued to dance across the windows, a stark contrast to the stillness inside.

"I can't do this anymore," you whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of you. Your voice was soft, but filled with a finality that seemed to reverberate through the entire space. Shaking your head, you grabbed your designer handbag—a Chanel piece that had been a hard-earned gift by Atsumu after a particularly challenging campaign.

"Where the hell do ya think you're goin'?" Atsumu barked, his voice rising again, a last-ditch attempt to maintain control of a situation rapidly slipping away.

"Anywhere but here," you snapped, your hand already reaching for the Porsche keys in the decorative bowl by the door. The keys clinked against each other, a metallic punctuation to your decision. "I can't even stand to look at you right now."

Before he could respond—before he could plead, argue, or attempt to reconcile—you slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the penthouse, a final, definitive statement that seemed to echo the fracturing of something once believed to be unbreakable.

—

Travis Scott's "SICKO MODE" blasted at maximum volume, the bass so loud it seemed to vibrate through your very bones. The irony wasn't lost on you—a song about chaos and intensity perfectly matching the emotional storm raging inside your mind. The lyrics seemed to mock your pain, each beat a punctuation to your spiraling thoughts.

The words rang out, and you laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that was more sob than anything else.

"I'm so fucking useless," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the thundering music. Tears streamed down your face, cutting perfect lines through your carefully applied makeup. "Nobody could ever really love me. Not Atsumu. Not anyone."

The streets of Tokyo blurred past, your Porsche cutting through the night like a silver blade of desperation. Every word from the fight replayed in your mind with merciless precision. Atsumu's accusations echoed like razor-sharp whispers, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"You don't even care about me anymore," his voice rang in your ears. "You'd rather show off for strangers than even try to make this work."

The music swelled, Travis Scott's voice a backdrop to your internal breakdown.

"I'm nothing," you muttered, your grip on the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. "Just a pretty face. Just something to look at. Never enough to be truly loved." The words were a mantra of self-destruction, each one landing like a physical blow.

Your mind was a tempest of emotions—guilt, rage, self-hatred swirling together in a hurricane of pain. The city lights streaked past like watercolor brushstrokes, Tokyo's infamous neon landscape becoming an impressionistic canvas of blues, pinks, and electric whites.

You pushed the Porsche faster, as if speed could outrun the pain, could silence the voices in your head. The powerful engine roared beneath you, a mechanical beast responding to your emotional turmoil. At 180 kilometers per hour, the world outside became an indistinct smear, much like your sense of self—undefined, chaotic, on the verge of complete disintegration.

The irony of the lyrics wasn't lost on you. Ideas of worthlessness, of being unlovable, of being nothing more than a commodity—they filled your mind completely.

The intersection approached—a critical point of convergence that would change everything in a heartbeat.

The sharp, piercing sound of a car horn sliced through the music. A moment of stark clarity emerged, milliseconds stretching into an eternity. Your head turned, eyes widening as massive headlights barreled toward you, bright and unforgiving.

Travis Scott's voice was the last thing you heard.

The impact was sudden. Violent. Apocalyptic.

Metal screamed against metal, a cacophonous symphony of destruction that mixed with the final echoes of the song. Your Porsche—a machine engineered for precision and speed—was reduced to a crumpled sculpture of twisted metal and shattered dreams. The collision flung the car across the intersection with a force that defied physics, spinning and tumbling like a discarded thought.

And then, silence.

Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood, rising like a spectral mourner above the wreckage. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind a ringing silence that seemed to echo your final, unspoken thoughts.

"Atsu…," you whispered, as darkness began to creep in.

The city continued its relentless pulse, indifferent to the personal tragedy that had just unfolded on its streets. Neon lights flickered, a final, distant reminder of a life that now seemed impossibly far away.

—

The phone's shrill ring cut through the silence of the penthouse. Atsumu, still frozen in the aftermath of your departure, instinctively reached for his mobile. The caller ID displayed the hospital's number—a sight that immediately sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system.

"Hello?," he answered, his voice raw from their earlier argument.

The words that followed would forever divide his life into two distinct periods: before and after this moment.

"Sakusa Kei Memorial Hospital," the voice said. "We're calling about a patient involved in a severe traffic collision. Are you the emergency contact for y/n?"

Time seemed to stop.

The next hours passed in a blur of sterile white corridors, the acrid smell of disinfectant, and the constant beeping of medical equipment. Atsumu's athletic composure—usually so precise, so controlled—completely dissolved. His hands shook as he filled out medical forms, his usually confident Osaka dialect reduced to fragmented, desperate whispers.

The hospital room was quieter than Atsumu had expected, save for the soft hum of machines monitoring your vitals. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of his fear as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, lying amidst a sea of white linens and medical equipment. The sight nearly brought him to his knees.

Your body looked so small, so fragile against the stark hospital bed. Bruises bloomed across your exposed skin like shadows of the argument that had led you here. A cast encased your left leg, another your arm, and your face was marred with small cuts and swelling that no makeup could disguise. But your eyes—their familiar light dimmed but not extinguished—opened slowly at the sound of his approach.

“Atsumu,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a fragile thread that tugged at his heart.

He froze mid-step, his athletic frame tense, as though moving too quickly might shatter what little remained of you. Tears, warm and unwelcome, blurred his vision as he stumbled forward, his legs carrying him to your side.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. His hand hovered over yours, afraid to touch, afraid of breaking you further. “God, I’m so sorry, darlin’. This is all my fault.”

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion from the accident and the aftermath evident in every line of your body. For a moment, you said nothing, letting his words settle into the quiet. Then, with more strength than he thought you could muster, you managed, “Don’t… do that.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed in confusion, guilt momentarily eclipsed by the sharpness of your tone, fragile though it was. “Do what?” he asked softly, his voice a broken echo of its usual bravado.

“Don’t you dare make this about you,” you replied, your voice gaining a sliver of its familiar fire. “This isn’t your fault, Atsumu. I was the one driving. I was the one who left.”

The tears he had tried so hard to control now fell freely, streaking down his face as he shook his head vehemently. “But ya wouldn’t have been drivin’ like that if it weren’t for me,” he countered, his Osaka dialect thick with emotion. “If I hadn’t been such an idiot—if I hadn’t said those awful things—ya wouldn’t have been out there at all.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of his guilt palpable in the room. “And if I’d listened to you instead of trying to win the argument… maybe I wouldn’t have stormed out,” you admitted, your tone soft but unwavering. “We were both wrong, Atsumu. Both of us.”

The admission seemed to strike him harder than any spike he’d ever taken on the court. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at you as though you were some ethereal being he’d never quite been worthy of. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sank into the chair beside your bed, his head dropping into his hands.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he muttered, his voice muffled but no less raw. “I thought I lost ya. When they called me and said you’d been in a crash…” His voice cracked, and he lifted his head, his golden-brown eyes now rimmed red with unshed tears. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

You reached for him, wincing as your arm protested the movement. Despite the pain, you managed to place your uninjured hand over his. The contact was light, hesitant, but it was enough to anchor both of you. “I’m here, Atsumu,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, as though he was fighting against every emotion threatening to spill out. Slowly, his hand turned under yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that was both tender and desperate. “I’ve been such a damn fool,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on your intertwined hands. “I’ve been so caught up in everythin’—the games, the pressure, provin’ myself—that I forgot… I forgot what really matters.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his voice, at the sight of the man you loved stripped down to his very core. “You matter to me, Atsumu,” you said, your tone firm despite the weakness in your body. “But I need to matter to you, too. Not as an afterthought. Not as something you’ll get to when volleyball isn’t in the way.”

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening as though he was afraid to let go. “You do,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You matter more than anythin’. More than volleyball, more than any championship, more than everythin’ I’ve ever worked for. I just… I didn’t know how to show ya that without feelin’ like I was givin’ somethin’ up. But I see it now. I see you now.”

A single tear escaped down your cheek, and you squeezed his hand gently. “Then show me, Atsumu,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of everything left unsaid. “Be here with me. Don’t just tell me—show me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy but not oppressive, a quiet understanding passing between you as the city lights outside cast shifting patterns on the walls. Finally, Atsumu leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture so soft, so reverent, that it nearly undid you.

“I will,” he promised, his lips brushing against your skin with each word. “I’ll show ya. Every day, every damn moment. I’m gonna make this right, darlin’. I swear it.”

The weight of his words settled into your chest, warm and grounding.

The hospital room was still, the hum of machines and the distant sounds of the city your only company. But in that stillness, amidst the aftermath of chaos and pain, the first fragile threads of healing began to weave themselves through the fractures of your relationship.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him.

Ⓒkiesbrainjuice all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

tag : @haechansbbg

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Not one step back: Part II

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“What’d they say?”

Major Mark looked at his radio operator and shrugged.

“Don’t know; they hung up on me.”

“Rude.” The radio operator chuckled before returning to his control console.

The command bunker shook as another barrage of Glek’n shredder missiles struck outside. The radio operators crouched for cover while the Major pulled out a smoke and lit it.

“Relax lads,” he calmly said as he grinned, “those things are meant to shred infantry, not punch through buildings.”

The operators looked slightly more assured and returned to their seats. Mark tapped the shoulder and spoke softly to the operator he had used prior.

“Keep trying to reach command, and let me know the moment you’ve got them back on the line.”

With renewed vigor the operator nodded and began broadcasting again trying to reach coalition command as the major adjusted his helmet and made for the bunker’s entrance.

Outside the radio room waiting were several captains, their eyes all asking the same thing.

“It seems we had been instructed to retreat,” the major began as he took a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs for a brief moment of bliss before the inevitable exhale, “but in their great wisdom coalition command failed to tell us until after the fact.”

A collective murmur of curses under breath and groans of disappointment swept over the captains as the near hopelessness of their situation further set in.

The Glek’n had launched a massive counter offensive across the entire planet ad by all reports coalition forces were being pushed back across the board. Except that is, for where they were standing.

Positioned atop a series of hills overlooking the only bridge across the Nexian river, the 199th had dug in and were holding back repeated offensives across the bridge to try and establish a beachhead. The end of the bridge on their side was littered with the broken bodies of Glek’n warriors and the hollow remains of destroyed armored vehicles.

Morale was holding strong but Mark knew it was only a matter of time before the Glek’n crossed one of the smaller bridges further up or down stream and completed their encirclement. He considered pulling the entire 199th up and making a quick march back towards coalition lines, but even now the noose was already tightening and they’d never make it time. They could either run and fight in the open or stay and fight in their trenches.

While pondering this dilemma a sudden realization dawned on him and the other captains.

The missile barrage had ceased.

“Out now.” Mark ordered as he pushed past his captains and exited the bunker. The green glow of the sky made him squint for a moment before his eyes adjusted but he was already moving to the nearest trench. Behind him the captains began likewise diving into trenches and scattering to rejoin their units and prepare for the next attack.

Mark snaked his way through a series of trenches towards the forward trench overlooking the bridge. All around him the soldiers of the 199th were emerging from dugouts and taking up firing positions. The injured were carried away on stretchers while the more unfortunate were pushed to the side of the trench to be buried later.

As he approached the front trench one of the soldiers saw him and handed him a pair of binoculars.

“Sir.” He nodded in greeting but never took his eyes off the bridge. Mark returned the nod and took the offered binoculars.

“What’ve we got?” Mark asked as he trained in on the bridge and the opposite bank.

“Something rather strange, sir.”

Mark was about to ask what in the nine hells that meant when he found his answer.

Slowly walking across the bridge carrying a large white cloth tied to a stick was a lone Glek’n warrior. Their armor was richly decorated but not overly ostentatious so he wagered they were a sub commander at best.

The Major watched the Glek’n sub commander navigate their way through the mounds of corpses he turned to the soldier next to him. “Do we have the translator unit still?” he asked. To his relief the soldier nodded. “Despite everything it’s one of the few things that hasn’t blown up.”

Mark held out his hand and the soldier quickly handed him the translator box. Turning up the volume to max, the Major addressed the approaching Glek’n.

“That’s far enough, stay there!”

The Glek’n flinched and cast their eyes around as if expecting a bullet at any moment. When none came they held up the white flag and waved it for all to see.

“You have fought bravely and with honor.” The Glek’n began, their English strained and barely understandable.

“Thank you,” the Major replied with a grin, “I wish I could say the same to you but judging from where you are standing it’d be a lie.”

The Glek’n winced from the insult but continued.

“My commander wishes to offer you terms of surrender. There is no need for you to die here today.”

Mark was about to reply to the offer when he stopped himself and thought. There was no guarantee Coalition forces would be able to reach them and they were now deep behind enemy lines. They had supplies but the more they fought the quicker they’d burn through them until they were down to fists and harsh language.

Turning to the soldier next to him the Major asked “What should I tell them?”

Without missing a beat the soldier grinned and replied “Tell’m to fuck off, sir.”

The Major smiled and patted the soldier on the back as he was reminded of the fighting spirit his soldiers still held on to even in these dark times. He brought the translator unit back up to give his reply and take on whatever may come next.

[ari-zonia]

How's the limbus LCE Checkup?

I cleared the story nodes yesterday and it's very, VERY interesting.

I've been playing PM games since LobCorp so I'm well versed in the lore, and I appreciate the expansion of the already established goings on.

Honestly, the checkup answered a lot of the questions I'd been asking lately some of which will help with current writing projects

Honestly the part that interested me the most is that they said that Distortions eventually become Abnormalities and they lose all sense of what their previous identity even was. That's kind of been something I had been wondering is when the distinction ends.

Honestly it does raise further questions to what the hell Don Quixote and Bloodfiends even are. Back in LobCorp and Ruina, Nosferatu was classified as an Abnormality through and through, just particularly old and naturally occurring like the Black Forest birds. But, in Distortion Detective, it's explained that Old Blood Bloodfiends (what I call Nosferatu and his kindred) are naturally occurring Distortions, while Elena was just straight up a Distortion caused by the White Nights.

We know that LobCorp's entire Singularity was creating Abnormalities, so a lot of the ones we've met through all the games were previously people that got injected with Cogito. But, there's still a LOT of them that just exist and we don't know how. Like Little Helper and We Can Change Anything from another Wing, the Magical Girls, and 1.76mHz.

Honestly, the most interesting thing that came up this chapter is Faust boldly proclaiming P Corp's Singularity is to "make the safest place in the world" because that reconfirms that the Shelther From The 27th of March is not only something made by P Corp, but us so outright bizarre that it got classified as an Abnormality. That's never really been anything that's been clarified is how entire buildings (and radio frequencies given mHz) can even BECOME Abnormalities. (I think Distortion Detective has a building that's a Distortion too but don't quote me on that, but I think that was a collective conscious thing like Time Ripper)

Like, that has to be because of something of the Smoke War I feel, since that's the last major event in the City BEFORE LobCorp's founding that could have created those.

These games have always had the unique relationship and crossover between E.G.O., Distortion, and Abnormalities even before adding in the Peccatulae. So I'm curious how much deeper this rabbit hole goes.

Also, just as an aside, I really like Hohenheim

[bigmpregnm]

Christmas Magic - Part 2

[Story Collection] | [Part 1] [●] ✅

Mark woke up, blinking repeatedly at the clock on his nightstand. The glowing numbers read 6:00 AM. He groaned softly, his mind still foggy from sleep. For a moment, he wondered if the previous night’s events had been nothing more than an incredibly vivid dream. He could remember Nick’s immense weight over him, the enormous cock buried deep inside, and the beautiful blue eyes locked into his while the big guy fucked him. Mark smiled as he tried to sit up, but he felt heavier than ever. His body felt different—heavier, rounder, and undeniably fuller. Alarmed, Mark threw off the sheets, his breath catching in his throat as his gaze fell on his body.

“What the—?!” Mark shouted, processing the sight. “I’m HUGE!”

Mark’s once-average build now looked gigantic. His belly was now enormous, stretching outward like a yoga ball attached to his torso, its surface taut and smooth. Its sheer size and weight were astounding, anchoring him to the mattress as he tried to adjust his position. Mark’s hands moved instinctively to cradle the massive curve, his fingers trembling as he felt the firmness beneath his skin. He could feel movement—soft kicks and rolls from within—confirming the reality of his situation. But the shock didn’t end there.

His chest had also grown. His pectorals had grown into basketball-sized, milk-filled mounds that rested heavily on his belly while also pressing against his chin. The skin was taut, flushed, and tender, his large nipples darker and engorged, prepared for lactation after the impending arrival of the babies. His hips had widened significantly, giving him an hourglass shape, and his ass was fuller and rounder, making Mark laugh at their massiveness. He had always loved his big, muscular ass, and now he had by far the biggest bubble butt he had seen on a man.

Mark’s breath came in shallow gasps as he struggled to shift his position. The sheer size of his belly made even the slightest movement a challenge. He groaned softly, planting his hands on either side of him for support as he inched himself upright. The effort sent a ripple of motion through his belly, and he winced, feeling the unmistakable tightening of a contraction. The pressure within his belly grew steadily, and he clutched the massive curve, his fingers splayed across its surface as he tried to steady his breathing. The contraction passed after a moment, leaving him panting and bewildered.

“This… this is real,” Mark whispered, his voice barely audible. He could feel the babies moving inside him, the weight of the ten babies shifting with every breath he took.

As he adjusted himself further, another contraction hit, stronger this time. Mark gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the bed. He could feel the pressure building, an unmistakable sign that labor was beginning in earnest. The sensation was overwhelming, but amidst the pain, Mark marveled at the miracle of it all. He was scared, but deep down, he couldn’t help but enjoy the movement of so many babies inside him.

He let out a low groan as his water broke, the warm sensation flooding his bed. “Oh, fuck! It hurts,” he said, clutching his belly as the first baby moved into position. The reality of what was happening washed over him—he was in labor, and there was no turning back now. Despite the pain, Mark retained his composure, and taking a deep breath, he focused on his goal: Bringing these kids into the world. It was for Asher.

Mark lay back against the pillows, his breath hitching as another contraction rippled through his massive belly. His body trembled as sweat beaded on his brow, and the contractions peaked. The enormity of his belly dominated his frame, and every contraction sent a visible ripple across the taut surface. His breaths were shallow and quick as he adjusted himself, unsuccessfully trying to find a more comfortable position.

However, Mark managed to shift onto his back, grunting and propping himself up slightly with the pillows. The effort was monumental, his widened hips, huge pecs, massive ass, and swollen body making even the smallest movements a challenge. His hands instinctively cradled the enormous curve of his belly, feeling the firmness of his stretched skin and the restless movement from the babies within. As he tried to steady his breathing, he noticed a neatly wrapped box beside him on the bed with an elegant red and gold ribbon tied around it. With trembling fingers, he reached for the attached note. The contractions made his hands shaky, but he managed to unfold the paper and read the elegant handwriting:

“In this box, you’ll find everything you need for the delivery. Let your body do its work, and the magic in the cookie, combined with my magic in the babies, will do the rest. I’ll be back in the morning. Good luck, handsome. –Nick.”

Despite the pain, Mark couldn’t help but smile. Nick’s thoughtfulness and sweetness brought some comfort amidst the chaos of his current state. Setting the note aside, he untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside, he found everything he could need: soft towels, sterilized scissors, clamps, clean blankets, and even small knit caps for the newborns. He didn’t know what to do with any of the supplies, but he loved how meticulously it was prepared.

Just as he reached for a towel, a contraction hit with sudden intensity, forcing a groan from his lips. Mark clutched the sides of his belly, feeling the tightness spreading through his entire abdomen. Instinctively, he positioned himself further back on the bed, his legs bending and spreading slightly as his body prepared for what was to come. The pressure intensified, and Mark could feel the first baby moving downward. His breaths came in rapid gasps, and he gripped the sheets tightly. His body stretched in ways Mark hadn’t thought possible, and though the pain was sharp, it didn’t feel as terrible as Mark expected, thanks to Christmas magic. He bore down instinctively, his body taking over as he pushed.

Each push brought the baby closer. The sensation was an intense combination of pain, pressure, and wonder that left Mark gasping. He could feel the incredible strain as the baby crowned, the burn of his skin stretching, sending shivers down his spine. Every fiber of his body focused on this singular moment, his breath hitching as he summoned the last reserves of his strength. With one final push, he felt the immense weight of the first baby leave his body, a rush of relief and disbelief washing over him.

A soft cry broke the silence, filling the room with the undeniable sound of a new life. Mark blinked back tears as his eyes fell on the tiny newborn lying against the mattress, its delicate arms flailing weakly, its tiny features scrunched as it wailed. He was overcome by emotions that nearly took his breath away.

“Come with Daddy,” he whispered, his voice trembling as tears streamed freely down his cheeks. Summoning his strength, Mark carefully leaned forward despite the protests of his sore and exhausted body. His arms quivered as he reached out, his hands trembling as they carefully cradled the squirming bundle of joy. The baby’s cries softened as Mark brought him close, settling the newborn against his chest like the most precious treasure. “Oh, you’re so big and so handsome. How can you be so cute?” He couldn’t help but notice the resemblance—the baby was the spitting image of Asher as a newborn, with the same round cheeks and tufts of soft hair. Tears streamed down Mark’s face as he kissed the baby’s forehead.

Somehow, instinct and the magic guiding the process told him what to do. Using the contents of the box, he carefully cleaned the baby, clamping and cutting the umbilical cord with precise movements. He wrapped the tiny newborn in one of the soft blankets, marveling at how cute he looked. The baby instinctively turned toward him, clearly asking for milk. Mark adjusted slightly, guiding the infant to his engorged nipple. The moment the baby latched, a new emotion crashed over him, and he wept openly, overwhelmed by the beauty of the moment.

However, as the baby suckled contentedly, Mark glanced down at his still-massive belly, realizing the journey was far from over. He sighed, feeling the unmistakable tightening of another contraction building. The realization that there were nine more babies to deliver was scary. But the bundle of joy in his arms gave him strength, and imagining the smile this would bring to Asher made him get in position again to bring more miracles into the world.

The subsequent deliveries were faster and slightly easier than the first. Each baby still made Mark face new challenges as the contractions made him groan and pushed his body to its absolute limit. He groaned and grunted with every push, struggling not to disturb the baby in his arms. His body was drenched in sweat, the salty droplets tracing paths down his flushed skin as he fought through the waves of discomfort. His massive belly was still taut and heavy, shifting with effort as each contraction sent dramatic ripples across its surface.

Despite the exhaustion etched into every fiber of his being, Mark continued pushing, finding strength in the tiny faces gathering around him after each delivery. He couldn’t help but chuckle between gasping breaths when one baby, already swaddled snugly, let out a particularly loud cry as if cheering him on. “Alright, alright, I hear you,” he kindly said despite his pain. “Your siblings are coming, I promise.”

One by one, the babies were born, their coos blending into a symphony that filled the room. Each new arrival tested Mark in different ways—one baby wanted more milk while another made its debut with surprising swiftness, nearly catching him off guard. He worked methodically despite his trembling hands, using the items Nick had provided to clean and care for each baby with tender precision. He ensured they were warm and safe before tucking them beside him, creating a growing group of soft blankets and cooing bundles of joy.

By the time the tenth baby arrived, Mark was utterly spent. His body ached in ways he couldn’t describe, his breaths coming in labored gasps. But as Mark looked at the ten tiny faces beside him, a profound sense of fulfillment washed over him. Once he delivered the placenta, he sighed deeply. He had done it—he had brought them all into the world. His bed was a delightful scene of chaos and wonder. The sheer number of little faces looking back at him was almost comical—ten tiny humans, all nestled around him, and their cuteness was a balm for his aching body. Despite the overwhelming nature of the experience, Mark couldn’t help but smile.

Mark carefully arranged the babies beside him, ensuring each one was comfortable and secure. He glanced at the clock, noting the time—6:45 AM. Fifteen minutes until Asher would wake up. Despite his exhaustion, Mark knew he needed to clean up and prepare for the surprise. Suddenly, a cold breeze appeared out of nowhere, surrounding Mark and the babies in a soft tornado-like tube and cleaning everything around. The box with the supplies disappeared, along with the placenta and the fluids soaking the mattress. By the time the tornado dissipated, the bed, Mark, and the babies were clean. The soreness, however, lingered.

Mark repeatedly blinked as he looked around. He could only smile as he realized that this was all part of Nick’s Christmas magic, which was also part of the babies. Then, Mark began the slow process of getting to his feet. His body was still heavy and sore, but he was excited. The sight of his ten newborns gave him all the motivation he needed to make this Christmas morning one Asher would never forget.

Mark took a steadying breath, feeling the ache in his body as he carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. His movements were slow as if rediscovering how to move his new body. The weight of his body had shifted dramatically. Placing his hands on the mattress, he pushed himself upright. His muscles protested, trembling slightly under the strain, but he managed to rise to his feet. His balance was slightly off due to his widened hips and fuller frame, but he slowly steadied himself.

Mark’s gaze was drawn to the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. He shuffled toward it, still adjusting to the changes in his body. When he finally stood before the mirror, he froze. The reflection staring back at him was almost unrecognizable but undeniably him. His belly, recently enormous and tight with the weight of ten babies, now appeared much smaller but still prominent. It was a soft, rounded curve that looked as if he were full-term with one large baby. He placed his hands on the gentle swell, marveling at how plush and soft it felt compared to its former firmness.

As his hands traveled upward, his attention shifted to his chest. Without the enormous presence of his pregnant belly, his chest now dominated his reflection. It was enormous, heavy with milk, and his nipples darkened and engorged from the demands of feeding the babies. He ran his fingers lightly over the taut skin, wincing slightly at their sensitivity but smiling because he knew it was all to feed his babies.

His hips were visibly wider than before, giving his figure a rounded softness. His ass was also larger and fuller, making him laugh again at its ridiculous size. Even his thighs seemed thicker, supporting the weight of his entire body. He turned slightly, examining himself from different angles, unable to suppress a smile. The magic had changed him, but he felt an unexpected pride in the reflection that stared back at him.

The pajama pants he had worn the night before lay on the floor beside the bed. Bending down to pick them up was a challenge because his body was still sore. He straightened slowly, holding the fabric in his hands before attempting to pull them on. As he worked the pants over his legs, he realized just how much his body had grown. The material stretched tight over his thicker thighs, butt, and hips, clinging to every curve and making the waistband dig slightly into the softness of his waist. He tugged them as far as they would go, chuckling softly at how snug they felt.

“Guess I’ll need a wardrobe upgrade,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head as he adjusted the overly stretched fabric around his butt.

Just as he adjusted the waistband one final time, he heard the familiar sound of small footsteps padding down the hallway. Mark’s heart beat faster, and he quickly moved back to the bed, settling himself carefully beside the ten tiny bundles of joy. The babies were nestled snugly in their blankets, their little faces peaceful and angelic. Mark positioned himself to greet Asher with the best surprise of his young life.

The door creaked open, and Asher appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as they took in the scene. “Dad!” he exclaimed in surprise. He hurried into the room, his eyes moving between Mark and the row of babies. “Are these… Are these my brothers?” he asked, his voice trembling with excitement.

Mark smiled warmly, inviting Asher to approach. “Someone told me what you asked for,” he said. “Merry Christmas, buddy.”

Asher practically jumped onto the bed, his small hands reaching out to touch the nearest baby. He was careful, his touch gentle as he examined each tiny face. “There’s so many of them!” he whispered, his eyes shining.

“Well, you sent ten letters to Santa.” Mark chuckled, slightly wincing as Asher hugged him and accidentally pressed against his sore belly. “Careful, kiddo. Dad’s a bit sore today.”

Asher immediately pulled back, finally noticing how much his dad’s body had changed. “Sorry, Dad! Are you okay? Why are you so big?”

Mark ruffled Asher’s hair, smiling. “I’m fine, buddy. My body’s just adjusting. It changed a lot to take care of your brothers.”

Asher’s eyes widened again, and he looked down at Mark’s chest. “Will you feed them like Lucy’s mom does with her baby?” he asked, addressing one of his classmates’ mom.

Mark nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly. “That’s right. They’ll need a lot of care. And they need their milk,” Mark said, caressing the side of his right pecs. Asher smiled, throwing his arms around Mark in a hug again and pushing his body against the enormous pecs. Despite the soreness, Mark returned the embrace, his heart nearly bursting with happiness.

“I’m so happy, Dad. This is the best Christmas ever!” Asher exclaimed, and Mark laughed softly, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Asher then pulled back slightly, his face alight with another revelation. “Oh! And Santa brought so many presents! The living room’s full of them! I couldn’t even get to the tree!”

Mark blinked in surprise and confusion. “Full? But I— I mean, what do you mean?”

Asher nodded, bouncing on the bed. “Come see, Dad! You have to see!”

Mark glanced at the babies, ensuring they were secure in the center of the bed. “Alright, let’s go see,” he said, carefully standing. He followed Asher down the hall, one step at a time due to his sore hips. When they reached the living room, Mark stopped in his tracks, his jaw-dropping. Towering piles of gifts filled the space, stacking so high they seemed to dwarf the Christmas tree. There were bright packages of every size and shape, ribbons and bows sparkling in the soft glow of the lights. Among them, Mark noticed a section dedicated to baby supplies—strollers, carriers, cribs—but most were clearly for Asher.

Mark’s chest tightened as he realized this was Nick’s doing, a final touch of magic to make their Christmas unforgettable. Asher sneaked into the room, spinning in circles among the gits as he tried to decide what to open first. He paused, looking back at Mark. “I want to stay with the babies, but I want to open presents too!”

Mark laughed, stepping closer and placing a hand on Asher’s shoulder. “We have time for both, buddy. It’s Christmas, so these gifts and the babies aren’t going anywhere,” he said, making Asher grin, his happiness radiating through the room as Mark watched him and smiled.

Mark stood among the presents, carefully massaging his overfilled chest. The sensation was relieving as his engorged nipples were incredibly sensitive after nursing the newborns. Despite the discomfort, he couldn’t stop smiling as he listened to Asher’s gleeful laughter ringing through the house. His son was running back and forth between the living room and the bedroom, alternating between admiring his gifts and talking to the baby brothers.

Then, the doorbell suddenly rang, startling Mark from his thoughts. He paused, his hands still on his chest, and glanced toward the door. He slowly walked toward the door, mindful of his sore hips and the heaviness in his step as he adjusted to his post-pregnancy body. Tugging at the waistband of his snug pajama pants, he only opened the door a bit to see who it was without exposing his massive frame.

Mark’s face lit up when he saw Nick standing there, his enormous presence filling the doorway. His tiny red briefs were gone; instead, Nick wore a deep green sweater that clung tightly to his broad chest and muscular arms, the fabric stretched taut over the impressive bulk of his torso. The deep V-neck hinted at his thick, corded neck, which was further accentuated by the crimson scarf draped casually around it, adding a festive touch. Below, dark jeans hugged his powerful thighs, their seams strained as they contoured to every curve of his legs. The snug fit did little to hide the massive bulge at the front, a detail that made Mark’s cheeks flush as he remembered how that cock felt inside him. Even in these regular clothes, his physique left nothing to the imagination.

Nick kindly smiled, his blue eyes shining with excitement. “Hello, handsome. Merry Christmas. May I come in?”

Mark smiled and nodded, stepping back to let Nick inside. The towering man slightly ducked as he entered, his size making the entryway feel even smaller. Nick’s eyes immediately swept over Mark, taking in his widened hips, massive ass, softer belly, and the fullness of his chest. “You look incredible,” Nick said with admiration. “Motherhood suits you,” he added, carefully reaching for Mark’s massive pecs to caress them.

Mark blushed and softly moaned at the contact, unable to resist Nick’s sweet touch. “Thanks,” he shyly responded. “It was all worth it. Asher’s been over the moon about the babies. He’s so excited, and it’s all thanks to you.”

Nick smiled broadly. “I told you it would all be worth it. And I hope you have enjoyed the whole experience too,” he said, moving his hands lower to caress Mark’s soft abdomen.

“I did. I loved it,” Mark responded, shivering as Nick’s hands explored his body. “But now I don’t know how I will go out looking like this and how I will explain that now I have 10 more kids.”

“Don’t worry. Thanks to Christmas magic, everyone will see this as perfectly normal. You and your family can live happily without raising any eyebrows. People won’t ask questions, and they won’t mind you having these massive tits,” Nick said, winking at Mark. “Well, they’ll mind, but not in a bad way. I’m sure you turn heads with that massive butt you now have. This is the hottest transformation I’ve been involved in.”

Mark chuckled, and his shoulders relaxed at Nick’s words. Then, a flicker of curiosity crossed his face. “So, you do this often?” he said, tilting his head. “That’s why you left so quickly last night?”

Nick noticed the subtle change in Mark’s expression and shook his head with a chuckle. “No. Asher’s wish was special. You’re special. A good guy on the list,” he teased, his grin widening. “You’re the only person I’ve ever done this for. But I still had to grant other wishes around the globe. But I wanted to stay.”

Mark’s cheeks flushed again, this time with pride. Before he could respond, Asher bounded into the room, his eyes widening as he took in Nick’s enormous frame. “Wow!” the boy exclaimed, craning his neck to look up at the towering man who made his dad look tiny beside him. “You’re huge! Are you a superhero?”

Mark chuckled, placing a hand on Asher’s shoulder as the kid stood by his side. “He’s kind of a superhero. Asher, this is Nick,” he introduced. “He’s the one who helped Santa bring your baby brothers.”

Asher’s face lit up with excitement, and he jumped up and down. “Thank you, Nick! I love my brothers,” he said, throwing his arms around Nick’s tree-trunk-like leg in an enthusiastic hug. Then, his eyes widened as a new thought struck him. “Wait, are you friends with Santa?”

Nick chuckled, kneeling to meet Asher’s gaze. “Good friends,” he confirmed with a nod. “In fact, if you’d like, we could go visit him in a few days. I’m sure he’d love to meet you, your dad, and your little brothers.”

Asher gasped, his hands flying to his mouth in sheer excitement. “Really? Can I meet Santa? For real?”

Nick smiled, gently ruffling the boy’s hair. “For real. But only if you promise to be extra good and help your dad with your baby brothers.”

Asher nodded so enthusiastically that Mark couldn’t help but laugh. “I promise!” Asher exclaimed, his excitement bubbling over as he looked between Nick and his dad. “This is the best Christmas ever!”

“It is, right?” Nick said, looking at Mark’s smiley face. “Oh, Asher, do you like magic?”

Asher nodded. “Yes! My dad taught me some tricks with cards a few weeks ago.”

“Okay. But about some Christmas magic?” Nick smiled and snapped his fingers. Instantly, soft snowflakes began to fall around them, glittering in the glow of the Christmas lights.

Asher gasped, his eyes wide with wonder. “It’s snowing inside! How did you do that? This is the best Christmas ever!” he exclaimed, smiling at Nick. “Do you want to open gifts with me and meet my brothers?” Asher asked eagerly, tugging on Nick’s large hand.

“We don’t want to keep Nick too long,” Mark said shyly. “He’s probably busy today.”

Nick scooped Asher up onto his broad shoulders with ease, his massive hands steadying the boy. “Now that Christmas is over, I have all the time in the world,” he said with a wink. “My work only keeps me busy until Christmas night.”

Asher cheered, and Mark couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, in that case,” Mark said, his smile growing. “You should stay and meet our babies properly,” he added and smiled.

Nick’s eyes lit up at the words as he looked at Mark. “Actually, If you don’t mind me working one night a year,” he said. “I could stay forever.”

Mark’s heart skipped a beat as Nick wrapped an arm around his waist, the touch sending a pleasant sensation through him. Nick’s hand caressed Mark’s massive ass before resting lightly on the widened hip, his thumb brushing the curve of his soft belly. Mark blushed but didn’t pull away. “What do you say, Asher? Should we allow Nick to stay for long?” Mark said, looking up at his boy sitting on Nick’s shoulders.

“YES!” Asher shouted excitedly, making Nick and Mark laugh as they walked toward the bedroom. Then, Asher looked at Nick’s face as they approached the room. “Do you think you could bring more baby brothers for me someday?”

Nick laughed as they entered the room, unable to hide his excitement at the request. “I think that can be arranged,” he said, winking at Mark.

Mark chuckled softly, his cheeks flushing. The sight of the ten tiny babies nestled in the bed made them smile. Asher’s delighted squeals filled the room, and Mark couldn’t help but caress his round, soft abdomen. With Nick beside him and his son’s joy lighting up the morning, Mark knew Asher would have a lot of baby brothers in the near future.

The End?

[trulynamelessworld]

"Menstruation is the only blood not born from violence, and yet it is the one that disgusts you the most."

I think about this image a lot. I first came across it when I was fourteen and just being introduced to feminism via Pinterest. That's right folks, I was radicalized on Pinterest. The place where I now make collages for my future lesbian wedding and collect free sewing patterns. Pinterest made me punk.

This image came to mind again today as I am enduring one of the worst periods of my life. It is currently day eight with no sign of stopping and the pain still comes in hour long waves. I was watching my blood run down the drain of my sink as I washed my hands. I haven't been able to get my mind off politics so my mind wandered, wondering if these American law makers had ever held their wives on the floor of their bathroom while they dry heaved, or gently helped them into the shower, or changed stained sheets from a midnight mishap.

The answer is undoubtedly, no.

They likely pretended it wasn't happening, an ignorance born from the world telling you that you are superior from the day you are born. That the blood spilled from a broken nose builds character, but what comes from your mother, sister, wife, is a defect best kept private.

[us-cj]

President Trump is correct. I watched her "sermon." She is a liberal LGBTQ activist who flies the rainbow flag and marched for George Floyd and said Trump should leave office. Then, in 2020 when Antifa-BLM tried to burn down her church - she blamed President Trump - when he was the one that actually called to save it.

Who picked her to say this Communist garbage to President Trump from the pulpit:

"In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy on people in this country who are scared now. There are gay and lesbian transgender children among Democratic, Republican and Independent families. Some fear for their lives.

And the people who pick our crops, clean office buildings, labor in poultry farms & meatpacking plants, wash dishes after we eat, work night shifts at hospitals - they may not be citizens or have proper documentation - but most immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes. They are faithful members of our churches and mosques, synagogues and temples.

I ask you to have mercy Mr. President on those in our communities whose children fear that their parents will be taken away. That you help those who were fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands. To find compassion and welcome here. Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger. For we all want strangers in this land.

May God grant us strength & courage to honor the dignity of every human being. To speak truth to one another in love and walk humbly with each other and our God. For the good of all people in this nation and the world. Amen."

BEN CARSON: "These are words you would expect to hear from a barista, not a Bishop. She isn’t brave, or strong, or a unifier. She’s another pawn of the left whose Trump Derangement Syndrome has blinded her from truth or reason. She’s an activist. It’s disgraceful on many accounts."

FRANKLIN GRAHAM: "The National Cathedral has fallen into the hands of LGBTQ activists. So, it's not surprising this "lady bishop" spewed hate at Donald Trump today. National Cathedral has become a sanctuary of Satan."

GIORDANA: "Episcopalian Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde is a lesbian radical woke & DEI activist who believes she is chosen by God to scold President Trump regarding his TRANS policies."

MATT WALSH: "Just take one look at this witch and you know everything you need to know about her, even before she starts talking."

MEGYN KELLY: "Trump & Vance handled it perfectly - total class. This “bishop” who apparently prefers we mutilate children in the name of gender ideology & allow young girls to get gang raped by illegals at our open S border, however, is a rude, ignorant, TDS afflicted hack."

SCOTT ADAMS: "Lesbian Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde chose to pander to the LGBT whose movement has been wrecked by trans mental illness. She’s the same B who trashed Trump for saving her historical Episcopal church from burning to the ground after Trump hating liberals set it on fire."

CHARLIE KIRK: "Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde is the Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington. She's the first woman to hold the position. She was given a great honor today, a chance to unify America around a Christian message at the dawn of a new administration. Instead, she disgraced herself with a lecture you'd hear on CNN or an episode of The View. What an embarrassment."

PAUL SPERRY: "FEC filings reveal Mariann Budde & family have given exclusively to Democrats and collectively contributed several thousand dollars to Kamala, Obama, Biden. While she claims to champion the poor - property records show she lives in a $2 million+ colonial mansion with 6 bedrooms and 4.5 bathrooms in a leafy DC neighborhood. Her church claims that it receives no operating support from the federal government, but it does get grants from the federally funded nonprofit National Trust for Historic Preservation. Her family funded George Soros, worked for OBAMA FOR AMERICA and with Jack Smith at the Hague."

ERIC METAXAS: "Exactly WHO is responsible for setting the trap of Pres Trump attending that ridiculous service to hear the preposterous "bishop" insult him and the American people? Can we get to the bottom of that one ASAP? Seriously. We need answers. Who???"

Did the hack Bishop know that Trump danced with the VILLAGE PEOPLE the night before his inauguration? Did they look scared?

Scott Bessent, Trump's nominee for Treasury Secretary, an openly gay man, defended Trump and wrote this today:

https://x.com/mirandadevine/status/1882134235462742052

PS: THIS IS WHAT I WAS WRITING YESTERDAY FOR MY NEWSLETTER WHEN SUBSTACK WENT DOWN SYSTEMWIDE. LOOK AT JD'S FACE.

I WOULD ENCOURAGE YOU TO SHARE THIS WITH YOUR PASTOR.

[floofanflurr]

Silly floofy silly floofy

Can you tell me about Sans + Paps + Frisky in the pirate au (raccoon me one) AND if you feel like it their relationship with their dear old crusty dad?

I need moooooore loooooore

Hehehehe

WOOHOO!! I SURE CAN!!!! Let's break this down :) (WARNING - THIS POST MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR A FUTURE FIC OF MINE. That will take a long time to write tho, if I ever do, so...)

Sans: The quartermaster of the Sail La Vie - the Captain's right hand man. He's a lazy, laid-back kind of dude, and not one you would expect to be a pirate. When the Sail La Vie is docked, you can find him at the local taverns and houses of ill repute... After all, people drop the most important information when they're comfortable, and Sans is great at making people underestimate him.

He frequently runs small time cons. Shell games, melon drops, weighted dice... Afterwards, he gives the money back, or buys his victim a drink with their own cash. It's a good way to build up a friendly reputation. They don't even realize they were conned.

Upon shore or ship, Sans naps in the strangest areas. Crates and rigging, roofs and the ship deck. Even on the mast itself.

Everyone knows that Sans is entirely devoted to his brother, the Captain of the Sail La Vie.

...Sans is also working as King Asgore's Royal Judge under the table.

Asgore and Sans have an agreement - Sans will work for him if he leaves his brother and his father alone despite their crimes and desertion. It's a tenacious situation that only they are aware of. On this note, Sans is required to ensure the ship never targets monster victims - humans and mages are their only marks.

Sometimes, Asgore points them to human navy ships, and Sans ensures they're taken care of. They aren't a military vessel... but yet, things are more complicated than one may think. They aren't free from the crown's control. But Sans ensures that his crew (and his brother) will never know that.

Sans is under orders to collect mage souls. And to never, ever leave one living after an encounter. Otherwise, it's his brother and father's skulls on the line.

Papyrus: The Great Captain of the Sail La Vie! He inherited the hat from his adoptive father, Dr. W.D. Gaster. Papyrus is a boisterous fellow who took a while to fall into piracy, despite his father's own occupation. For a large portion of his childhood, Papyrus wanted to join the Royal Navy in order to protect monsters from mages.

...He was in the room when his parents were killed by a water mage, after all. He may have only been three years old, but he can't forget. He's very glad that Sans didn't see it, and that he doesn't know the details.

Sans doesn't know Papyrus remembers, and Papyrus would very much like to keep it that way!

Sans doesn't know that Papyrus knows a lot of things.

...Well! Onto the next bit. Papyrus prefers mercy over death - when he can, he likes to target human ships and navy vessels and use fear tactics. He'll kill when he has to, but he'd really rather not. He and Sans mostly go after the ships that cause monsters the most grief.

And while Papyrus can't say he's comfortable around mages, Papyrus doesn't really want to kill them, either. He'd rather talk them down! But he'll kill when necessary.

...And Papyrus knows they'll end up dead, even if he spares them. He's thankful that there aren't many mages around - the magic increasingly rare.

Frisk: A water mage. Or, in other terms, a mer. Frisk struggles to control their magic, and is often stuck with a tail instead of legs. Which... is less than ideal, because it means they can't hide their heritage. And the crown doesn't like unregulated mages very much...

Frisk's mama always hid them away when she could, but Mama died years ago and the human navy found Frisk.

You can now find them aboard various navy vessels - kept in a tank or a tub and gawked at as they try to train Frisk up into a regulated mage to be used in their war. Thankfully, Frisk really isn't the best at control, and it means they don't have to fight just yet.

Less good is that makes them little more than a pet or worse to the sailors on board.

Most humans really don't like mages.

Frisk's life is just them trying to survive and learn how to control their magic so they can run away as soon as possible. They really aren't expecting it when the screaming starts and fighting shakes the ship. Most of the time, the sailors try to direct battles to the other parties ship.

Frisk definitely isn't expecting the tall skeleton that bursts his way into the hold where Frisk is kept, or the way his face falls when he sees them.

Frisk has heard the tales of Captain Papyrus. He and his crew are a horror story for mages. A tall skeleton, the harbinger of death, adorned with blood reds.

Not a single mage has ever survived meeting the Sail La Vie or its Captain.

"...WELL. SHOOT."

Frisk can only agree.

Sans's relationship with Gaster: Sans loves the man. Enough to sell his pride and services to the crown to keep him safe. They bond over science, though Sans never got a chance to pursue it formally - life on the sea and Gaster's own reputation snatched away the possibility. But Sans has never forgotten what Gaster did for them when he took in two orphaned children and gave them a home, and so Sans can't bring himself to resent him too much for that.

Sans is constantly harping on Gaster to actually settle down for once. The old man is going to get himself killed if he keeps up his skirmishes. He needs to actually retire.

There are a few odd tensions between the two - Gaster's decision to fall into piracy still hanging over their heads. But ultimately, they love each other and get along quite well. Many puns are thrown around when they're together.

Papyrus's relationship with Gaster: The same as Sans, in most cases. He loves and respects his father! And admires his skill in protecting those he loves. He... disagrees with some of his more brutal tactics and policies, but Sans employs those same methods, so Papyrus can't really complain.

Papyrus was thrilled when Gaster trusted him enough to pass Captain-hood down to him.

Papyrus would do nearly anything to keep the man safe. ...Which is why Papyrus hasn't called Sans out on a few noteworthy things.

AAAND there we have my ramble!!! FEEL FREE TO ASK MORE QUESTIONS I LOVE TALKING ABOUT MY AUS AND WORKS. Ah, yes, and for anyone that read this far and wants to read more... Here. A fic about what Gaster is up to while Sans and Papyrus are busy finding mermaid children.

[yoosung-ah]

Choose your player: aggressive vs. passive-aggressive round 1/?

[originalgenshinscenarios]

Okay I'm done with Natlan and Citlali's quest

My opinion on Citlali improved slightly, but the rest... Ehhh... No. I'm not gonna say that Natlan was bad, cause ngl for me the most boring archon quest was Sumeru. (And I'm saying it because of the fact that the dream loop was ridiculous and I hated it just as much as I hate Nahida which is a ToN)

Spolier rant in tags

[fallout-fucker]

Hancock Headcanons (Including Goodneighbour Headcanons) Part One

Surprisingly a really good cook/baker. Will make 5 Star quality full-course meals when high as fuck. Or at least, as good as you can get in the Wasteland if you don't think mutated Brahmin tastes too different from cow. Man's is making steaks.

He also mass bakes when very stressed. There's been times Fahrenheit has walked into the office and seen the kitchenette, the coffee table, any and all of the free surfaces, really, full of trays of baked goodies. Cupcakes, cookies, brownies, special brownies, you name it. When this happens, Daisy has to organise a massive order to traders to make up for all the ingredients he buys. He always gives her extra caps for the inconvenience of Goodneighbour having less eggs and flour, etc, for sale than usual. He makes sure to never take all the stock, though, food's hard enough to come by, especially produce. His town needs it more than he and his baking sessions do.

He always gives away the goods when he's finally calmed down and the stress has eased.

He takes care in making sure the normal goodies are separate from the 'more fun' ones.

The normal goods go to the townsfolk and drifters. He goes to the kids first, though. If it's during the colder months, he'll also take the time to make hot chocolates or warm milk (Depending on what's available) for them.

Actually does his job as the fucking Mayor.

Makes sure the kids have all got blankets, coats, hats, scalves, gloves, socks and shoes, and beds somewhere warm.

He regularly checks this. Has a little checklist for all the items kiddies need. He isn't letting any kids die in his streets. As far as he's concerned, those are his kids. He knows Goodneighbour isn't exactly the most PG place, but the majority of children in Goodneighbour (Like most people in Goodneighbour) don't have parents or anybody.

He'll leave a few trays on the bar of The Third Rail for pickings. Lowkey likes to decorate it with cake stands and stuff. Makes him feel weirdly calm. He gets to just take his time with it. It's a breather from the rest of his 'Mayoral Duties'.

If he's feeling generous, he'll give away the fun goodies too to anyone that wants 'em (Within reason). But Chems and produce can be pricey so he'll sometimes give those to Daisy to sell so he's not wasting a good amount of his personal stash, especially if he made a lot of goods.

He considered giving them to Charlie at first because The Third Rail is nothing if not the place for a great time, but many people who wander into Goodneighbour are vulnerable. From experience (Both personal and second-hand), Hancock knows alcohol + easily accessible edibles/hard chems + vulnerable and desperate doesn't equal anything good. So, he decided against it.

He refuses to give them to AJ because the guy is sketchy, and he's heard about the whole 'Chems For Kids' thing. Hancock's been working discreetly on solving that issue. If he wasn't keen on drunk adults having access to edibles, you can believe he'd have a real problem with anyone tryna sneak it to kids, let alone that kinda dirty money making its way back to him, and that's if AJ didn't sneak some into his own pockets. Which he likely would.

So, that brought him to Daisy. Besides, it also makes up for the ingredients and he lets her pocket a good percentage of the profit as chems isn't usually her deal.

Once more, actually does his job as the fucking Mayor.

Like with the children, he makes sure drifters and such also have warm clothes for the Winter.

Also ensures everyone has clothes suited for Summer heat, too.

Essentially, twice a year (Autumn and Spring) he'll go around Goodneighbour with a survey to see who needs what, at least a few weeks in advance of when the seasonal weather for Autumn/Winter and Spring/Summer usually rolls in. Then, he organises a mass order to all of the trading caravans for suitable clothes, shoes, etc. Then he'll organise a day with timeslots and stuff where groups of people can go up to his office and get what they need.

Imagine a watchman at the entrance of the Statehouse, with a name list and time slots, and a queue outside of the door. In Hancock's office, it's full of cardboard boxes and tables. Him, Far, Daisy, and a few watchmen all giving out the items and checking them off.

Hancock has plans and blueprints to expand Goodneighbour so some of the apartment buildings just outside of the walls can be included in the town. Has a few trading deals on hold and watchmen guards he could use as contractors in mind for the job of converting the Pre-War buildings into livable homes when he is able to.

Unfortunately, with the Warehouse rats and Supermutants settling down just outside the gates, he had to postpone the plans to focus on other issues. All his contractors had to stay as Neighbourhood Watch guards and security just in case the mutants attack. The mutants are on his to-do list, but first is the Warehouse job and making sure people can stay warm in the attic instead of the homes he was hoping to have done before Autumn and Winter.

He predicted temporarily losing more workers in the Winter due to sickness, but didn't necessarily expect some to be rats, unfortunately. So, his options are limited when Sole meets him. Hence sending a stranger to Pickman Gallery and other things.

It's also why he doesn't mind traveling with Sole. Until Spring, his hands are mostly tied when it comes to progress.

Staying in town when he knows he can't do all of the things he needs to makes him antsy. He doesn't like sitting around and doing nothing when he knows his people are relying on him, so it helps to get away from it for a while.

[savage-rhi]

🫂

[habitual-creatures]

HABIT! I was trying to find smth but found THIS INSTEAD!

It’s a fur, pelt, thing (idk what it’s called) of a rabbit!

(LEGALLY BOUGHT)

(IT'S CALLED A PELT)

DAMN THAT'S SO SICK! I FUCKING LOVE THAT.

OF COURSE IT'S AWESOME TO SUPPORT LEGAL PELT COLLECTION LIKE THAT.

(FUCK POACHERS AND ILLEGAL PELT PEDDLERS 🖕 BY THE WAY)

I AM A HUGE FAN OF TAXIDERMY AND VULTURE CULTURE MYSELF. SO SEEING OTHERS TALK ABOUT THEIR OWN COLLECTION OR THINGS THEY'VE FOUND AND BOUGHT IS AWESOME!

[ REGARDS, HABIT ]