#liberal females are an embarrassment

[ms-boogie-man]

Angie/Maddie🦇❥✝︎🇺🇸

[butch-reidentified]

male thinks he knows what feminism should be, how it should function, who it should cater to... more at 11!

I'll let you in on a little secret, buddy... if you knew the first damn thing about me or actual feminist theory, you'd be so fucking embarrassed rn.

I hate how much of the feminism tag is overrun by terfs. Feminism is for everyone, bitches.

[venusgrl]

words fail to describe the second hand embarrassment i feel in my body when i see a feminist criticize something like sex work, makeup, cosmetic surgery, etc and someone comes up and says “isn’t feminism supposed to be about women’s choices :((” or something adjacent to that, and then we have to remind everyone that no, feminism is about FEMALE LIBERATION and not what makes YOU feel comfortable as an individual. with the rise of liberal feminism we’ve forgotten that feminism is a political movement and it’s not meant to be fun. it’s supposed to question and tear apart what’s seen as the status quo for women. if you can’t handle even the smallest criticism of things that you as a woman enjoy and take part in then feminism simply isn’t for you

[hornychristianprincess]

wasted (leehan x fem reader) pt. 1

paring: leehan x fem reader genre: smut, fluff, angst, fuckboy!leehan, college au word count: 6k summary: hooking up with a stranger at a party is fun when said stranger is a tall, attractive philosophy major whose name you don’t learn until weeks later. warnings: explicit sex scenes, oral (female and male receiving), a lil butt action but nothing too crazy

ao3 link can be found HERE.

“You’re a new face,” remarked the rich, husky voice belonging to the stranger who had just approached you. In a house party that was relatively packed, you thought you were blending in by sticking to the wall and enjoying your solo cup full of unlabeled liquor. And yet, here was the approaching figure of a man so tall you had to crane your neck to face him, knowing nothing about you and yet still managing to observe how out of place you seemed.

“That obvious, is it?”

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing about you, per se. It’s just, these things are usually pretty tight-knit; the same people come every time. So when someone’s new, you notice,” he tells you, his slow, calm way of talking making you feel relieved and deeply curious at the same time. “Do you go to school here?” 

You nod your head in confirmation, though it feels foreign to do so when parts of you still feel more like a visitor than a student. “I just transferred here.”

He smiles hospitably at this, gesturing his arms out towards the room of people who surround you. “Welcome to our vibrant community. Please enjoy your stay. Refreshments are in the back and the ice machine is down the hall.”

You giggle genuinely at him and the sort of clumsy, awkward way his words seem to land on you. He’s the kind of person you were expecting to meet when you transferred from your rural state school to this smaller liberal arts college. There’s something almost dorky and strange about him, from the way he dresses in an oversized cardigan and big round glasses to the way he holds eye contact with you for what you deem longer than normal. And yet, his self-assuredness is crystal clear to you. It’s at this moment that you acknowledge to yourself how attractive you find him.

“Did you come here with someone?” he asks you, his posture changing so that he’s leaning into you just slightly.

“Yeah. My roommate is here somewhere—” you gesture aimlessly around you, “—probably getting tongued down in someone’s bathroom.”

At this point, you had been fighting off the inclination to assume that the man in front of you was chatting you up for any reason outside of sincere curiosity. But his intentions are made crystal clear when he replies, “Yeah? Care to follow suit?”

You laugh both out of amusement and shock at his forwardness, and even he seems taken aback by his own candor as he smiles in a sheepish, apologetic sort of way. Still, the way that his piercing dark eyes never seem to cease their burning into you, there’s no doubt in your mind that he meant every implication embedded in that response.

“You know, you never told me your name,” you point out, not sure why you are prolonging what feels like the inevitable moment tonight when you’ll find yourself tangled in bed with the handsome man in front of you. Perhaps you’d just like to talk to him for a little bit longer, enjoy the gratification of his attention. Or maybe it’s just fun to tease him and watch the way his eyes crinkle in bashful embarrassment.

You’re pleased when he seems no less interested in you even as you divert from his advances. In fact, he perks up at your observation. “That I did not. Call me pretentious, but I like to think that learning my name is a privilege.”

You show your disinterest in this notion with a scoff, something the stranger seems to take in stride. “Is a man’s name not all that he has in this world, from birth to death?” he asserts with a prideful smirk.

“Philosophical. That your major?”

“How’d you know?”

You’re starting to feel a little scared with just how much you’re beginning to love the sound of your overlapping laughter. When it dies down, you bask in the brief moments of silence where neither of you knows what to say next and instead just stare at each other’s faces in an almost innocent, child-like way. It’s so different from what you’re both feeling inside, anticipation and lust and desire swirling in a mix that makes your bodies feel charged.

“So since you’re not telling me your name, should I tell you mine?”

“Only if you feel I’m worthy of it,” he replies. The game that he’s playing confounds you but you see no harm in playing into it, something tantalizing and freeing about not being bound to the expectations of each other’s names.

“That, my friend,” you reply, “is yet to be decided.” You raise your hand to push against his shoulder, surprised at how sturdy the skin under his cardigan feels. He ricochets dramatically against the force of your hand, and when his body returns to yours, it’s closer than before. He rests his hand on the wall just above your head, the way he’s angled making him appear even taller than he did before.

“You know, I was exploring this house earlier, and there’s a room in the back with a comfortable-looking king-sized bed,” he says, words that would sound fuckboyish and crude if anyone else said them, but come out dorky and amusing when he does, especially when his next statement is, “And the entire time I was in there, all I could think was, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to pillow fight with?”

You smile, the expression mirrored on the stranger’s handsome face as he watches you react to his off-putting way of flirting. You decide to help him out by being more direct. “Are you asking me to pillow fight with you, stranger?” you ask, voice tilted in your best attempt at sounding seductive.

“Only if you’d be willing, stranger.”

When your roomate convinced you to go out with her tonight, you were intrigued by the notion of getting to know this new campus community, plus the always-tempting chance to get a few drinks in your system. You weren’t thinking that you would be in this position, about to hook up with a guy who won’t even tell you his name. 

You’ve been feigning confidence up until this point, an easy enough task when the man in front of you is good-looking and talkative. But now, as you prepare to follow him with the pretty certain chance of having sex, you have to finish off the remnants of your drink first, allowing the heat of liquid courage to wash over you like a warm blanket.

“Lead the way,” you tell him, taking the hand that he offers you before being led through the crowd of partygoers.

He takes you into a bedroom that’s on the ground floor, allowing you to settle in in front of him as he takes heed to lock the door. The bass from the loud music outside vibrates against the enclosed walls of the room. You’re grateful that it’s not completely silent, otherwise this would feel more awkward. 

“See,” the stranger says, walking over to face you. “I wasn’t lying about the king-sized bed.”

With the way he’s standing over you, combined with the looming implications of what you’re about to do – or rather, what you’re about to let him do to you – you’re too anxious to laugh. Instead, you stare at him, waiting for him to make the first move.

“Do you like to kiss when you hook up?” he asks you, straight-forward and to the point. You like that. You’ve never understood people who don’t like to kiss those they’re having sex with. Is the act of kissing somehow more intimate than letting someone inside you?

“Depends,” you reply, already moving to cradle the side of his face with your hand. “Are you a good kisser?”

He doesn’t answer verbally, moving instead to lean in so that your lips meet. Everything about this man feels like a paradox. Your interactions thus far have felt innocent, awkward even, and yet they still led to you following him into a stranger’s bedroom with the intention of having sex. And now, though his looks and the way he carries himself feel so clumsy, the way he kisses you is intense, all-consuming. 

He wastes no time trying to build up to something intense. Without pretense, his tongue is invading the wetness of your mouth, forcing your lips open as an audible whimper of surprise spills out. One of his hands comes up to lace itself into your hair, and in another act that surprises you, he pulls on it so that your faces come even closer. You’ve never found the taste of liquor on someone’s lips more addicting than you do now. 

You pull away to find a smirk on his lips, cockiness written all over his expression as he asks, “What do you think?”

It’s hard to conjure up any words when his hand is still in your hair, tipping your head back so that his eyes can comfortably rake over your face and particularly linger on your reddened lips. “I think I really, really want you to fuck me,” is what you manage, and even if you were the type to feel shameful at such remarks, it would be hard to when your words visibly light up his handsome expression until he’s kissing you again.

Your lips melt into his in a kiss so passionate it has you both walking backward in an eager effort to get each other onto the bed. You waste no time in pawing the clothes off of his slender body, satisfied as you hear his jeans then his cardigan hit the carpeted floor with a soft plop.

He does the same when it comes to your dress, a flowy, strapless piece that required you to go braless for it to work. Once it’s off and you’re both down to just underwear, you’re met with the feeling of his bare skin against your bare skin, your bare chest against his bare chest, and more relieving than anything else, the feeling of the bed frame meeting the back of your thighs as you finally reach the bed.

Pushing you up onto the edge of the bed, he lets his hands wander the expanse of your body, enjoying the feeling of your tits squeezed in the palms of his hands. You lean into his touch, moaning a little in his mouth as he never stops kissing you, even as he reaches down to breach the waistband of your underwear. 

You don’t realize how wet you are until his slender fingers push out to separate your folds, a task made difficult as your sticky arousal glues your lips together. But he manages it dextrously, wasting no time in finding your clit and drawing slow, teasing circles with the pads of his fingers.

His other hand, which had up until this point been palming your breast idly, now comes up to hold your face as he regretfully pulls his lips from yours. He studies your expressions with furrowed eyebrows, a teasing lilt in his voice as he asks, “Do you like it when I touch you here?” 

Just as soon as you part your lips to respond, his fingers dip lower until he’s sliding two of them into your fluttering hole. Your wetness provides no resistance, and now he’s coiling them deep inside of you. “Or here?”

You can’t think or respond when he’s pumping his long, slender fingers in and out of you, an act made more intense as he forces you to look at him with his hand on your jaw keeping your head in place. 

If you had to describe sex you’ve had in the past, vulnerable isn’t a word you’d use. 

And yet, it’s exactly how you feel as his eyes never leave your face, overseeing every expression you make from overwhelmed to whimpering to having your lips parted in a moan. 

A faint part of you wonders if you should feel more uncomfortable with how intimate this sex feels. 

And yet, you don’t think you’ve ever felt more pent up just with someone's fingers inside of you than right now, especially when he opens his mouth to praise you in his deep voice.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he says, his breezy tone of voice reminiscent of a lullaby. “I’m so glad I met you tonight. Can’t wait to fuck you.”

He fucks his fingers deeper inside of you as he says this, causing you to mewl as you throw your head back in his hands. “Don’t make me wait, then,” you challenge, gripping his arm to steady yourself as another moan threatens its way to your lips.

“Such a needy girl, aren’t you?” he wolfishly remarks. “Well, if you insist.”

With am amused smile on his face, he pulls his fingers out of you, raising them between your two faces so that you both can look on at the wetness which coats them. You’re not at all surprised when he brings them to his lips, only turned on as he sucks both fingers clean with a wet smack.

“Wanna know what you taste like?” he proposes, his expression and tone of voice far too innocent for what he’s just done. You don’t respond, only pull him into you for a kiss so lewd it makes your insides jump. You reach your hand between your bodies as you kiss him, attaching your fingers to the bulge protruding from his boxers. You enjoy the feel of his clothed cock, large and substantial in your hands, before he’s pulling away to sigh against your lips. 

Your hand leaves his body as he moves away from you. “Don’t go anywhere. Need to grab a condom.”

You watch him in amusement as he goes to hunch over his discarded jeans. In his absence, you relax on your stomach, facing him on the edge of the bed. “Where would I go, stranger?”

“I don’t know,” he intones, returning to you with a silver packet in between his fingers. “But If I could freeze you like this forever, so pretty and waiting for me to fuck you, I would.”

The stranger’s way with words has your body responding once more, a ripple of electricity traveling up your legs and even more so when he takes off his boxers in front of you. You’re not ashamed at whatever expression of suprise is surely showing up on your face at the sight. 

You’d likely use the word pretty to describe his dick, veins bulging out of it like little vines and a tip that matches the rosy color of his lips. You decide then that he’s the biggest you’ve ever taken, though you suppose you should save that judgment for when he’s actually managed to fit inside of you.

Your thoughts are broken by his touch as he lifts your chin up with his hands, a smirk ever so prominent on his puffy lips. “My eyes are up here, you know.”

You both giggle at his cheekiness, a moment of humour that is promptly ended when the opening of the condom packet grabs your attention. You reach out to cease his movements with a hand on his wrist. He meets your gaze with a cute, confused look on his face. “Wanna taste you first, stranger” you assert with a blink.

“You’re so cute,” he remarks enjoyably, “But I won’t last if you do.”

You look up at him through your eyelashes, batting them extra hard as you say, “Just a peck?”

As you already suspected from the lack of conviction in his earlier refusal, he’s not at all stern as he moves to rub his thumb across your cheek. “Since you asked so nicely,” he replies permissively.

You barely have to lean forward off the bed for your mouth to reach his cock, tall and straight and hard in front of your face. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you press a kiss just underneath his tip, making eye contact as you pull away to watch as a heavy sigh leaves his lips. You don’t stop at just one peck, peppering them all along his shaft and enjoying the smoothness of his skin against your lips.

“I thought you said just a peck?” he reminds you when he notices what you’re doing, placing a hand on your hair but making no effort to push you away.

“Am I not pecking?” you ask, relishing in the groan he lets out when you wrap your puckered lips over his reddened tip. You’re just about to open your mouth fully before he finally shows some restraint, pulling you off of him with a tug of your hair.

“That’s enough,” he asserts, the mattress dipping from his weight as he hops onto the bed behind you. “If I’m not inside of you within the next 5 seconds, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Conscious of his presence behind you, you raise your body into an arch and feel pleased when he immediately grabs at your hips to pull you in closer. He ignores the impatient little wiggles of your ass that you do in attempt to get him to fuck you, prefering instead to spread your pussy open with his fingers and groan as he watches arousal spill out of you. “You’re so fucking wet,” he remarks dreamily, sliding a languid finger inside of you in a way that makes your arch deepen. “And it’s all for me, isn’t it, baby?”

His vocal tone has taken a shift so that he sounds less adoring and more sadistic, the observance of your arousal being just for him stated almost matter-a-factly. You don’t know why it turns you on even more than before, but it does, especially as he plays idly with pussy as if he forgets it belongs to a living, breathing you.

You’re fighting off whimpers as his fingers continue their exploration of your entrance. You hear him let out a long, drawn out “Fuck,” under his breath before he’s withdrawing from you entirely and asking, “Can I eat you out?”

Images of his plump, rosy lips flash through your mind like a movie sequence before you’re humming out affirmatively, excitement of what’s to come making your body tense as you feel him laying down on the bed, feel his breath against your mound as he becomes level with your pussy, feel his lips against your clit as he goes in to take all of you in his mouth.

The sounds that fill the room now are nothing but a lewd combination of your moans, his slurping, and the continued blaring of music coming from outside the walls. The way that he eats pussy is almost just as clumsy and unsure as he is, but he somehow manages to make you cry out as his tongue expertly flicks against your clit, or he licks into your entrance to taste the arousal there. 

You feel yourself becoming lightheaded and breathless as he licks you closer into orgasm. Already worked up from all the time he spent fingering you, what feels like the last straw is when he experimentally licks upward and brushes his tongue against the tight skin of your asshole. Noticing how it makes you moan and reach back to pull at his long hair, he keeps going, wetting your ass with his tongue. 

Alternating between this and your cunt, it’s only a matter of time when you find yourself mewling and tensing as your orgasm takes over your body. Your thighs are shaking and your hands are pulling so hard at his hair that you’re afraid you’ll rip it, but nonetheless he holds you up with two large hands against your ass and groans as you come all over his face. 

When he finally pulls away from you, your body collapses against the bed, all the marks of a good orgasm hitting you at once – ringing ears, tensed limbs, rising chest. You’re brought back to Earth by the feeling of faint, fleeting kisses being left on the expanse of your spine, the stranger’s body pressed against yours before he’s level with you and moving to pull your head to face his.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, sweet and innocent in yet another moment of tenderness that feels inappropriate for the setting you’re in. Nonetheless, you nod and relish in the feeling of his mouth against yours once more, acknowledging faintly to yourself that he just might be the best kisser you’ve ever been with.

He brings your body back to life by snaking his arms underneath you, grabbing at your boobs and almost making you feel ticklish as he gently caresses your stomach. Pulling away from your lips, he mutters the command of, “Turn around,” against your lips that you follow with zeal.

Flat on your back, you’re brought face to face with the man who has exceeded your expectations in almost every way compared to anyone else you’ve slept with so casually. Long locks of dark hair drape against the sides of face as he holds himself above you, making him look intense, but only briefly before he’s asking through an impish smile, “Are you intimidated by eye contact?”

He says it to you like it’s a challenge, like he hopes you’ll be shy so that he can guide you through it anyway. You shake your head stubbornly. “No,” you answer, “But I’m intimated by you.” It’s true. You’ve definitely never met a person like him, never had sex feel so intimate with a complete stranger. It scares you.

“Don’t be. I’m really a softie,” he assures, a childlike expression of excitement lighting up his handsome features. He presses a hand against your cheek in a gesture of affection, lips curling into a grin. “Only, my dick is as hard as a rock right now. Kinda wanna bury it inside of you.”

“What’s stopping you?”

You’re surprised when, in reply, he adjusts his body so that he’s lined up perfectly with your entrance, his latex covered tip pressing just slightly into you. “That’s a great question,” he quips, and without any further pretense, he slots himself inside of you.

You let out identical sounding sighs as his cock is engulfed by the sensitive, wet inside of your pussy. He presses his hips against you, making sure he’s as deep as he possibly can be before looking down at you for your approval. “Feels good?”

“Yes. Oh god, yes,” you’re whimpering in reply, head already thrown back as you get used to the feeling of his girth filling you. 

Hearing you express how good you feel is all the stranger needs to hear before he’s pulling out of you, methodically ensuring that just the tip is left inside before pushing back in. His vigor catches you by surprise, leaving you no time to adjust as he continues at a feverish pace. Unintelligible, broken-sounding cries spill out from your lips with each moment his hips meet yours.

“You have such pretty eyes,” he remarks as he watches you, a compliment you don’t think you’ve ever heard before while being fucked into the next dimesion. “And a pretty mouth, too,” he adds, his thumb breaching the wet insides of your lips before he’s leaning down to kiss you. The kiss is messy as you struggle to meet each other’s mouths, devolving into a mixture of tongue and spit and broken breath.

“Talk to me. Tell me how good I’m fucking you,” he groans against your mouth, sitting up on his knees to fuck you in an angle that’s deeper that before. With the pounding that he’s giving you, you’re just barely able to catch your breath, let alone form the words to respond to him.

“Can’t…scream your name if I don’t know it,” you manage to say in a teasing sort-of-way, your smirk widening into an open-mouthed cry as you’re sure he grazes your g-spot with a particualrly deep drive of his hips. 

He chuckles at your way of trying to get him to share his name, and whether he’s truly serious in wanting to withhold it from you or because he just wants to tease you, he says, “Come on my cock, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Fuck me harder, and I will,” you reply tauntingly, not because he’s not already, but because even through the haze of your approaching orgasm, you want to see how he’ll respond to your challenge.

He smiles at this request, though while maintaining his same pace. “But I don’t wanna break you, sweet girl,” he remarks, and if he weren’t, too, about to crash into his approaching climax, he’d surely make it a point to tease you for how you clench at the pet name. Instead, he opts to slot a hand between your legs and make work of your clit, rubbing it in tantalizing circles. “Does this help?”

Just as you were sure this sex couldn’t get any better, the added stimulation to your clit has your entire body reeling with pleasure. “Oh god, yes. Don’t stop.”

With each approaching second, you can feel yourself about to fall apart, a condition only worsened when the stranger pulls you down by your hips, bringing him even deeper inside of you. You love the sound of his deep voice from above you, sounding almost far-away and dreamlike as he mumbles remarks like, “Keep making those pretty noises for me, baby,” that shoot straight to your core, only adding to your wetness.

“Fuck, you’re killing me baby,” is what he says as his own pleasure begins to reach it’s peak. You love the expressions he makes, the almost painful look on his face as he says, “Wish I could come inside this tight little pussy.”

Even with the knowledge that he put a condom on, you can’t help but react positively to the notion of being filled with his hot, sticky release. And without intending it, your walls close tightly around his cock in tandem with the loud moan that on its own revealed just how much you enjoyed that little tidbit of dirty talk. And without fail, the stranger is quick to pick up on it and tease you for it, though through his own gritted teeth and groans as he inches closer to release.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you? If I filled you up with my cum? You wanna have my baby and you don’t even know my name?’

It’s the half-degrading, half-awe-inspired tone of voice he uses that throws you over the edge, your thighs shaking in anticipation of what you’re sure will be an earth-shattering orgasm. “I’m close,” you confess through baited breath.

“I know you are,” he acknowledges in reply, and without warning, your body convulses with the strength of your climax. “That’s it. Come on my dick.”

You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything quite like the overwhelming pleasure that washes over you in a series of pulsating, neverending waves. The stranger fucks you through it without any alteration in speed, and it’s just as you’re about to squirm away in overstimulation that he finishes with one last, deep thrust inside of you. The sound of his groans are just as melodic and husky as his voice is, sending little afterschocks of arousal up your belly until finally, he pulls out of you with a grunt.

Looking up at the ceiling, you feel the mattress dip beside you as he collapses onto the bed. Usually, this would be the point where the post-nut clarity hits you and you’d begin to regret another series of bad decisions that led you to a stranger's bed. Instead, as you lock eyes with who might possibly be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, you only wonder what you did to deserve such good fortune to have met him tonight.

“That was fucking amazing, stranger,” he remarks, putting voice to your own exact thoughts as he rolls over so that he can stroke your cheek idly. You try to hold off the pestering inclination to blink so that you can take in the rosy-cheeked, delicately striking state his orgasm has left him in. 

You thought that after giving you what was surely the best pounding of your life that you’d be less inclined to view him as a total weirdo. Instead, there is something so innocent now about the way he looks at you, as he can’t even believe this happened. Wanting to tease him, you reply, “Good enough for me to learn your name?”

He considers your question with an impish chuckle, and though you’re not at all desperate to know his name, you’re still surprised when he replies, “Will you forgive me if I say something tells me I want to keep you hanging for just a little while longer?”

There is an air of mysteriousness to his words that you pick up on but have trouble interpreting. And while you itch to know what’s going on in that big brain of his, you decide not to question him any further, instead just appreciating the ease and contentment of this moment. 

“You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met,” you tell him candidly, leaning in so that the tip of your noses touch. “But I’m glad I met you tonight.”

You’re not embarrassed at all when you lean in to kiss him, because even though the sex is over, you just want to feel his lips against yours one last time before you go back to being two strangers who will likely never see each other after this. He reciprocates, seemingly ignorant to the idea of kissing someone chastely as he pulls you in and slips his tongue into your mouth.

Nevertheless, when you pull away, you know the moment is over when he says, “Walk of shame out the door together?”

You’re not sad, only content as you turn to him and answer. “Let’s.”

It’s a cozy Thursday morning on your campus as you step outside to meet with your friend, Jaehyun. When you had allowed him to borrow your computations textbook, you had no idea it would lead you to his apartment complex, where he swore he had left the book on accident.

“I promise you, I thought I brought it with me to class, but I must’ve left it in my room,” he explained sheepishly, patting his pockets as he searched for his apartment key. With his straight-cut bangs and habit of forgetfulness, Jaehyun was about the closest thing to a friend that you had since transferring. You went to the same high school together, congregating in the same social circles but ultimately going two separate ways after graduation. 

It wasn’t until your first day at this new school that you sat down for your morning class and discovered that Myeong Jaehyun went here, too. Since that moment of recognition on both of your ends, he’s been your only piece of relative familiarly in a place that still feels new to you.

“Here we are,” mumbled a disgruntled Jaehyun as he finally managed to unlock the door to his apartment. It was your first time seeing the place, and as far as student housing went, you were impressed. The space was populated with nice-enough-looking furniture and boyish decorations that you could tell belonged to Jaehyun and whoever his roommate was.

“I’m gonna go get your textbook from my room. You can wait out here,” said Jaehyun, turning to head into the hallway where the rooms were. You were just about to get comfortable, maybe sit on his couch and chill as he invariably spent ages looking for your textbook, until the noise of a door opening startled you into attention.

“Oh hey,” said Jaehyun casually to a familiar silhouette that appeared into the hallway. “Y/N, this is my roommate, Leehan.”

You fought the urge to laugh out loud as you were met with the image of the stranger who, just a few weeks ago, was drilling his cock into you in some of the most mind-blowing sex of your life. When he first came out and hadn’t noticed you yet, he simply looked curious, as if he was coming out of his room to see what was causing the noise. But now, he barely fights off a smirk as he, too, processes your presence. All of this goes unnoticed by an unsuspecting Jaehyun, who proceeds into his room to rummage for your textbook.

Left alone with the boy who you can now identify as Leehan, you look him up and down, taking in his casual appearance and hair that has only grown longer in the time since you last met. He leans against his doorframe, looking you over with a gaze just as intrusive before saying, “So. Y/N, huh?”

Both of you laugh out loud at the same time, the humor and awkwardness of the situation hitting you all at once. The smile on Leehan’s face forces his eyes into crescent shapes that you faintly acknowledge as endearing. 

“Leehan,” you state with a grin, returning the preceding instance of acknowledging each other’s names. “It suits you. Although, I’m not sure it’s special enough to justify you withholding it.”

He shrugs indifferently at that, looking not even a little embarrassed as he replies jokingly, “What can I say? I prefer an air of anonymity when conducting my one-night stands.”

“Is that what that was?” you quip back with a tilt of your head. You know exactly that that’s what it was, but playing coy about it is how you save yourself from the embarrassment of having to address the weird sexual-tension-mixed-with-awkwardness that lingers between the two of you.

He runs a hand through his hair, maintaining the smile on his face as he shrugs noncommittally and replies, “I don’t know, I was too drunk to remember. In fact, who are you again?”

You both giggle, the atmosphere and banter between the two of you surprisingly easy, even outside the context of being drunk at a house party. You can faintly hear the sounds of Jaehyun’s rummaging becoming louder a few doors away, letting you know he’s no closer to finding your textbook. To your own internal surprise, a tiny part of you is relieved to have the time to see where this interaction with Leehan will go.

“So, you’re friends with Myeong Jaehyun?” he asks, gesturing his head in the direction of his roommate’s door just a few feet away. You notice how he slips his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and straightens his posture, a move somehow making him look 10x taller.

“It’s a love/hate sort of thing. But yes, I’ve known him since high school.”

The corner of Leehan’s lips switch into a half-smile, something foreboding in his tone as he then says, “Then I guess I should expect to see you much more often, Y/N.”

You raise a questioning eyebrow, and through a confused grin, ask, “Why do you say that so ominously?”

Leehan doesn’t answer at first and instead just maintains his piercing gaze on your face. He’s so strange, but what’s even stranger is that you find yourself attracted to him. Attracted to him and his weirdly crooked smile and habit of staring at people for longer than normal. His shaggy brown hair and pouty lips that you can’t forget were once meshed with yours.

“No reason,” he finally answers, and before you can question such obviously purposeful ambiguity, it’s just then that Jaehyun comes out with your textbook.

“Found your book,” he says, cradling the thick textbook underneath his arm. Looking over at Leehan, whose open-mouthed expression obviously reveals he was in the middle of saying something, he pauses. “You good, Leehan?”

Leehan maintains a passive expression, though the hints of a smirk just barely bleed onto his lips as he gestures his head in your direction. “Yeah, just talking to Y/N.”

Jaehuun exchanges an inquisitive look between the two of you. “You guys know each other?”

Not sure how to answer that question, you look to Leehan for any non-verbal guidance. And funnily enough, he looks to you with the same sort of expecting look, and now you’re staring at each other for longer than normal, fighting back laughter as a confused Jaehyun looks on.

“You could say that,” Leehan replies, nodding his head affirmatively.

part 2 can be found HERE

taglist: @lailols @papichulomacy @0310s

comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist!

[lostloveletters]

Something Borrowed (Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Michael Corleone is the last person you expect to see at your best friend Connie’s wedding, and the last thing you expect to happen upon seeing him again after so many years is spending the night together. Maybe, it'll turn into something more.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. No hate to Kay, she’s my girl, but wedding scene Michael drives me crazy🤭 She’s off living her best life elsewhere in this. Also, it was a lot of fun writing pre-everything Michael. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving unprotected sex. Light play fighting.

Champagne and giggles overflowed at Connie Corleone’s wedding to Carlo Rizzi. Plenty of red wine was passed around in pitchers for the old guard, of course. For you and the other women conscious of not staining the rainbow of cocktail dresses and flowing gowns that dotted the backyard, you opted for lighter fare in tall flutes that sparkled in the early autumn sun. 

Perhaps you were a bit too enthusiastic about the drink offerings, having already exchanged three empty champagne glasses for ones filled to the brim with glittering gold when the bride engulfed you in a hug. With a delighted laugh, you returned the gesture, kissing her cheek.

“I wanted to say thank you one more time for coming!” Connie exclaimed, her cheeks flushed pink from the excitement of the day. “God, it breaks my heart we couldn’t have gotten you a bridesmaid dress in time, but you look gorgeous.”

“Me? Connie, you look like a princess.”

“I feel like one,” she giggled.

“When you see your gift from me—I’m sorry it’s not more, I haven’t—”

“Stop it!” she scolded. “You came all the way from Europe just to be at my wedding. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

You didn’t bother correcting her. Her version of events sounded much nicer than you just got lucky with when the Red Cross put you on a boat home. “Anything for you.”

“I won’t keep you. This is probably the first time you’re eating real food in years. Mama, Sandra, and Theresa made most of it.”

Connie was right. You tried to savor your plate, packed with pasta drowned in homemade sauce, antipasto and crusty bread, and sandwiches that towered with fresh cold cuts. The Corleones knew a thing or two about good food, and had the means to pull the strings for the unfathomable ration books such a feast required.

A familiar yet unexpected voice startled you when your fork pierced a piece of mozzarella. “Is this seat taken?”

“Michael,” you practically gasped, taken aback by his even attending the wedding in the first place, but also how good he looked in his uniform. Cap tucked under his arm, medals and decorations on his chest, the photos you’d seen in the magazine didn’t do him justice. Finding yourself again, you gestured to the empty seat across from you. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw you, but you look great,” he said, his gaze fixed on you as he set his plate and glass down. He took you in, the girl he’d grown up seeing around the house and at school, now, without a doubt, a woman.

“You too, Captain,” you said, nodding toward the double bars on his uniform.

He snickered at your little joke, making you feel a bit more at ease in his presence. “I’m surprised you aren’t in the wedding party.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it until a few days ago. I only just got back to New York on Thursday,” you said.

“You volunteered with the Red Cross, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “I was in England, and then France after the liberation.”

“Clubmobile, right?”

“Did Connie tell you?”

He shook his head, smiling the slightest bit. “All the pretty girls worked the Clubmobile.”

A mortifyingly girlish giggle escaped your lips. You quickly brought your glass to your mouth, though the champagne in it was likely the culprit of your embarrassing reaction to Michael’s compliment. Averting your eyes to the dancing guests, you tried to ignore the warmth that spread across your face.

You allowed yourself to look at him again a few moments later, relieved to find he was still sitting in front of you, amused, maybe even endeared, by you.

“You’re such a jerk, Michael,” you mumbled, only because he was your friend’s older brother, and when you were younger and starry-eyed and figuring out what it meant when your heart wouldn’t quite beat right around a boy, it was him who those tender emotions were kindled in secret toward—until you had your first real boyfriend.

He grinned at your remark, and the two of you ate and caught up in between his various family members stopping by the table to say hello. You weren’t sure what to make of his seeing you before any of them—flattered, a bit confused as well, but he laughed at your jokes and moved his seat closer to yours, so you must have been doing something right when he finally asked, “Do you want to dance?”

“I’d love to,” you said.

The chaos from Johnny Fontaine’s unexpected arrival and impromptu performance subsided when Michael led you out to dance. He held you close, the way soldiers had at the dances the Red Cross put on for servicemen, all to boost morale, or, as the war went on, to offer a break from reality. Among the many rules meant to be followed—and typically broken in one way or another in the haze of war—was to keep some emotional distance from the enlisted men, for your sake and their own, but with bodies so close together, tender touches and soft whispers over songs of twilight and moonbeams, it was tough not to be caught up in romance’s alluring snare.

Even then, with the war behind both of you, something about being in Michael’s arms made you truly understand why some girls risked their assignments for a man. There was something in how he looked at you, different from your childhood together, even from a few minutes prior. You felt breathless despite the slow song you swayed along to.

“Did you like Paris?” he asked quietly, throwing you for a loop.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Paris?”

“You were in France, weren’t you?”

“Not Paris.”

“Where in France were you slinging doughnuts, then?”

“Little villages a few miles out from the front, mostly. More cows than people, but nice enough once the fighting stopped, and it was finally quiet—as quiet as it could get, anyway,” you said. “When Connie wrote you’d been wounded, I couldn’t help but think the worst. Plenty of guys out there—well, that article sure put me at ease. All the girls were jealous when I said I knew you.” You smiled. “I’m glad you’re alright, Michael.”

He glanced at your lips, and for an aching moment you were sure he was going to kiss you, but instead he gave you a smile, one that was real and made your heart flutter nevertheless, but left you disappointed.

“Where are you staying since you’ve been back?” he asked.

He seemed familiar with the hotel you were staying in when you mentioned it, offering to drive you back after the reception ended, and Connie and Carlo left for their honeymoon. 

“It’s only until I can find a boarding hotel that has space,” you said. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be the Barbizon, but I’m not moving back in with my parents.”

“Here’s to that.”

The rest of the day and into the evening, Michael hung around you, unless he was pulled away by members of his family, each instance an annoyance to him. You knew they weren’t exactly supportive of his enlisting, but the situation couldn’t have been that bad, not since he was home, safe and sound at his sister’s wedding.

The Corleones, though endlessly kind to you, always been an odd family, and you learned through your friendship with Connie not to ask too many questions.

But Genco Abbandando was dying, and Vito insisted Michael go with the rest of the Corleone men to pay his respects to the elder. When you offered to take a cab back to your hotel, Michael promised the visit wouldn’t be long, suggesting you wait at the house with his mother until he returned to drive you into the city.

Your foolish desire to spend more time with him led to your waiting in the Corleones’ kitchen for a little over an hour, when you likely would’ve been showered and in bed in your hotel room by the time he arrived back for you, in one hell of a hurry to get you into his car and presumably get away from his family.

“Do you ever think about leaving New York?” he asked when the house was out of view.

You laughed. “Michael, I only just got back.”

“That’s not what I mean. The war—it wasn’t going to be forever, but it let you see what life could be like away from all of this, didn’t it?”

“Of course it did. I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do with myself now,” you said. “How about you? Are you going back to school? Dartmouth, I mean.”

He nodded. “I start again the spring semester.” At a red light, he glanced over at you. “New England’s nice. Better than French cow country.”

“And do you suppose I could study in the department of pouring coffee and serving doughnuts?”

“You’re smart. I think you have a real future,” he said, the sincerity in his voice startling you. “All of that back there, that’s not for us. It never has been.”

You were silent for a few moments. “I guess you’re right.”

The city lights twinkling in the distance took the place of the stars they blocked out from the sky, growing larger as Michael crossed the bridge into Manhattan, the center of the universe. You’d never tell a soul how you cried just a few days prior upon seeing it again for the first time in years.

Besides his talk of the future, Michael kept the conversation light, and you could’ve sworn he was flirting with you. Working the Clubmobile, you learned quickly how to pick up on it, some men laying it on thick while others were irresistibly smooth. Michael could’ve easily just been teasing you, the way a friend’s older brother would, but when he pulled up to your hotel, either your ego or curiosity prompted you to invite him up for a drink.

You sobered up on the drive into the city, enough to remember you didn’t have any drinks in your room. The two of you would have to go to the hotel bar for that, but then you and Michael wouldn’t be alone, not how you wanted, anyway.

To your relief, he agreed.

With Michael in uniform, few questions would be asked by hotel staff as to why you suddenly had a man with you when you checked in on your own. It would have been easy to lie, claim he was your fiance who had only just gotten back Stateside. But you supposed you and Michael already looked the part, walking arm-in-arm through the lobby without an issue.

Your confidence soared on the elevator ride up to your modest room, which you let Michael into, knowing he wouldn’t judge the state of your accommodations.

“Mind if I make myself comfortable?” You didn’t wait for his answer, pulling your blouse from where it’d been tucked in your skirt. Slipping out of your heels, you sighed softly in relief.

“It’s your place,” he said, setting his coat over the chair in the corner and loosening his tie.

You grabbed his cap from where he set it down and placed it on your head, tilting the brim over your face a bit and posing in front of him with a hand on your hip. “How do I look?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, giving you a once over, “I swear I saw you pinned up in some guy’s tent looking just like that.”

You laughed, taking the cap off and flinging it aside. “Oh, I don’t even know why I invited you up here!” Your laughter faded as something in your stomach turned sour, the situation feeling achingly too good to be true. Alone in a hotel room with Michael, the two of you entirely capable of making your own mistakes on the off chance he wanted you too. “Or why you even agreed to come up.”

“I didn’t come up here to drink.”

“No, you did it to be nice, because we’ve known each other for so long…” You sighed, sitting next to him. “I always figured you thought of me as your kid sister’s annoying little friend or something.”

He shook his head, saying your name softly in either protest or reassurance. His hand cupped your face as he turned it toward him, his thumb rubbing soft circles in your cheek. “Not for a long time. Especially not tonight.”

You kissed him, hands gripping his shoulders, closing your eyes as you melted in his embrace. Your skin feverish at his touch, you shuddered when his hand slipped up your untucked blouse until his fingertips reached your bra.

To say you hadn’t fantasized about Michael would have been an unconvincing lie to anyone who dared ask, but even in your wildest dreams, it was never quite like this, so bold and irreverent in the face of the tradition the two of you had just spent the day celebrating.

“I came up here because you’re beautiful,” he confessed against your lips, “because you’re the only familiar face I saw at my sister’s wedding that didn’t make me wish I were somewhere else.”

Silencing him with another kiss, your fingers raked through his soft black hair as your body pressed flush against his, unsure if you could withstand hearing more of his tender words without falling to pieces. You couldn’t, not so early in the night, but his desire grew difficult to ignore when he pulled you onto his lap. The pressure against your pussy made you moan, and with a hasty desperation, you shimmied out of your panties as he unbuckled his belt, freeing his hard cock within a few moments.

You slipped a hand between the two of you, pumping his length, feeling the way it twitched at your touch and gasping when Michael’s hips bucked. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, a whisper of an intent to devour you.

“I need you, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Need to feel you.”

Lifting your hips, you whimpered upon feeling his head brush your clit as you positioned yourself, slowly lowering as he filled you, cock throbbing against your walls that clenched around him. He assuaged the pain of taking all of him with a gentle kiss and soft praises, urging you to take your time, that you had all night together.

All night. The promise he would stay, at least until the morning, sent a teasing wave of pleasure through you. Gripping his shoulders, you tried to keep a steady pace as you rode him, wanted to show him that staying would be worth his while. He’d been right in the car, you wouldn’t be a virginal, wedding white bride. The both of you had seen and experienced too much to be considered innocent any longer, but it was something you shared, that no one else from that day would have understood.

Your thighs ached as you neared your climax, desperately chasing it despite the exhaustion that was creeping up on you. Crying out in frustration, you buried your face in the crook of Michael’s neck.

“I’m close,” you whined. “Michael, I—”

“I’ve got you,” he assured you, his hands making their home on your hips. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you let him guide your body, his thrusts doing most of the work while you rocked against him, seeking the friction against your clit that would bring you to release. It caught in your throat, a broken groan from your lips to his ears as you came, clenching around him, pleasure rolling through you, rattling your body like thunder. You barely caught your breath when he came, shuddering against you, practically cradling you against him as he filled you.

With a whimper, you lifted yourself off of him and rolled back onto the bed. Placing your hand on your chest, you felt your rapidly beating heart beneath your fingertips, focusing on it as it slowed the following minute or so and ignoring the stickiness between your legs, the evidence you slept with your best friend’s older brother. 

Michael leaned over, brushing back the hair that stuck to your face. “What are your plans tomorrow?”

“Looking through the classifieds for a job,” you said honestly.

“Wanna put it off for a day?”

“With what money, Michael?”

“I’ll give you a line of credit.”

You grabbed one of the pillows from behind you, throwing it at him with a laugh. “Jerk!”

He grinned, pushing it aside to grab for one of your arms. You put up a weak fight, your breathless laughter giving away his almost certain win.

Having pinned you down beneath him, he pressed you for an answer. “So?” He kissed you. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “I guess I can clear my schedule for a dashing war hero like you.”

“Dashing, I like the sound of that,” he murmured, bringing his lips to yours again, softly, with a tenderness that promised more for tomorrow, and even the day after, if you’d have him. 

You smiled. “Me too.”

[transastronautistic]

When people stumble over their pronouns, stammer, blush, or apologize in embarrassment, I often think of Riki Anne Wilchins' description of her friend Holly Boswell: "Holly is a delicate Southern belle of long acquaintance ....S/he has tender features, long, wavy blonde hair, a soft Carolina accent, a delicate feminine bosom, and no interest in surgery. Holly lives as an open transgendered mother of two in Asheville, North Carolina. Her comforting advice to confused citizens struggling with whether to use Sir or Madam is, 'Don't give it a second thought. You don't have a pronoun yet for me.’” ... ...[T]o answer the homophobes becomes easy, those folks who want to dehumanize, erase, make invisible the lives of butch dykes and nellie fags. We shrug. We laugh. We tell them: your definitions of woman and man suck. We tell them: your binary stinks. We say: here we are in all our glory — male, female, intersex, trans, butch, nellie, studly, femme, king, androgynous, queen, some of us carving out new ways of being women, others of us new ways of being men, and still others new ways of being something else entirely. You don't have pronouns yet for us.

- Eli Clare in Exile & Pride: Disability, Queerness and Liberation (1999)

[gatheringbones]

[“As history has shown, and as I was at the time experiencing, a strap-on can be sexy, but it can also be a failure and a threat. It draws attention to how contradictory and fragile our definitions of male and female are, and how tightly we cling to them, even in relationships between women, where gender and sexuality are more flexible.

I think it’s important to look at how this played out, not just in the history of straight men policing lesbians but in the lesbian community policing itself. In the 1940s and 50s a bar scene began to develop in cities across the country, marking the first time when lesbians, particularly working-class ones, gathered publicly and in large numbers. During this time a butch/femme culture developed that included strict codes of dress and behavior both in and outside the bedroom. Butch women slicked back their hair, wore suits and jeans, and were, generally, the “givers” of sexual pleasure. Femme women wore dresses and makeup and were the “receivers” of sexual pleasure. In some ways, this culture was liberating, as it represented a powerful, cohesive group aesthetic and safety in numbers. Especially for women who actually identified as butch, it was also a chance to finally adopt masculine dress without being seen as failed or dangerous but rather as sexy and loveable. For others this culture was a trap, pushing women into restrictive sex and gender roles in the same ways heterosexuality had. It is by no means the only lesbian aesthetic, but I think part of the reason it has stuck around for so long in the popular imagination as the way lesbians are is because it allows straight people to again see themselves as the center of the sexual world.

In either case, strap-ons were not widely used, or at least not talked about. In Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold, a book that documents the lives of Black and white lesbians in Buffalo, there is a pretty exhaustive set of interviews about sex acts and terminology, but no one mentions owning, liking, or even trying sex with a strap-on. Indeed, the one mention of a dildo is one of bewilderment as Vic, a self-identified butch, talks about her friend pulling her into the bathroom to show her the new strap-on she got. “Jesus, she whipped this thing out . . . I’m supposed to be butch and my face felt like a neon sign. I could feel the embarrassment. How do you admire a dildo? No seriously, what do you say?”

Butches in the book took great pride “in their own hands and their ability to please,” which “did not dispose them to think that a dildo would improve their lovemaking.” It’s interesting that they considered the dildo less potent and successful than hands. This could be read as displacing the power of the dick, but, coupled with the silence surrounding strap-on use, it also points to a greater fear about the lesbian body. How regulated and small it had to be to exist. How easily it could be diminished by something outside itself, or destroyed altogether.

In the lesbian radical feminist movement of the 1960s and 70s, there was also a great deal of attention focused on creating distance from dicks. Jill Johnston argued in A Lesbian Nation that the only true road to female liberation was the conscious “withdrawal at every level from the man to develop woman supremacy.” This meant that not only butch/femme dynamics but also penetrative sex were out. Anne Koedt developed the theory that the vaginal orgasm was a myth perpetrated by Freud in order to center male sexual desire for penetration, though her evidence for this was a study done by Kinsey—a man—that found the vagina was not particularly sensitive to touch. True orgasms, Koedt argued, only came from the clitoris—even though she interestingly also called the clit “the female equivalent of the penis”—so if women wanted to have enjoyable sex there was no need for penetration, only clitoral stimulation. Andrea Dworkin went so far as to call the penis “a hidden symbol of terror” and argued that “violence is male, the male is the penis.”

Dorothy Allison writes about the effects this had on herself and other lesbians at the time. “No one admitted to using dildos, wanting to be tied up, wanting to be penetrated, or talking dirty—all that male stuff . . . my lover wanted us to perform tribadism, stare into each other’s eyes, and orgasm simultaneously. Egalitarian, female, feminist, revolutionary.” In attempting to free themselves from the penis, in many ways radical lesbians ended up reinscribing the power of the dick and sacrificing the range of sexual pleasure they could experience in the process.

In a counter to this, the lesbian sexual outlaws of the 1970s, 80s, and 90s argued that dildos were actually great, not problematic, but primarily because they didn’t reference the penis at all. Some even argued that wearing a dildo turns a woman into a cyborg, not woman, man, or even human, just a body involved in the mechanistic movements of giving and receiving pleasure. While there is something freeing about this argument, as it gets us out from under the idea that we can’t talk about strap-ons and that a woman wearing a strap-on is only trying to make up for a never-ending lack, it still bypasses the sticky, complicated reality of the gendered/human world we live in and the simple fact that sometimes lesbians want strap-ons to look like penises.

All of this begs the question: can a dyke wear a dick and just have some damn fun?”]

amy gall, from my dick, your dick, our dick, from wanting: women writing about desire, 2023

[thehistoriccemetery]

Hi!!! Absolutely love your writing :)

Idk if you’re taking requests but if you are:

Been having a tough time lately, would it be possible to have the female companions (plus Aylin+Isobel) comforting Tav/Reader during a panic attack?

Thank youuuuuu sending you all the love and good vibes

BG3 Ladies Soothe a Panic Attack

I was honestly unsure I’d ever able to do this prompt justice, especially given how differently every person’s needs are in such a situation. But I felt inspired to give it a shot anyway! I hope it’s alright!

I also send good vibes and well wishes to all my fellow panic attack having soldiers.

In the spirit of trying to keep it vague, this one is pretty short. But without further ado, here’s Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Karlach, Minthara, Jaheira, and Isobel and Aylin!

Shadowheart

Shadowheart knows all the clerical tips and tricks that are gonna get you through this you through this.

As soon as you’re in full blown panic she’s got an ice spell at her fingertips, placing her cold hands on your face especially around the eyes.

She kneels down next to you. “Alright love, I need you to breathe with me,” she commands, modeling the most effective breathing techniques.

She’s very soft, nearly whispering so you have to really focus on her in order to understand what she is saying.

She’s very liberal with her praise, telling you how good you’re doing with every breath you’re able to match.

When the panic subsides, she instructs you to rest. She’ll lay with you if you’d like, but you need to rest for at least a few minutes before proceeding with life as usual.

She brings you food and water, taking the opportunity to make sure you’re taking care of yourself in general. You have to eat and drink at least a little bit before she’ll let you go.

She also wants to have a little chat about the root of the issue. What are some of your triggers? What are some things that help you specifically?

Next time, she’s gonna be prepared.

Lae’zel

Lae’zel is not the gentle type when it comes to these sorts of things, though it’s not something she’s entirely unfamiliar with.

When she sees the panic set in, she’s the first to pull you up to your feet and have you do jumping jacks or something.

While any observers might think she’s being heartless or unemphatic, the adrenaline actually works pretty well to pull you out of the panic fast.

She doesn’t make you feel embarrassed about it at all. She simply squeezes your arms and nods in understanding. It happens to the best of us.

Lae’zel is, shockingly, largely unfazed. You get the sense that she dealt with this before. Perhaps she even dealt with panic attacks herself in her youth.

She thinks it’s best to resume normal activities immediately, though she’ll secretly be keeping a special eye on you the rest of the day.

Karlach

In seeing your unbridled panic, Karlach starts to get a little panicked herself.

She just doesn’t really have any experience with this sort of thing and is completely unsure of what to do.

Her first instinct is to hold you, but if you put up any sort of resistance at all she backs off immediately.

Whether you are in her arms or simply next to her, she whispering words of affirmation. But she’s unable to come up with much more than “it’s okay, soldier. It’s gonna be okay. You’ve got this.”

When you’re no longer gripped by panic, she’s still not entirely sure what to do. She’ll take your lead completely. Though she’s not entirely convinced that a simple “back to business” is the best course of action.

She’ll probably want to cuddle or at least hold your hand for a while just to make sure you’re truly alright. If she’s being honest, the ordeal gave her quite a scare. But she absolutely will not make this about her right now.

She’s going to be checking in on you pretty consistently over the next couple days. She may even get some pointers from Shadowheart on what to do if it ever happens again.

Minthara

Minthara’s first priority is privacy and protection. Anyone who isn’t her isn’t allowed to come anywhere close to you. Not when you’re this vulnerable.

After everyone is gone and out of earshot, she asks “Would you like to be held?” She speaks with the same tone and cadence she’s always using. Nothing about her softens.

If you say yes, she’ll silently pull you into her arms, allowing you to sob and heave into her chest until you recover.

Pretty much anything you need is fair game. She will not stop you from clutching at her clothes or skin, even if you accidentally hurt her.

If you say no, she’ll simply sit next to you in silence, occupying herself with a silent menial task. She will allow you some space, but she will not leave you entirely alone.

Either way, anyone who values their life will stay away from you; she’ll make sure of it.

You expect her to lecture you about such a blatant display of weakness, but she doesn’t. And anyone who would dare even mention it will receive a glare that makes them think better of it.

Jaheira

Jaheira’s first tactic is similar to that of Lae’zel. She tries to get you moving until the endorphins help you overcome your panic.

It’s honestly frustrating how effective it is. The height of your panic subsides quicker than it ever has before.

She is, however, quite a bit gentler afterwards. She has questions. Is this a frequent occurrence? What triggers your panic? How can we avoid it in future?

When you express to her your concern about your anxiety making you a weak link, she is quick to shut down any doubt that you are less valuable for this.

She’s raised enough children to know it takes all sorts of strengths and weaknesses to round out a team. Even those on the softer side have their purpose.

She eventually convinces to start taking more days off, especially when the task at hand has a high likelihood to push you beyond your limits.

Isobel and Dame Aylin

Dame Aylin pulls you into her arms. Even if you struggle against it at first, she just holds you tightly against her chest and gently shushes your sobs.

Meanwhile, Isobel handles the situation very similarly to Shadowheart, bringing her clerical knowledge in to support you.

She strokes your face with cooled hands, not minding the way tears pour relentlessly down her hands. All while a strong Aylin gently kisses the crown of your head.

Aylin shields you from the world with her wings, only allowing Isobel close. Anyone else will receive a gentle yet firm “Begone.”

When it’s over, Isobel tells you to rest. She’ll probably insist prefer you came back to/stayed at camp with her for the rest of the day.

As loathe as you are to miss out on a day on adventuring, Isobel’s company makes for the best afternoon anyone could ask for.

[missmisandrytabletalk]

Katy Perry has just released a new single 'Woman's World' and the second hand embarrassment I got from watching its music video is palpable. I really hope this was a satire because everything about it emulates something a 13 y/o teenage boy or an incel would want feminism to look like. the sexual innuendos and american themed bikinis depicting her as a perfect american dream which is honestly the last thing you want to be seen promoting, esp the recent political unrest and their involvement in genocidal crimes.

I was honestly flabbergasted maybe because the 12 y/o me didn't quite read through alot of her old music videos and songs. though when I look back I realize this has always been her brand. No way in hell did any true feminist picture the woman's world to look like.. THAT! Libfems must be milking off of this MV lol.

Plus, I read it somewhere that the song is produced by a renowned sex offender 'Dr. Luke' who in the past had sexually abused and exploited alot of the famous female artists like kesha, kelly clarkson and etc. First preaching about feminism and women empowerment whilst working with a SO has to be the most ridiculous dichotomies to ever exist. Like she has surpassed a new level of hypocrisy I cannot describe in words.

This is why radical feminism exists because at the end of the day this psuedo/white/liberal feminism is only exploiting women and is straight up demeaning to our sex class.

[ardously]

For people who haven't read Gaiman's books...yeah. Neverwhere has an obvious author self insert (something something boring whinging white male who women inexplicably find incredibly attractive) who finds a magical injured teenage girl (she's fourteen) and it's such uncomfortably realistic grooming that I didn't even notice it until I read it again as an adult. Just. Oh yeah they're in a relationship by the end lol.

Sidebar he writes a female warrior in this same book and is constantly describing her "delicious caramel skin" or whatever and describes her breasts in her DEATH SCENE. His writing is so utterly masturbatory that I feel secondhand embarrassment that anyone would want this sort of thing published.

In American Gods, he has an entire digression from the plot to detail how the main character's cheating whore wife died in a car accident bc she was giving her affair partner a blow job. The MC is all coolly detached and only slightly sad about the death the narrative implies she deserved. This is shown as some kind of "grace" on his part btw.

That's not the worst part! The worst part is definitely the sexually aggressive teenaged native american girl (oh, sorry, "20sish", since calling her "barely legal" would be too obvious) who keeps throwing herself all over the adult male protag (he's 32) for no reason. Ofc the epilogue implies the protag is stalking her and giving her flowers to pursue a relationship...how sweet. I could mention how basically every other female character is just fodder for sexual violence and shock value, but honestly, it's the background radiation of all of his work. A deep-seated, cynical amusement that women pretend to be anything more than sex toys and whores, which ofc the author espouses again and again is a woman's true nature. He is a liberal misogynist through and through.

This, of course, doesn't even touch upon the homophobia, but I've seen that discussed far more often than the truly vile misogyny openly on display whenever Gaiman picks up a pen.

[wanderingelvis]

Hi, So can you do one with innocent reader where like she meets the mafia for the first time and they ask her sexual questions but she like wtf.

I love this!! I love interactions with the Mafia! Thank you for the request, enjoy! 🧚🏻

🧚🏻 Masterlist 🧚🏻

word count: 1,448

pairing: elvis x female!reader

warnings: mention of religion and sex

You were spending time in Elvis' lavish hotel suite with Elvis and the Mafia as you all took a break from the constant and relentless routine of shows. You'd just joined them all on the road as a backing singer and Elvis had taken an instant liking to you. You were docile and compliant, happy to do whatever he, or anyone else, wanted. He loved that he could mold you into whatever he wanted without taking away from your bubbly little personality.

You liked Elvis too, he never really pushed your limits like your singing coach would or some of the executives on the tour would. He was a safe haven. However, the same couldn't really be said for his entourage, the Memphis Mafia. It's not that you didn't like them, you just figured they didn't like you. You were quiet, reserved and shy and they were all the entire opposite of that. 

They hadn't really bothered to interact with you much either, they would barely even glance your way usually. Little did you know that they knew better than to speak to you. You were Elvis' little girl only.

Right now, you were busy telling Elvis all about how excited you were at the prospect of performing at a local carnival show, that it might be your biggest audience yet and that you were nervous but eager to do it.

"Pretty girl like you is gonna have all the boys and men flocking to you after that little show you give 'em. But I bet you're already used to that." Elvis mused, brushing away a curl of hair that had fallen in front of you face.

"Well, no actually." You said, oblivious the eyes staring down at her from one of the most famous men in the world, as well as his entourage.

"No?"

"No boy back home would even wanna come near me, they were all scared of my Momma," You softly giggled, remembering all the times your mother would practically bark at a boy that even looked in you direction. It had always been embarrassing and you were still terrified of crossing your mother.

"Wait, hang on a minute," A voice interrupted, you followed the sound and you were met with Sonny West, who was sitting on the couch opposite you, drinking whisky and smoking his cigar, listening in on the tales you were telling Elvis.

"So you've never...?" Sonny interrupted, taking a sip of his drink. You shook your head, sitting upright on the plush couch as Elvis walked over to the drinks table to pour himself and you a drink. "You're telling me, you've never even taken a mans fingers?" He said, clearly overstepping, but you were just a little confused.

You looked over to Elvis who was just watching the interaction play out, and gave you a reassuring nod. He knew that Sonny was prone to a drink or two and could get out of hand.

"Um... no, um, I don't think so." You said quietly.

"Fuck, tell me you've at least had your first kiss." Sonny said, cracking up at the idea of your lack of sexual history. You politely and sweetly stayed quiet, just shaking your head a little. Sonny's eyes widened when he realised you were being serious, laughing even more. When you looked over at Elvis, his eyes were dark and intense, trained just on you.

"Sonny." Elvis said sharply, but it went over Sonny's head. Elvis could see you were uncomfortable and he knew Sonny was being an ass.

"EP, c'mon!" Sonny said, before turning back to you. "You must be pretty glad you're in the Hollywood scene now then, eh kid? You'll get a guy and everything that comes with it with a bat of an eyelash." Sonny chuckled.

"M'not a prude, I just wanna save it all for when I'm married, I want it to be real special. My best friend, Patty, she's done it all and that's okay, I ain't gonna judge none," You insisted, you knew how liberal and carefree Hollywood was, you knew that you were surrounded by different lifestyles, you just didn't want anyone to think that you thought less of them for it, because you didn't. Sonny let out a booming laugh, causing everyone's heads to turn to him and your cheeks to flush, worried you'd said the wrong thing.

"Waiting until marriage? Honey, that's the most ridiculous thing I've heard in a long time, you're not eighty years old sweetheart." He patronised, chuckling to himself. You chewed on her lip a little, feeling a little stupid. "It's just what, um, m-my pastor says God wants." You said softly, crossing your arms to cover your chest a little, feeling insecure. You didn't really like all of the 'Mafia', you knew Jerry was nice and you could see why he was Elvis' favourite, but Sonny and Red weren't as friendly.

Sonny slapped his thigh as he burst into more laughter. "I thought this generation were supposed to be all loving, what happened huh? God?! It's like my mother's here." He chuckled. "Woah now, if Y/N wants to wait for marriage, she ain't gotta justify it to you Sonny. Really, it ain't got a goddamn thing to do with you does it, Son?" Elvis said, almost menacingly, to his friend. "Why don't you go find somebody else to berate rather than picking on the little girl huh? Goes for all of you, get outta here." Elvis said, nodding at the door before sending you a wink, making a smile creep onto your face before you felt your cheeks get hot. Sonny's cheeks also flushed, embarrassed at being scolded by the Boss, but none of the Mafia wasted any time in getting out of the dressing room, leaving you and Elvis alone. "Sorry about Sonny, he likes to think his goddamn opinion is more important than it actually is." Elvis said gently, sitting back down next to his sweet girl, who was still sitting firmly upright, not relaxed in the slightest. You looked up at Elvis with confusion on your face and a furrowed brow, which Elvis thought was the cutest thing he ever did see. "D'ya think I'm silly?" You asked softly, worrying that maybe your admission might make Elvis think differently about you.

"I think you'd be silly if you rushed yourself and made yourself unhappy." Elvis comforted, making your shoulders stop tensing. You shot him a quick nervous smile.

"Just want it t'feel right." You mumbled, picking at your fingers.

"I know, I won't let them upset you again little one." Elvis promised, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly to give you a cuddle, the type of cuddle you loved having with Elvis.

You felt so comforted and looked after by Elvis, he could be surrounded by anyone and yet he'd ask one of the Mafia to find you because that's who he wanted. You weren't sure yet as to why, but you never complained, you loved being in his company.

As your mind wandered, thinking about all the ways that Elvis made you feel good, your eyes widened with an idea.

"Elvis?" You asked as he hummed in response. "Would you give me my first kiss now?" You asked shyly, nerves flooding your little body as you peered up at him to gauge his reaction.

Elvis studied your face before shaking his head. "Baby, you're not ready, you know that, don't ya?" Elvis cooed.

"I just-"

"I know sweetheart. But you're not ready for all of that, you're just lettin' Sonny's words get to ya." Elvis assured softly.

"I know." You said, feeling a little embarrassed and defeated, even if you knew that Elvis was right, he always knew what was best for you, better than you did at this point.

Elvis watched you and all he wanted to do was kiss you, rip your babydoll dress off you and fuck you senseless. He'd imagined it more times than he'd like to admit and he couldn't wait for the day that he'd finally be kissing your soft skin all over. He knew that that day would come, but he knew it would only live up to his expectations if you were ready, and he knew you weren't.

"How's about I make you a deal then, baby?" Elvis suggested, gently tilting your chin up so that you would be looking at him. "How's about, when you're absolutely sure you're ready, you come find me, and I'll give ya a kiss?" Elvis proposed.

You giggled a little at the idea, but you liked it. You didn't feel pressured, only looked after.

"'Kay." You said gently, another giggle leaving your lips.

The pair of you smiled at each other, each letting out little laughs and enjoying each others company as Elvis decided to count the days until he got his kiss.

[mallloryrowinski]

You're a transphobe!!! You should be embarrassed

Okay this is getting old now. I know you probably won’t read this reply as you’re clearly refusing to educate yourself on what I stand for, but I wanna have this on my blog regardless so here we go.

I’m a radical feminist, and I’m gender critical. Being gender critical means recognizing that gender is a social construct made to keep women, as a class, oppressed on the basis of their sex, and uphold the patriarchy. The sex you’re born with is a fixed set of characteristics and is immutable (this is a fact. Sex is binary, not fluid. before you try to pull the intersex card, @/not-your-intersex-pawn here on Tumblr has posts that will explain this to you in much greater detail than I can, like their response here).

Now, your sex doesn’t say anything about you! It doesn’t mean a single thing, it just recognizes which set of biological characteristics you were born with. It doesn’t indicate your personality, hobbies, likes and dislikes, whatever. You are a whole person and your sex is just your sex. Women are and have been historically oppressed on the basis of their sex. Not because they identified as anything connected to the female sphere, they were forced into this sphere of subordination and yada yada (gender roles!) on the basis of them being born female. 

Gender, on the other hand, is an identity. Even the gendies themselves have lost the plot a little in my opinion as everything regarding gender now is just so… vague? But basically gender is an identity. Some say it’s innate, some say it isn’t. Most agree that you can change your gender, or at least “reclaim” it, if you believe it’s innate and that you were "born in the wrong body". You can claim any gender, actually, and define it however you please. 

Calling me “cis” would be incorrect not because I’m not a woman, but because I’m not part of the gender craze, meaning that’s an ideology I don’t subscribe to altogether. I don’t believe in it. There’s no such thing as gender. I’m just a woman, neither cis nor trans. 

There’s also an additional note that I would like to make here: as long as we as a society recognize gender, we’re gonna have people either conforming to it or resisting it, or claiming a different gender identity. This is basically the same as “as long as catholicism exists, we’re gonna have catholics, atheists, and people either converting to catholicism or abandoning it”. This does not refer to the group of people who go through physical sex dysphoria. This group may choose to access what you would call “gender-affirming care”, which isn’t gender-affirming for them, because they do not have a problem with their gender to begin with, and most of the time don’t even recognize gender as important/real. Their voices have been unfortunately silenced by the “new wave” of TRAs over the past 5 to 10 or so years, and I do not wish to speak on their behalf, you can do your own research on this, or listen to amazing people such as @/buct-reidentified here on Tumblr. 

If you disagree with me and do believe that gender is an important part of oneself - I don’t have a problem with that! You’re entitled to your own opinions just like I am to my own. If you read all this and still think I’m transphobic, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help you. 

The reason I don’t include trans women in my feminism isn’t because I don’t respect their identity. But their identity is irrelevant when it comes to a movement focusing on the liberation from sex based oppression. What matters is their sex, whether you like it or not, because women are oppressed on the basis of their sex. You can identify as a trans woman but I genuinely hope that you’ll see how being a trans woman is different than being born with a female body. These two will face radically different experiences and challenges, each unique to that group. 

I do believe that trans people, of any kind, do need their own protections, safe spaces, etc. because they clearly are discriminated against and no one should be able to attack or discriminate against anyone because they don’t agree with their identity/the way they present themselves/whatever. 

I do support the preservation of same-sex spaces for women, but this isn’t rooted in fear of trans women but in protecting women from predatory men who exploit gender theory to gain access to these spaces and harm women. I’m sure we can both agree that these cases have happened and I’m not fear-mongering. This is not because all trans women are predators. This has happened and continues to happen because when you give predators and abusers a chance to be predatory and abusive with little to no repercussion by hiding behind an ideology like the gender one, they are typically eager to take it. Women have a right to their same-sex spaces because of the sex-based oppression they’ve faced throughout centuries. Taking these away or reforming places that are specifically sex-exclusive into inclusive ones is not fair to women and results in a zero-sum game. 

So basically, if you identify as a trans man and want me to accommodate you by using he/him pronouns, I have no problem with that. The same goes for they/them or she/her. I’m happy to respect and use your preferred pronouns because I respect you as a person. However, this doesn’t change my understanding of your biological sex. I simply recognize that you identify as trans, which is part of who you are, and I respect that. You believe in gender and I don’t, that’s okay. If you take it to the “I should be able to access sex-exclusive spaces because I identify as trans”, I would politely explain to you why I disagree with that and what options I believe we should make available instead. 

There a ton of points I haven't touched but that are related to this topic, but this is the basics.

[kazimakuwabara]

I remember seeing some art for a genderfluid Kuwabara on here, and you mentioned thinking up a fanfic of that. I really loved that idea, so since you’re taking requests, would you still want to write that, if it’s no trouble?

I'm actually still writing that fic! I've got about a dozen chapters written, but it's been slow going. A lot of research, second-guessing, things of that nature. Since I am writing that fic I'll share part of it with you. Here is a couple pages from the Genderfluid Kuwabara story. The working title is: Fluid, Like Friendship.

Hiei, oddly enough, has seen Kuwabara in lipstick three times now.

This third time, outside a convenience store, with Kuwabara a little tipsy, and leaning down to apply the cheap product to his lips via the car’s side mirror, seems somehow significant.

Really significant.

The first time Hiei had seen it, Kuwabara was asleep, and fifteen. Maybe fourteen. Hiei wasn’t sure about either Kuwabara or Yusuke’s ages during the dark tournament.

Hiei was still hiding his injured hand, and everyone was quietly stewing over the wins and losses in their prospective matches. Hiei had wandered back into his shared hotel room, and spotted Shizuru, Kuwabara’s apparent elder sister. She was sitting on a bed, leaned over a hulking body, who Hiei assumed was Kuwabara.

Moved by curiosity, he came to see what she was doing.

To his shock and sudden amusement, she was putting a bright pink lipstick on her sleeping brother’s face. The lipstick was being applied liberally, but smoothly. It did not suit his pale skin or copper hair… too… clashing. Too bright.

“The colors don’t suit him,” Hiei remarked.

Shizuru, to her credit, does not jump or flinch. She finished with the lipstick and then pulled out a green powder, which she applied to his eyes. “That’s not the point,” she added once one of his eyelids is dark green… which is actually nice against his skin.

“...What is the point?” Hiei asked.

“Payback for running off to this stupid thing, and not telling me!” Shizuru grumped.

And then she looked at Hiei.

She looked at him for a long time, and Hiei looked back. This was Kuwabara’s sister, he had heard her name mentioned, and idly Yusuke had named her and pointed her out. He'd not thought much about her, but now they were looking at each other, and he was forced to see her.

She did not look much like Kuwabara… and yet she does. Her hair is more brown than auburn, but there is a touch of softer red hues there. She is tall, taller than Kuwabara, and while female her shoulders are broad. They have a similar eye shape, but after that, the similarities die off. There’s someone else in her genetic makeup, someone else that kept her apart from her brother.

“So you’re Hiei?” Shizuru mused, and there was a sad little lilt there, like she knew something.

Hiei frowns as his own senses tell him that she does.

She looked away and then instructed, “Look after him.”

“Ask the Detective to do that,” Hiei snorted.

Shizuru laughed, “These words are for later. Not for the tournament, and not for what comes after. You'll remember these words years from now. You’ll get it…” She finished Kuwabara’s eyes, and pulled out what looked like a thin black pen. “Also… wait for fifteen minutes. You’ll get to enjoy a show.”

Hiei walked away from Shizuru and Kuwabara, and took his spot by the window and loitered around for fifteen minutes… just to see what would happen.

Shizuru left ten minutes in.

At the end of minute 14, Kuwabara wakes up, and sits up, yawning groggily. At minute 15, Yusuke, Kurama, Botan, and Genkai walk in the room. Yusuke sees Kuwabara’s face and explodes with laughter, immediately giving Kuwabara shit. The room gets loud, Kuwabara screams and screeches and has no idea what is going on. Botan and Yusuke are laughing and pointing like children, and Kuwabara gets up from his bed, and chases them around the room.

…It is all amusing to watch, and Hiei has to hide a smile.

He doesn’t really understand whats so embarrassing about wearing  makeup for Kuwabara, but humans wear it to look pretty instead of to make war, or send a message. So he assumes its another difference between humans and demons he does not understand.

When the room settles down, Kuwabara goes to clean his face. He looks at his eyes the longest. The green shade is the only nice part about the makeover his sister gave him. It looks nice, it suits him. It reveals the blue hidden in the dark ring of his eyes. Hiei thought it looked good on him, and judging by Kuwabara's hesitance, Kuwabara seemed to think so too.

Kuwabara wiped the makeup away, and Hiei eventually forgets this moment, until he sees Kuwabara in lipstick for the third time.

[haggishlyhagging]

We have seen throughout this book that women's autonomy had to be hard won before creativity could flourish. The cultural context for women's creativity was quite different from that of men. The absence of heroines and of Women's History crippled even the most talented women or deflected their talents into less ambitious or shorter forms: poems rather than drama cycles; letters and journals rather than works of philosophy. The social embarrassment connected with female authorship and publication created enormous tensions in women of talent, whose gifts, to be fully realized, demanded ambition, long-range goal-setting and a desire for fame. The social definitions of "femininity" and the unending familial obligations imposed on women made concentrated attention to professional writing difficult if not impossible for most women. Up until the middle of the 19th century it is rare to find a female writer who did not have to pay for her intellectual productivity with a distorted and unhappy life. Whether women had to forgo their sexual lives in order to have leisure and permission to think, imagine and create, whether they had to abandon marriage and motherhood in order to be free to concentrate on themselves and their intellectual product—they faced more obstacles than did their brothers in the pursuit of similar aims.

Beginning with Aphra Behn, there were also some women who defied societal taboos and led liberated or at least unconventional lives. They paid a heavy price for whatever happiness they derived from their lifestyles, and in a number of cases their work was repressed or denied a reading public because of the scandal they created. Mary Wollstonecraft is the best known example of this pattern: she was a writer reaching a wide reading public when, after her early death in childbirth, her life became a scandal. This was due to her husband's decision to publish a memoir of her life and a collection of her letters to her lover which made it apparent that she had had an illegitimate child and lived with two men outside of marriage. Thereafter, her life was paraded as an example of debauchery and of the linkage between feminism and deviance. This kind of attack on her was made all through the 19th century and was still being printed in the 1950s. It undoubtedly discouraged other women from having access to her work and from taking it seriously.

Frances Wright, a radical Scotswoman living in the United States in the 1820s and 30s, who was a follower of Robert Dale Owen and who formed a utopian colony of her own, was slandered in press and pulpit and lost most of her influence because of her advocacy of sexual freedom and racial intermarriage. Her name became an epithet, actually; to be a "Fanny Wrightist" was to be a deviant. These are just two examples of many others that could be cited from different countries. Women's lives and women's work were constantly in tension with patriarchal gender definitions.

-Gerda Lerner, The Creation of Feminist Consciousness

[drabblesandimagines]

Under The Weather

Clive Rosfield x female reader For @ladycry19, the winner of my 500 followers celebration, who requested some fluff with Clive cupping reader's face in their hands. Thank you for your support! <3

You roll over in your bunk, flinging the blanket aside as another hot flush coursed through your body. You know in a moment you’ll be reaching for it again, pulling it right up to your neck - you seemed to be alternating between freezing cold and boiling hot, with no middle ground to be found. 

What you thought was a mild cold from a night caught out in the rain from surveillance on a Bearer master has turned into something far more nasty. The infirmary was full of the liberated Bearers from said master, in a far worse off state than you were, and so Tarja had, albeit very reluctantly, allowed you to stay in your bunk rather than a make-shift bed on the floor. Her and Rodriguez would alternate and visit you every few hours to check on your condition, salves and foul-tasting medicines in hand.

Your throat felt like you'd swallowed handfuls of sand, nose stuffed up, face throbbing and a horrible chesty cough that grew worse if you lay too flat on your back. You were lucky to have a bunk room to yourself, a small nook of the Hideaway that is entirely yours, a small square cut in the wall as a window – the sun now having long set. The rest of the room comprises of a mattress atop a basic frame and a small dresser and a heavy piece of stained fabric acting as a door.

You shiver and reach over for discarded blanket and break into a coughing fit, your whole body wracking with the effort. It takes a few moments for you to catch your breath and you reach for the tankard of water Tarja left on her last visit, heave yourself up a little bit more against the pillows, and sip slowly. You catch sight of the small bouquet of dried flowers atop the dresser and can’t help but smile – a gift Clive had given you at the very beginning of your courtship, prompted by a throwaway comment of how you’d never had flowers when you’d seen the flowers begin to grow in the Backyard. He’d foraged it for you especially, searching the fields around Martha’s Rest and presented it to you so bashfully, the stems held together by twine. A green-fingered Bearer had shown you how to dry them out so you could keep them always.

Thinking of Clive, you are thankful that he is currently away with his uncle and that he won’t see you in such an unsightly state – hair worse than a chocobo’s nest, still a little feverish, snuffed up and a voice so hoarse it could’ve rivalled the dulcet of Cid’s back in the day.

You’re miserable, fed-up, tired – suffering from broken sleep as you wake to cough and wrestle with the blanket, or when another tonic was brought for you to drink. Tarja assured you that you were now over the worst of it, but it was going to take a few more days for everything to clear. Staring up at the wooden ceiling, you can’t help but think about how lucky you are that you are here, within the Hideaway, where you are being cared for and allowed to rest. When you were sick as a Branded, your master had still expected you to fulfil your duties. You’d seen your fellow Bearers work until collapse, and then your master would debate whether it was worth the gil to send for the healer or just wait and see if they pulled through on their own.

There’s a knock on the wooden panels to the side of your doorway – it must be time for another draught.

“Come in”, you call, your voice cracking a little.

The curtain is pulled aside, but it is not Tarja, or Rodriguez or even Jill who steps in, but one Clive Rosfield.

“No.” You shake your head and pull the covers up and over your head, embarrassed.

“I… I thought you’d be pleased to see me, my lady.” You can hear he is pouting through his voice alone.

“I am glad you are back safely, but you have to leave.” “Tarja said you’ve not been well - I’ve got a draught she’d like you to take.”

“If you put it down, I can take it after you leave. Please.” Going under the blanket is proving to be a mistake, it’s stuffy and hard to breathe.

“Why are you hiding, sweetheart?”

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” You erupt into a fit of wracking coughs, so violent the blanket falls off your head as you attempt to catch your breath. Your eyes are closed, coughing into the crook of your elbow, when you feel a warm palm rub your back in soothing circles.

As the coughing subsides, you open one eye, reluctantly, to see that Clive is knelt down besides you, draught in hand, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Here – drink, please.”

You nod and take it, holding it up to your lips and down it in one. It’s better that way, considering how bitter it is from past experience. Once you are finished, he exchanges it for the tankard of water and you take a deep sip, clearing the taste.

“Thank you.” You keep your eyes downcast.

“You should’ve sent word that you weren’t well.” His palm remains on the small of your back. “I would’ve been back sooner if I’d known.”

“No, it wasn’t necessary – I wasn’t on death’s door by any means.”

“Then can you look at me?”

You shake your head. “Please can you go?”

“Sweetheart, why would I leave? You’re sick – I want to look after you.”

“I look as horrible as a Morbol.”

“Impossible.” He places a hand on your cheek, cupping it and gently tilts your head to meet his eyes.

“Clive,” you huff. “I haven’t combed my hair, or bathed and I’m feverish and…”

His other hand leaves your back and now he cups your entire face in his palms, staring into your eyes.

“You’re beautiful – inside and out.”

Your cheeks burn hot but you know it’s not from the fever that time, but the sincerity in his words and in his eyes. You’d accused him of lying, but he’s never been any good at it.

“I don’t feel like it right now.”

“Then it is my job to remind you,” he presses a long, sweet kiss on your forehead, your face still held in his palms so you can’t even move away.

“You’ll get sick.” You say, pathetically.

“No - I believe I mentioned to Tarja before that I never seemed to get ill with such things in my time in the Imperial Army.” He lets go of your face then, though takes your hand in his. “She wondered if it is a quirk of being a Dominant.”

“You must have missives to deal with.”

“I can respond to them here.”

You look around the room in disbelief. With him knelt beside your bed, nearly all the space is already taken up. “There’s no room for a chair at the dresser, and that’s not large enough for the ink and quills you’ll need and-”

“Then I shall bring you to my chambers, where I can keep an eye and complete my work.”

You open your mouth to protest further, but you’ve swiftly run out of reasons as to why he can’t.

“I’d feel much better knowing that you were being taken of, and I know Tarja is under enough strain with how busy the infirmary is.”

Clive Rosfield is not a man to be swayed once he has an objective in mind – you’ve seen that out on missions with him enough times.

“Don’t ask me to go. I love you, sweetheart.”

 You pout, he knows that always makes you concede, not helped by how weak you already feel. “I love you too.”

“So, you’ll allow me to take care of you?”

You nod, feeling exhausted.

He lifts your hand to his mouth, presses a kiss across your knuckles and then smiles. “I am glad we are in agreement. Here.” He pulls the blanket off your lap for a moment and drapes it around your shoulders. “We’ll have to cross the loading dock and I will not have you catching a further chill. Ready?”

You nod again, pulling your knees up in preparation of getting to your feet when Clive slips an arm under your thighs and another around your back, lifting you up before you can even blink.

You don’t even attempt to fight him on it, say you can walk, instead you simply wrap your arms around his neck, nuzzle your cheek against his chest, breathing in his scent and feeling far more content than you have in days.

“I missed you.” You say, softly.

Clive smiles, kisses your crown once more as he steps through the curtain to take you to his chambers. “I missed you too, my lady.”

--

I am under the weather atm - can you tell? Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

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[teddykaczynski]

Hi so this is a genuine question but like how do you still identify as trans even though ur a radfem or like radically aligned? Like wouldn’t you only be trans if you still thought you were a dude now? Instead of understanding that you were female then (pre transition) and are still female now?

This is 100% genuine btw I just don’t get how these things aren’t mutually exclusive

i dont have a trans identity but i live a life of trans experience

i come off androgynous/male/trans to most people and i live on a very liberal college campus. im treated like im trans even if i dont call myself that. when i first got here i just avoided the pronoun question but when i started working that was harder and i dont want to display my pronouns as she/her cause it feels embarrassing and it can lead to people to think im a tim too and i kept being theyed by coworkers which i Hate and i worked with a few ftms and them thinking of me as like. a cis woman or even nonbinary just made me uncomfortable.

if i was stronger yeah id be fine with saying my pronouns are she, correcting people that they me all the time once it bothers me enough, creating the connections i want with my own efforts instead of shallow things, but im not.