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jji-lee · 3 days ago

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nerd jisung first time getting head

(MDNI)

nerd jisung x hot girl reader ofc , library head , whiny ji , loud ji , squirmy ji , sensitive ji , virgin ji , jisung's first time getting head , reader is more experienced , shy ji , snowballing haha guys hear me out , he immediately nuts. , reader is understanding , he’s wearing those thick framed glasses , big brained anon idea !

“are- are you sure about this?”

you slipped your hand under his shirt a small giggle escaping your lips,

“why not ji? don’t tell me you’re backing out now?”

He squirmed under your touch, eyes peeking through the bookshelves of the library,

“n-no of course not, just- just what if we get caught?”

He whined softly as you planted a wet kiss on his cheek, his knees buckling gently

“Then you’re just gonna have to be quiet, right ji?”

clearly it seemed like jisung couldn't follow simple instructions, whining at every touch.

"jisung please lower your voice."

"fuck- feels good, 'm sorry."

you smiled into his neck, tongue poking out to trace his tense muscles, his grip on your hips deadly.

"please, too much, gonna cum."

your hand slipped past the waistband of his sweats, reaching in to hold onto his hot length. he let out a gasp, reaching for your hand to stop you,

"already ji? we haven't even gotten to the best part."

you giggled as he bit his lip, hiding the whine that threatened to slip out as you got on your knees in front of him, hands pulling down his sweats just enough to release his length. he was huge, length slapping against his stomach as you released him the his confines,

“you’ve been hiding this all this time?”

he pushed up his glasses as he looked down at you letting out a huff as you grabbed his length, the sight of your small hand wrapped around him making his stomach clench. jisung knew he wouldn’t last long, he hid his face behind the sleeve of his oversized hoodie watching you give kitten licks to his leaking tip.

“‘m not gonna last, please.”

his muffed voice was whiny, a smirk growing on your face as you planted a kiss to his tip,

“please what ji? what do you want me to do?”

he sighed as you removed your hands from him, placing them neatly on your lap as you waited for his next move. he moved his sleeve away from his face revealing his flushed cheeks, lips swollen from biting them.

you watched the definition of his veins as he rolled up his sleeves, hand coming forward to cup your face. he ran his thumb against your plump lips. you looked up at him innocently as you parted your lips, his thumb now grazing your teeth.

“stick your tongue out.”

you were quick to comply, core growing impossibly wetter as he removed his thumb from your mouth, instead using his index and middle finger to rub your tongue. he pushed them towards the back of your mouth, groaning as you swallowed around the tips of his fingers.

“fuck you’re dirty.”

he wiped at the slight fog that had built up in his glasses from all his heavy breathing wanting to get a better look as he dragged his fingers against your tongue, pulling them out of your mouth. his shaky hand gripped his length as he pressed his leaking tip against your parted lips. you waited patiently as he tapped his length against your mouth, stopping to rub his precum on your lips.

his face was priceless, eyebrows knit together tightly, lips parted into a silent moan. you backed away from his length,

“baby, you can fuck my mouth, i won’t bite, unless you want.”

you chuckled softly as he shook his head, releasing his length so you can take over, moving his hands to grip the roots of your hair instead. you held him tightly, opening your mouth wide to fit him all.

you took as much of him as you could into your mouth, tip hitting the back of your throat as you swallowed around him, lips wrapped tightly around his length.

maybe it was your fault for being impatient, or maybe you teased him too much from the start. you clenched your eyes tightly as you felt his warm cum spurt into your mouth. a whiny moan leaving jisung’s mouth as he hunched over, grip on your hair tightening.

“oh my- oh my god. y/n i’m so sorry. i’m so- oh my god.”

the feeling of his orgasm was quick to fade, embarrassment taking over immediately. he dropped down to his knees, now eye level with you as he leaned into kiss you roughly, warm hands cupping your face. he ignored the salty taste of himself on your mouth, kissing you deeply before planting light pecks all over your face,

“i’m sorry, i’m so sorry please, please don’t be mad, i should’ve said something-”

you giggled as he continued to kiss your face, his pants still around his thighs as he kneeled in front of you,

“sto-stop, okay okay! jisung it’s okay please, i’m not mad!”

he backed away from you, his glasses on the tip of his nose, revealing his soft eyes,

“you’re not mad?”

you shook your head, hands coming to fix his glasses.

“of course not ji-”

you smirked up at him,

“buttt, if you’re really sorry i have a couple ideas on how you could make it up to me.”

you looked down to see jisung’s length twitch slightly, a nervous cough coming from his lips,

“i-i think that’s a good idea, but maybe we should find another place.”

he lifted a nervous finger pointing past the bookshelves, you turned your head, eyes meeting the look of an annoyed studying student.

yeah maybe it’s best to take this somewhere else.

#jji lee #nct #nct dream #request #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct jisung #nct smut #nct dream smut #jisung #park jisung #park jisung imagines #park jisung smut #jisung smut #nerd jisung #nerd!jisung #jisung imagines

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svtiddiess · 2 days ago

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Sex Education

Synopsis: In all your years of education you learned that there are many methods to study: flashcards, study groups, the pomodoro method etc. But you find that practice is better than theory. And what better way to study Biology than practice with your study buddy?

Pairing: loser!virgin!med student!Mingyu x afab!med student!reader

Genre: smut, slight crack, one shot, med school! au

Rating: mature

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: pet names (puppy), penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, size kink, choking, loss of virginity, sub!Gyu, big dick!Gyu, loser!Gyu, riding, masturbation, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: Thank you so much for helping me with the synopsis my twin @tomodachiii! As promised, here's sub!Gyu.

Thank you so much to @onlymingyus for beta reading!

Click here to join my taglist!

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

Mingyu.

That's the only thing on your mind right now—nothing else, just Mingyu. You should probably be paying attention to the lesson, but how could you, with the hot nerd sitting right within your line of sight? Okay, maybe you chose this seat specifically so you could look at him without getting caught, but still! He’s a distraction you’re more than happy to have.

You rest your chin in your hand, sighing as your eyes trace over his figure. He’s built like a Greek god—strong, tall, with perfectly styled black hair, and his large square glasses barely hide his handsome, tan face. Oh, what you’d give just to see him without those glasses on.

You’ve known Mingyu since middle school. You never really interacted, but you definitely noticed him around. Back in school, he was known as the nerdy kid with glasses and a scrawny, lanky frame to match. Shy and awkward, he was an easy target for bullies. But over the years, his muscle mass increased, and his frame filled out. It seems he’s been putting in serious hours at the gym, and it’s definitely paid off.

Although he’s the most handsome guy in med school, he’s still incredibly shy and reserved, keeping his circle small and close-knit. Despite numerous people, especially girls, trying to get closer to him, he just pushes them away. That’s why, despite your massive crush, you haven’t made a move. You’re too scared he’ll shut you out and avoid you for good.

You can't help but bite your bottom lip and squeeze your thighs together as you rake your eyes over his bulging biceps, his shirt barely able to contain the muscle. Just one chokehold; one chokehold is all you're asking for, really. You sigh once again, knowing that you'll never be able to have him.

Your train of unholy thoughts is abruptly interrupted by the sound of your professor calling your name. Startled, you sit up and look towards him.

"Miss Y/N, are you even paying attention?" Prof. Choi huffs, crossing his arms.

"Of course I am, professor," you reply, flashing the sweetest smile you can manage.

"Then, for the third time, please answer the question on the board," he says, gesturing to the problem.

"Uh…" you trail off, completely lost.

Prof. Choi sighs and tells you to see him after class, to which you reluctantly agree. You sink into your chair, dreading what’s to come. Shaking your head, you let out a sigh and shifted your gaze back to Mingyu, watching in awe as he effortlessly answered the very question you stumbled over. Tall, muscular, hot, and smart—he really is the perfect guy.

You grumble as Prof. Choi calls your name, sabotaging your plan to slip out of class. Sighing, you drag yourself over to his desk, only to be surprised when Mingyu joins you. You glance between Mingyu and Prof. Choi, waiting for an explanation.

"Y/N, I’ll get straight to the point—you’re failing this class," Prof. Choi says. "At this rate, I’m not sure you'll be able to move on to the next year."

Well, it’s not your fault that a hot distraction named Kim Mingyu exists.

"That’s why I’ve assigned Mingyu here as your tutor to help you pass," he says, nodding toward Mingyu.

Your eyes widen, and you struggle to suppress a smile. Mingyu tutoring you? Spending time alone with him? This feels like a dream come true. You silently thank both Prof. Choi and the heavens for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Mingyu gives you a shy smile. "I hope we can get along well," he says, extending his hand.

You gratefully take it, noticing the blush coloring his cheeks.

"Please take good care of me, Mingyu," you say, beaming, already looking forward to your tutoring sessions.

You smooth out your skirt one last time before opening the door for Mingyu. You made sure to wear your sluttiest outfit today. After insisting that your brain works better when you study in your room, Mingyu shyly agreed to hold the tutoring sessions there.

You smile and step aside to let him in, watching as he sheepishly steps into your house. Making sure your ass is sticking out, you made him follow you upstairs to your room.

You sat down on your bed, subtly raising your skirt, and gestured for Mingyu to take a seat next to you. He awkwardly took his seat and started pulling out his notes.

He keeps his eyes on his notes as he starts explaining today’s lesson—something about the Krebs cycle, though you’re not really listening. You’re too busy admiring his handsome face. You twirl a strand of hair and blink sweetly as you ask (hopefully relevant) questions, but he barely glances at you while answering.

After what feels like hours of studying (it’s been 30 minutes), you whine and beg him for a break, and he blushes as he agrees.

"Would you like some snacks? Or maybe water or juice?" you ask, perking up.

"Just a glass of water is fine," he mumbles, still focused on his notes.

You nod and grab a glass of water for him and a snack for yourself. Returning, you hand him the water with a smile, which he accepts with a quiet “thank you,” while you peel your banana for your snack.

You lick the tip of the banana before biting down on it, smirking when you see Mingyu gulping at your actions. Noticing you looking at him, he blushes and quickly averts his gaze.

"Want a bite?" You offer him with a sultry smirk.

"N-No, thank you," he mumbles, his ears turning red.

You giggle as you finish your banana and scoot a little closer, prompting him to continue the lesson. But he’s a stuttering mess, tripping over his words and repeatedly asking for more water to soothe his suddenly dry throat.

After stuttering his way through, Mingyu finally managed to finish the lesson. Sore from having hunched over, you stretch, not so subtly pressing your chest against his arm. Mingyu flushes, quickly gathering his notes and mumbling something about being late for a gaming session with Wonwoo.

You see him out, throwing in a wink and waving goodbye. You watch as he stumbles a bit while getting onto his Vespa and driving off. Chuckling to yourself, you can't help but smile at how cute he is.

The rest of the tutoring sessions go the same way: you not-so-subtly flirt with Mingyu, while he either purposely ignores it or remains completely oblivious. You even try to out-slut your outfits with every tutoring session, but nothing seems to work.

One night, after yet another session, you lie in bed, frustrated that Mingyu isn’t picking up on your very obvious hints. Who knew the loser nerd would actually turn out to be a huge loser? You sigh, but him being a huge loser is what you find most endearing about him.

You bite your lip, remembering what he wore today—a black polo that stretched perfectly over his muscles, jeans that hugged his thighs just right, and of course, those thick black frames.

You can't help but sneak your hand down your torso as you remember how his arm felt pressed against your boobs. They felt so strong and firm, you bet that he could easily carry you and fuck you mid-air.

You shiver as your hand sneaks under your panties. You circle your pussy, collecting your arousal before pushing a finger into your hole, sighing at the slight stretch. You moan at the thought of Mingyu's fingers being way bigger than yours. His fingers would stretch you out so well before he finally fucks you with his huge cock.

You insert another finger and start thrusting your fingers, moaning out Mingyu's name. You imagine him hovering over you as he relentlessly thrusts into you, groaning your name right beside your ear. He'd growl as your fingers rake his back, leaving angry red marks. You'd wrap your legs around his hips and push him in deeper, making him breed you.

Your other hand circles your clit as you feel yourself getting to the edge. You imagine him thrusting from behind as his large bicep chokes you, putting just enough pressure to heighten the pleasure. He'd whimper and moan in your ear, letting you know how good you feel wrapped around him. He'd fill you up with his cum, again and again, and again, until the sheets underneath you are soaked with your mixed fluids.

Your breath hitches as you cum, whispering his name like a prayer, hoping that if you say it enough times, he’ll appear before you and make your dreams come true.

But he doesn't, and you're left lying in bed, sticky, sweaty, and alone.

You yawn for the umpteenth time as Mingyu drones on about anatomy; you're sure your brain has shut down by now. You sigh as you lean back onto the bed, too tired even to sit up.

"Mingyu, can we please take a break? I don't think my brain can take any more of this," you groan, resting your arm over your eyes.

"U-Uh, yeah, sure," Mingyu mumbles, fiddling with his notes. "We could always switch to a different topic if you want a change of pace…"

"What's the next topic?"

"The reproductive system."

Your eyebrows shoot up, and a smirk paints your face as an idea pops into your head. You sit up and grin at Mingyu.

"Sure, let's learn about the reproductive system."

Happy that you're finally interested in a topic, Mingyu gathers his notes and starts to explain. After about 15 minutes of explanation, you put your hand over his and gently push away his notes.

"Mingyu, I don’t understand the topic at all," you say with a pout, shifting to sit directly in front of him. His face turns bright red, clearly flustered. "I think it would help if we put the theory into practice so I can learn better," you purr.

Mingyu stumbles over his words, stuttering, his brain clearly short-circuiting. You giggle at his flustered state and shift to sit on his lap, your legs on either side of him.

"Will you let me use you to put the theory into practice, Mingyu?" you ask, tilting your head with a pout as you gently cup his face.

"I-I’m not sure h-how…" Mingyu stammers, swallowing hard.

"Oh, you poor thing," you coo. "It's okay, I'll guide you, puppy. Will you let me?"

He licks his lips and lets out a shaky breath before giving a small nod.

"Don't worry, puppy, I'll make sure to take good care of you," you hum as you gently remove his glasses.

He blinks and looks up at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. You take a moment to admire his handsome face without the glasses. Cupping his face, your eyes trace over his features—his strong jawline, his parted lips, and the small mole on the tip of his nose. Unable to resist, you lean in and place a gentle kiss there, making him shiver.

"Can I kiss you, puppy?" You whisper.

"P-Please," he whimpers, and you can't help but smile over how pathetic he sounds.

You lean in and press your lips against his, and he kisses back desperately, hungry for your lips. You chuckle into the kiss, his inexperience showing with every hesitant movement. When you pull back, he leans forward, chasing your lips and letting out a soft whine when you don’t return the kiss.

"Puppy, if you don't behave, I will punish you," you scowl, furrowing your eyebrows.

"'m sorry," he mumbles with a pout.

You plant a soft kiss on the tip of his nose, then slowly run your hands down his torso, gently squeezing each muscle through his white polo. He moans and shivers under your touch, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Puppy works hard in the gym, hm?" You giggle, squeezing his chest slightly harder, eliciting a gasp from him.

You giggle, then start slowly dragging your hands to his arms, squeezing his biceps.

"God, your arms are so big and strong," you moan, squeezing him hard. "I want you to choke me, puppy. Can you do that for me? Choke me with your biceps?"

Letting out a shaky breath, he nods. You shift, pressing your back against his chest. He gently puts you into a chokehold and squeezes his arm slightly. Your eyes roll back, and a moan slips from your lips when you feel his biceps push against your throat.

You can't help but feel small in Mingyu's hold; he's just so big and beefy. You grind your hips against him, and you feel his grip faltering. He whimpers and pushes his erection against your butt.

"P-Please, I can't. I-It hurts," he whimpers against your ear.

You sneak down your hand and palm him through his jeans, making him groan and buck your hips against your palm.

"Need me to take care of your problem puppy?" You giggle, palming him roughly.

"Please," he strains out, choking back a moan.

He releases you from the chokehold, and you quickly clamber over to grab the bottle of lube you've stashed on the side table. You look over to see that he's already pushed his jeans and boxers down and freed his aching cock.

"Impatient are we now, puppy?" You chuckle, making his cheeks heat up.

Locking eyes with him, you give him a sultry look as you slowly peel off your panties but keep your skirt on. He gulps hard, shifting in place, anticipating your next move.

Biting your lip, you slowly crawl back over to him. You pour lube all over his cock and give him a few pumps, he whines your name and bucks his hips, making you giggle.

"Gonna make you feel so good, puppy," you whisper as you shift to hover over him.

You grab onto his shoulders and slowly sink onto his big cock, the stretch making you moan out loud. Mingyu whines and groans under you, his hands fly to your hips, fingers digging into you.

"F-Fuck," he groans, squeezing his eyes shut as your warmth slowly envelopes him.

Your mouth goes agape, and your eyes roll back when you feel his tip kiss your cervix.

"M-Move, please move. I-I can't," he begs, muscles straining under you.

You slowly lift yourself and slam back down onto him, making the both of you moan out loud. Slowly picking up your pace, you start riding him. He becomes a blubbering mess under you, moaning your name and whining at how good it feels.

"Look at the mess we're making, puppy," you pant out, lifting your skirt and showing him the sticky mess forming at the base of his cock.

He looks down at where both of you are connected and moans. He starts picking you up and slamming you down at an animalistic pace, his hips meeting you halfway. You squeal at the feeling of him rutting into you.

Unable to hold back any longer, he cums hard, filling you up to the brim with his seeds. Desperate to reach your high, you continue to ride him despite his chokes and whimpers. You capture his lips into a messy kiss to distract him from the overstimulation.

"C-Circle my clit," you mumble in between the kiss, and he complies, his hand immediately sneaking down and rubbing your clit in circles.

You yell his name as you cum around him, squeezing every drop of cum out of him. Mingyu moans, and a few tears slip from his eyes at the feeling of you squeezing him with a vice-like grip.

You both take a moment to catch your breath, your head resting on Mingyu’s shoulder as he leans back against the headboard. Licking your lips, you cup his face and look into his dazed eyes.

"You did so well, puppy," you coo, watching him blush and give you a fucked-out smile.

"But I don't think I've fully understood the topic yet. Maybe we should go over it again, just to be sure," you say before smashing your lips on his again.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour

@iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina

@theidontknowmehn @aliiikareed @jennwonwoo @toplinehyunjin

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alchemistc · 10 hours ago

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Tommy has a bad date and goes to visit Abby at her loft, only shocker, Abby left months ago and The Himbo is staring at him from the other side of the door.

He tips his chin. Raises an eyebrow. Scans down, back up, just in time to meet the kids eyes.

"U - uh hi?"

He gets it immediately. What would have drawn Abby in despite the age difference, despite the knowledge that all her friends and family were gonna give her shit, despite -

Well. He's fucking adorable, for a start. Bright bright blues eyes that look like maybe they're always a little wet, the foundation for a really great muscle base, even though he clearly hasn't figured out how to balance cardio and weight lifting, pink full lips, an adorably puppy-dog slash to his face, legs for fucking days. God. Yeah okay. Tommy'd been younger than Abby too but not this young.

"Is Abby home?"

Something strange crosses his face. Confusion, upset, maybe some genuine pain. He shakes his head, opens his mouth. Snaps it shut. Tommy's had a shitty night and honestly for a second he thinks making the look on this kids face go away for a few minutes would fix him.

"Patricia?" Tommy asks, because maybe at least Pat will be lucid enough to sit and with him and mope to the tune of whatever's on Hallmark.

The kid swallows, brows knitting together. "She uh. She passed. A - a few months ago now."

Tommy has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from being rude as hell. Sure, things with Abby hadn't ended great but Christ he'd loved Patricia. She could have at least sent him a fucking pigeon. Smoke signals. Something. It's not this kids fault though.

"And Abby ...?"

This kid doesn't know him from Adam. He'd have every right to kick Tommy off the welcome mat and shut the door. Something sad and vulnerable crosses his face. "Are you Tommy?"

Tommy's brow jumps. His posture shifts. "Cross my heart I'm not here to steal her back from you." He doesn't know what Abby's told people. He'd promised he wouldn't do what he'd done to her to another person and left it at that. They'd been together for years and Tommy honestly doesn't know if she'd go the bitter route and tell everyone, or if she'd be ashamed and hide it.

The kid laughs, watches Tommy's fingers make an x over his left pec. The face falls after a moment. "I - uh - I actually don't think she's coming back," he says, choked up just a bit, rising inflection on the end of his sentence. The wet eyes look a little watery now. "S -she went to find herself after her mom died and I don't think - I don't think I'm gonna be a part of whatever she finds."

Yeah. Fixing him will definitely make Tommy forget how terrible his date with Frank had been.

"Can I buy you a drink, kid?"

He blinks. Swallows. Does a piss poor job of hiding the way he's feeling, and Tommy wishes he remembered how to be so open. "Evan. Buck. I - Evan Buckley."

Tommy nods. Grins. "Kind of a mouthful. You mind if I just call you Evan?"

Something passes across his face. He takes a step back. "Uh - if you're serious, I would - that'd be - I just have to grab my wallet?"

Tommy shrugs. He'd offered to pay, but it's entirely possible he still gets carded at bars. "I've got time."

Evan opens the door wider. Gestures him in. Tommy passes the threshold and takes in the space. It looks fucking exactly the same. Evan hasn't made a mark on this place at all.

Tommy's got no room to resent Abby, but if he did...

Evan reappears in record time. He's changed his shirt.

Tommy is absolutely not going to read into that.

"You like craft beer, Evan?"

Evan pulls a face, and Tommy laughs, letting himself be ushered right back out the door. His keyring, Tommy notices, only has a house key and a car key.

Tommy slaps him on the back. "Fine, I won't subject you to my refined palette. I know a place that has a PB&J special."

Evan's stride is fucking ridiculous, as he keeps an easy pace with Tommy down the hall. He turns his face, his body, fully into the space Tommy occupies. Tommy's just waiting for him to trip over his own goddamn legs. "W-what uh - what's a PB&J?"

He already looks brighter than he had five minutes ago.

If Tommy were a shittier person, he'd spend the night trying to to get straight into his pants.

"Pabst and a shot of Jameson?"

He blinks. "Oh. Hey, that's clever. Sorry, when I bartended all the drinks were either in Spanish or some hokey touristy lingo. I mean I memorized like a thousand drinks but no one ever ordered them."

He's honest to god pouting as he says it. Tommy wants to bite that bottom lip.

He babbles all the way down the elevator, across the parking garage to Tommy's truck. Doesn't even pretend to make a fuss about driving separately. Tommy's a virtual fucking stranger and Evan just hops right in the passenger side and asks him about his license plate.

"No shit? I'm at the 118!" Evan says, and Tommy forces himself not to make the joke about stranger danger he'd been planning. That's an awful coincidence, unless it's not. Maybe a few drinks in he'll feel a little less tight lipped about the Abby of it all. Maybe this kid will do just as good a job of patching Tommy's night as Tommy plans to patch his.

He barely stops to breathe the short drive to the bar, and Tommy can already tell he's in way over his fucking head.

After he drops him off, tucks him into bed if he needs it, he's pretty sure he's gonna have some choice words for Abby.

Until then, he's gonna spend the next few hours doing everything he possibly can to keep the sad look off his face.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #bucktommy au #past abby x tommy #past ??? abby x buck

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leclarifies · 1 day ago

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letters (MV33)

✰ max verstappen x childhoodbestfriend!reader ✰

summary → it was confusing, even though you were continents apart, you never understood why max never responded to your letters, until you attend the belgium gp to finally get the answers you were looking for. inspired by the prompt, "why did you never reply to my letters?" "you wrote me letters?"

genre → fluffy, the fluffiest fluff i've ever fluffed.

word count → 4.4k

author's note → i have worked on this non-stop for two days, and i loved the way it turned out, maybe one of my favorite works. enjoy reading this as much as i enjoy writing this!!

she was always around max, either from the sidelines or the first person max ran to when he won a race, it was always her. not even his father, even though he held his father to the highest regard, but it was always her.

the little wrinkles on the edge of her eyes when she smiled at him, the way her lips would curl up, or the way she would giggle every. single. time. that he would come and hug her after every race finish. he remembers it all. and the way he would snuggle his face in the crook of her neck and asked her softly after he would win a race, 'did you see me win, schatje?'

she would always smile back with a laugh, 'of course i did maxie.'

it was always about max, her life revolved around him, whether he liked it or not. she adored him and maybe he adored her a little bit more. they were childhood friends, they were inseparable since they were little babies, their mothers being friends made it even harder for the both of them to not be attached at the hip.

she loved being in his presence and he loved her.

the divorce between jos and sophie was hard on max, he blamed himself and his career but she was always there to tell him that it's not his fault. that their decision was their own and she never forgot to tell max that it wasn't his fault, no matter how much they told him that it was.

she saw the way jos had pushed max to his limits, get physical with his own son and his way of escaping that life was run to her arms, she was there tending to every bruise, every wound whether physical or emotional. she was his rock and it was final. nothing anyone could ever say or do would change his name.

"schatje," max had gently woken her up from her slumber, and she stirred awake from his soft voice, she noticed where she was and finally remembered what happened.

max had finished lower than expected and jos had thrown hurtful things about max, she was there on his mother's couch, comforting him and had fallen asleep that way, with max on her lap, "are you sleepy?"

she shook her head, not wanting to admit that yes, indeed she was sleepy, but if max needed comfort then that wasn't a big deal to her, "what's wrong maxie?"

"nothing, you can sleep on my bed if you're tired. i can sleep here," max had brushed a stray strand of her hair behind her ear but she refused, she hated taking his bed because she knew how uncomfortable the couch was, she wanted him to sleep well.

but he wouldn't allow her to take the couch, so they both slept on sophie's couch almost cuddled with eachother because they were both stubborn.

max was necessarily content with how he was living his life right now, but she made it better and that's all he could ask for. was it her smile? maybe her presence? max didn't care. the first memory he could remember from his early childhood was her, and it was etched into his memory like stone.

she was content with being max's rock, she was there to keep him grounded and she too only had memories of him from her early childhood. she wouldn't replace him for the world, he was too precious for anything in this earthly world.

but there was one day, it felt like a bomb dropped on her. her father had told her that he would have to move to korea to continue work, and she didn't know how to break the news to max until a few days before she had to leave.

she knew it was wrong to keep something this big away from max, but she was so stricken with anxiety that she never got the chance to until max came over to her house and saw all the packed boxes with their belongings.

"why didn't you tell me sooner?" max was angry, she could tell, by the way he was pacing around her room, looking at the packed boxes around. max thought he meant more to her than just a measly friend, he felt frustrated— betrayed almost. why wouldn't she tell him? why would she keep something as big as this away from him?

"why didn't you say something before? why now? why before you could see me race this weekend?" max was raising his voice now, and she didn't know what to do. her eyes turned glassy and those doe eyes max loved so much just looked so sad.

she stayed quiet, a guilty look on her face. she knew max would break from the news, and she knew that it would affect his performance, but she didn't know how to stay, how to convince her father that she didn't want to go, so yet again, she stayed silent in important moments of her life.

"schatje, can you say something? say anything?!" max yelled and she flinches, she didn't know what to say or what to do, she wanted to say something, say anything. but nothing would come to her lips. it was so hard for her when he was angry like this, it reminded her of his father and his father was deathly scary when angry.

a sigh escapes max's lips when he sees her flinch, coming close to her to wrap her in a hug. tears escaped from her eyes as she held onto max tight, "i didn't know how to tell you," she whispers into max's ear but max didn't say anything to that, just held her even tighter and he did not want to let go.

"it's okay schatje, i'm not mad at you. i could never get mad at you, i'm sorry for raising my voice. i just don't want you to go," tears started to escape max's eyes too, he didn't want to see her go. he wanted her to stay, and she did too. but the universe was pulling them apart and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

the ride to the airport was tough, being only fifteen and sixteen respectively. max held her hand the entire time, not wanting to let go, he didn't want her to leave, she was his biggest support system and he couldn't imagine her gone like that.

she was the most scared of the two of them, what if her father never returned to belgium? what if she was stuck there in korea forever? what if she never got to see his pretty blue eyes anymore?

max was the one to ground her, no longer lost in her thoughts, "can you promise me we'll keep in touch? or maybe visit from time to time?" max was holding onto her hands tightly, she felt like they would bruise, she could only smile and nod.

her mother had called her over, it was time to go. she looked at max for what it felt like the last time and left her life in belgium.

dear schatje,

hi, this is the first week that you're gone and it's bene been so hard without you here with me. i forgot that you weren't here anymore and i was expecting to see your face, but when i didn't, i may or may not have almost cried.

i miss you so much. tell me how it is in korea, is it cold? do they have bears there? what about the food? is it good? can you eat it? i heard there's a lot of spiy spicy food there? honestly i don't care about what they have there, i just care about you.

when can you visit again? can you tell me if you're ever coming back? i'm so worried about you there, i miss you... so much schatje.

written with a lot of love, your maxie.

max always handed off his letters to his father, telling his father to hand it off to his mother because apparently they kept in contact and wanted to send it off to the post office on behalf of him.

he just wondered how she was doing there.

it's been months and countless of letters max had sent, and none of them replied. he was starting to lose hope, he didn't want to think that his best friend would forget about him so easily like that, but he held out hope. he knew that she wouldn't magically forget about him now that she was there.

jealousy bubbled within him when he realized that she would be meeting new people, what if she met someone like him? who enjoyed karting and wanted to steal her attention?

no, he couldn't be thinking like that. he loved her and he knew she loved him as much as he did, so he told himself to just be patient, maybe letters to korea took months to reach?

the naviety was almost laughable but he was fine with it. he just wanted to hear back from his pretty girl.

"i do not understand why you keep writing letters to that stupid girl, she doesn't reply to you and all it does is distract you," jos had reprimanded his son, but max was stubborn. he didn't care what his father had to say, he loved all of her, even when she was thousands of kilometers away. he wanted to talk, even when she never replied.

max was in the process of writing another letter, but he never listened to his father, not about her. not about how much of a distraction she's been to his career, he didn't care. he used it as motivation to get better on the track, so the next time she saw him, he would be a world champion, that's what he silently promised to her.

it had been two years, and he hadn't heard a peep back. slowly, he was starting to lose hope but he couldn't lose hope, every single time he would send off the letters, he told himself that maybe it got lost in the mail.

max kept writing though.

max's debut in f1 was explosive to say the least, his interviews would absolutely go viral by the things he was saying in them. he didn't understand why, he just said what was on his mind.

what was truly on his mind was her.

was he not good enough for her? was him being in f1 not enough to impress her? why wouldn't she write back?

oh god how he missed her.

he still wrote to her weekly, it was religious at this point. he never forgot and he always told his father to send them off to his mother and the week after that was always disappointment because he wouldn't hear anything back.

little did he know, she never received those letters.

max had slowly stopped writing letters as he got into f1, he didn't see a point in it anymore. she never replied. she didn't care. letters didn't take years to reach korea, and he finally lost hope.

winning his first championship felt empty, the pretty girl who used to be waiting for him wasn't there for him anymore. of course, he was happy to win such an impressive feat, who wouldn't? but it just... lacked her.

max indeed lost hope that she would ever write back, but never lost hope that she was out there, somewhere, watching him race every single week and beat the shit out of his rivals. she loved watching him race and that's what he intended to do until the day he died, he wanted to impress her, maybe that was his ulterior motive to becoming a formula one driver.

all just to impress his best friend who had lost contact with him for a decade now.

"you need to stop figdeting so much," her mother had scolded her, she could only laugh nervously and stop fidgeting around. she wondered why max never wrote back to her, she had written him letters. did he hate her for moving out to korea and not coming to visit belgium?

she shook the thoughts out of her head, she was here now. for his home race, and for the rest of her life. her father had now decided to move back to belgium, because and i quote, 'i don't want my daughter to lose touch with her culture'.

she was 26 now, and she had guessed that he turned 27 not too long ago. it's been so long since she talked to him and she hoped that the spark that she had been yearning for had not been lost to the passages of time.

getting the paddock passes was not easy, it was a war and a half but she managed to snag some for herself and a friend that wanted to visit belgium and would arrive later on in the week.

"how did you even manage to get paddock passes for us?" heejin, her friend that wanted to visit had asked, she could only laugh and explain how she got them, it was a war and a half. heejin laughed along with her as they both arrived and scanned their passes at the entrance.

"i'm gonna meet my best friend here— well it's complicated. i don't think he considers me a best friend anymore, but i still do," she had softly told heejin who was a big formula one fan even before meeting her, heejin raised her eyebrow when she said that.

the both of them were walking down the paddock, passing all of the different team's hospitalities. heejin raised her eyebrow at her friend, who shrugged.

"who's your best friend?" heejin had asked as they pass by the red bull hospitality, she stopped which signalled heejin to stop as well, she looked at the redbull in awe. she hadn't been to a formula one race yet, the closest she'd been was to karting but that didn't bring on the feelings she felt when standing in front of this red bull building.

"well, he's driving the number one car."

"YOUR BEST FRIEND IS MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"

max had heard a girl yell, he slowly turned his head. he was confused, he didn't have a best friend— well not anymore. she had moved to korea, all memories of her stuck in his head being replayed all over and over again.

that's all he had left of her.

the other girl shushed the girl who yelled, and that's when it dawned on max. the other girl looked awfully familiar, he couldn't quite place why she looked so familiar but she looked like her, like his best friend.

"shh! you can't just yell that out in public," she clamped a hand on her friend's mouth, "they're gonna think i'm insane!" then the both of them giggled, it did sound ridiculous but now he was curious.

was she back? was that her? who was she with? is that her new best friend? is that her?

as they both walked away, max wanted to run up to them, to ask that one particular girl what her name was. what she was doing here and who she was with but all of that died when he got approached by his race engineer.

then he forgot all about that familiar girl that he saw in front of the red bull hospitality.

max would only get another glimpse of her when it was race day, they were walking through the paddock in a similar fashion, but max promised to himself that he would approach them, that he would ask but there was doubt in his heart.

what if she forgot about him?

she couldn't, right?

and so approach them he did, tapping the girl that he felt was so familiar to on the shoulder, she had turned around and they had locked eyes.

it was as if she never left.

the sparks, they all came rushing back and then his heart started beating out of his chest, he wanted to ask so many questions, why she was here, who she was with, when she came back— why she came back, why she never wrote him back.

but the only thing that left his lips were a simple, "hi."

heejin was freaking out, she could tell. she knew that heejin was a big red bull fan too, always talking about how the team was dominating and they had the better car. she had heard all about it. but the little dutchboy she left all those years ago was standing in front of her and not-so little anymore and all those thoughts about her girlfriend was forgotten.

he looked the same, but grown and decked out in red bull merch. she wanted to laugh at how innocent he looked when he tapped her on the shoulder to get her to turn around, he looked stupid, stupidly cute.

all of those feelings from when she was back in belgium came back, she almost forgot what it felt like to be around max— her max. he looked like he was going to cry when he got a good look at her, that he finally realized that yes, it's her. the one that left him in belgium all those years ago.

and maybe she could cry too.

"maxie?" a familiar nickname slipped from her lips and she didn't get a response back, but a bear hug in return.

god, her scent. it was everything to him. he fucking missed it— miss her.

"i thought... i thought you forgot about me," max buried his face into the crook of her neck, she too wrapped her arms around max and buried her face into his chest. his voice was so vulnerable, all she wanted to do was curl around him and tell him that she would never.

she shook her head as she sank into the hug, "i could never forget my maxie," she mumbled into his chest, he held onto her tighter. he never wanted to let go, not now, not ever. she was where she was finally supposed to be, right in his arms.

once they got time alone after his race, max had stolen her away from her friend and dragged her into his driver's room, locking the door and pushing her against the wall, slamming his lips onto hers. he had been dreaming about this for so long, his lips on hers.

he didn't want to so sexual with her, no not yet. being in the small driver's room where they couldn't be free out of the public eye wasn't a good place. he just wanted to touch her, hold her, love her, make sure that she knew how much he had missed this.

missed them being together.

her hands instinctively went up to hold onto his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he kissed her softly. the feelings going through him were a mix of nostalgia, longing and love. he loved her for so long and it was so like her to show up when it mattered the most.

he won it for her today, to show her, that the little max she knew still had it in him to win and to impress her even with a world championship under his belt.

she felt the softness and the gentleness that max was touching her with, she knew how much he loved her. how much he care, how much he longed for her touch and she did too, only so much more.

she had so many questions in her, on why he never replied to the letters she sent or why he never sent any himself, not knowing what happened with her letters and why they never arrived properly.

but she didn't care at the moment, all she cared about was that she was safely in his arms, never to be let go ever again.

safe to say, her lips were to the point of bruising that night. max had forbade her to go back home, or to be away from his sight. he had kissed her silly, not wanting to let her go and there she was, settled nicely in his arms.

it's not like she wanted to go anywhere anyway.

the movie in the background was long forgotten, max's lips felt like they were molded for hers. he had waited for her for so long, waited to feel her skin after so long and this just felt right, it felt right when he was with her.

"maxie— mmhh— my love, stop," she had to talk in between kisses, max didn't want to let her go, his fingers were basically imprinted onto her waist. she was straddling max as he sat upright and kissed her, so softly. like she would break if he was any harder, even though he absolutely did want to kiss her harder.

max released her from the kiss with a pout, his pretty lips were red and swollen from all the kissing they did. everything in the world just seemed to fade into the background when they were together, like everyone else in this world was so insignificant for their time and they were the only people worthy of each other's time.

"but why? i wanna kiss you, i miss you. i have waited for you for ten years, the least you can do is let me kiss you until you're sick of me," max mumbled against her lips and all she could do was giggle.

god, her laugh, he loved it.

she shook her head and left a final peck on his lips, "because i want to talk maxie, we can't just kiss whatever questions we have for eachother away," she told him but he seemed to think otherwise, she had moved back to put a bit of distance in between them, to make sure max didn't go in to kiss her again.

"oh yes we can, i don't care about the questions, schatje. i just wanna be with you, just like old days, but now it's so different because in those ten years without you, i finally realized what i felt and how i felt for you and i can't wait any damn longer to finally kiss those pretty lips of yours, so please. just let me do this for another three hours and we can talk," max begged as he pulled her closer.

she couldn't imagine kissing for another three hours as they spent the last hour doing it, but with him? she would do it for another life-time if she could.

the both of them later had the serious talk when they were done kissing each other, now wanting answers from eachother. their legs were tangled and intertwined with each other's, not wanting to let go from their skin to skin contact.

"first off, why did you never reply to my letters? i wrote you so many. so many that i lost count, i would always write to you but you never replied, why?" max's voice came out strained, all of the painful feelings from the last ten years of his life were coming out, her doe eyes looked up from where she was, laying against his chest.

"you wrote me letters? i wrote you letters, you never replied. i thought you got too busy with your karting career to reply—"

"i could never get too busy to reply to you, but i never got any of your letters, schatje," max murmured against her forehead, kissing it gently after he spoke. she hummed a response before it dawned on her, she had always sent the letters to his father's address and she knew that his father wasn't fond of her, even offering her a huge lump sum of cash just for her to stay away from his son but she never accepted it, always choosing to be beside max, no matter what happened.

she looked up and sighed, she knew what happened now, she connected the pieces, "did you send your letters off to your dad?" she asked, and max nodded before it dawned on him too.

"that fucker hid the letters from you and never sent mine..."

she could only nod sadly, but it didn't matter now. all that mattered was that they were reconnected now.

scattered around them were the countless of letters max had written to her and all of the letters from her that he never received, the years of pining, longing— all of them tucked neatly away into these little envelopes that held all of those unsaid feelings.

a soft sigh escapes her lips, she looked at all of them, there were hundreds maybe. all of them posted to where she stayed in korea but never sent, always kept in a big box where all of his letters were and hers were stuffed in there in a similar fashion.

her heart clenched when she saw how many there were, there were far more many than whatever she sent, even though she did send quite a big sum.

when max had found out, he stormed into jos' house and demanded to ask why he never sent out the letters that he wrote and a big fight broke out, she had to hold of max from physically harming his own father. then they left after given the big box filled with letters.

"there's so many..." she watched in awe as all of them were sorted by date, from the latest to the earliest, max looked up at her with those big blue icy eyes of his, he looked really sad. stuck in his feelings almost, not understand why his father would do whatever he did in the past.

max held her hand gently, pulling her into his embrace, "i have always loved you, even when i was a little kid. i just didn't understand what those feelings were, i just acted on how i felt and being away from you... i just couldn't. so i sent you my love in the form of these letters."

she left a lingering kiss on his cheek, she felt sorry for having to leave all those years ago. she should've fought, should've stood her ground on how much she wanted to stay but she was just a 16 year old kid who didn't know how to, "i know. i'm sorry i had to leave all those years ago."

"don't apologize, schatje. i have never blamed you for leaving me. i have always held love for you in my heart, even if you didn't know it."

"i always knew max, and i still do."

very willing to do a part 2 to this btw, will only do it when requested tho. not proofread, excuse grammar mistakes.

#leclarifies fics #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fic #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x yn #max verstappen #max verstappen x you #max verstappen oneshot #f1 fanfic #f1 fic

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atowncalledher · 1 day ago

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ok this is my whole stance on the issue now though. People are quick to call anyone who voted republican fascists but the actual problem is not necessarily fascism but education. People literally don't know what they are voting for. Which I know is how fascism works but. Going around calling people nazis is not going to help the situation. The republican party had been covering up what they intend to do with fear/hatemongering and that's a huge problem but that's not the fault of Joe Shmo who lives on a farm and voted for Trump.

I think maybe the most effective way to help from here on out will be to help educate people. To GENTLY educate people.

Trump voters on tiktok are EXTREMELY mad about the following:

They just found out what tariffs are

They just found out what denaturalization is

They (particularly black and Hispanic trump voters) just found out that other trump voters are racist

Leftists and liberals don't want to be their friends (they are furious about this)

Leftists keep telling them they hope they get what they voted for (they are really mad about this too)

#being accusatory tends to make people feel fear anger or shame #none of which are very helpful for getting things to change their minds in my experience

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lightseoul · 3 days ago

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Hello! For your event can i get #11 ?

hello, sure! this took quite a while for me to get around to doing, but i hope the wait was worth it <3 thank you for playing!

(this is lightseoul’s 2k milestone event ft. bakugou katsuki! to play, view the numbered list of prompts here, then simply send an ask with your chosen number and i’ll whip something up!)

warnings. minors dni, please!

11. "IS THAT MY SHIRT?" (1.4k)

under other circumstances, today would’ve been filed under the non-descript mornings with which you start your unremarkable days.

the sun is barely peeking through the curtains, the temperature is not too cold but not too hot, and you’re buried in freshly washed bedding that smells divine.

and so it’s not really your fault for thinking for a modicum of a second that today was just like any other day.

if it weren’t for the muscled arm slung across your bare waist.

you’re yanked from your half-asleep stupor the second you see it, and you jolt in shock before you can stop yourself. the man beside you, thankfully, doesn’t stir awake.

with wide eyes, you chance a glance at the decidedly naked person next to you (if your sense of touch wasn’t betraying you), and the sight that greets you nearly makes you faint.

because what the fuck are you doing in bed—naked—with the bakugou katsuki?

suddenly the areas where your skin meets his are becoming way too hot, and you’re hit with the visceral urge to get away from the man.

and so as discreetly and quietly as you can, you lift the arm that’s wrapped around your midriff, but freeze when his grip tightens and he shifts every so minutely. sneaking a peek again, now at his face, you study the man with caution as his eyebrows furrow for a beat before they relax along with the rest of his features.

you don’t allow yourself to revel in how peaceful he looks, or dwell on the fact that you may have just fucked this man last night, choosing to try again and wrestle yourself out of his hold. to your relief, he doesn’t resist, even in slumber, and you’re able to slide out of the bed with minimal noise and motion, thanks to his firm, exquisite mattress.

you wonder how firm it proved to be last night…

you mentally slap yourself.

now is not the time to be horny.

it instantly dawns on you how naked you are, standing in this man’s bedroom fully bare, and so you scan the room for any sign of your undergarments and clothing. it doesn’t take you a while to spot your panties, and then your bra a few seconds later—both of which are notably plain and not at all sexy. you try to fight the cringe as you shimmy into them—obviously, you didn’t anticipate getting any action yesterday—eyes darting across the area in search of your shirt. they finally land on the black article that’s unceremoniously sprawled across near the foot of the bed, and you waste no time putting it on.

and as you find your trousers and squeeze yourself into them, you let your brain wander to what got you here in the first place.

you remember being strung along by your girlfriends into that exclusive bar that’s said to be frequented by many pro-heroes. you don’t know how your designated planner friend managed to get you guys entry, but you didn’t question it, choosing to just enjoy the atmosphere and drink good booze with good company.

in fact, you may have drunk too much good booze because your memory drifts in and out a few hours into settling into a booth in the bar. you recall one friend pointing to a group of three men who looked suspiciously like pro-heroes cellophane, red riot, and dynamight, as well as you laughing at how it couldn’t be.

you wince at the memory of said friend, who knows about the big, fat, embarrassing crush you have on the ash-blonde hero, dragging you to where they sat and introducing yourselves to the men.

at that point, you were tipsy and bordering on drunk, and dead convinced that they were just wannabes who wanted to look like their hero idols. but the guy with the crimson eyes that were notably boring into you looked too much like bakugou that you threw all caution to the wind and just went along with it, too curious about the person in front of you.

but now, as you stand smack dab in the middle of this pristine bedroom that can only belong to a very highly-paid, famously all-might-loving hero, you’re flooded by a wave of dizzying nausea.

dizzying nausea that doubles up when your eyes catch the ridiculously sculpted arms of the man who’s still lying on his stomach, seemingly fast asleep.

you can relive and fact-check your fantasies later, when you’re alone and in the safety of your much more modest apartment unit, but not now.

and so with a slightly heavy heart, you turn around and silently twist the knob, ready to tiptoe the hell out of his room with your purse in tow.

but all hopes of making a quiet exit get thrown out of his bougie-ass windows when the door fucking creaks so loud, that you don’t have to look behind you to know that the man just shot awake.

you stand there, frozen with your back turned against him, for what feels like forever, before ultimately deciding that you can’t just walk out the door now like nothing happened lest you come off as a fucking lunatic.

and so with a deep inhale, you steel yourself for the incoming shitshow, and turn.

you try not to stare at his crazy, stupid, built torso or his beautiful face that’s looking all too stunned as you awkwardly gesture to the door.

“you ought to lubricate this door of yours,” you quip, capping it with a laugh, although it comes out stilted.

and when he doesn’t say anything, “…sorry i woke you up.”

that must’ve been enough to sober him up, because he finally speaks up. “shit—no, i—”

he cuts himself off as he scrambles to get up, and you turn around just in time to not see his dick dangle as he searched for his boxers. you hear rustling and things being turned upside down as you wait for him to get dressed.

“just a sec,” he calls out, before: “have you seen my—is that my shirt?”

before you can think better against it, you whip around to look at where he’s gesturing, only to be met with him, now in his boxer shorts, staring straight at you.

“wha—?”

you look down to where his gaze is fixed, and sure enough, the shirt you’re wearing is decisively not yours.

“fuck—” you start, flaming in embarrassment, “i’m sorry, i thought it was mine. i—let me just—” you trail off just as your eyes land on another black shirt near your feet, and you’re about to scoop it up and turn and hurriedly strip off his shirt when he speaks up.

“no, it’s okay.” you freeze, bent over and hand just barely having grasped the shirt off the floor. and when he doesn’t say anything, you slowly straighten up, fighting to maintain eye contact.

he’s scowling now.

“you don’t have to scurry like a fucking rat, dumbass,” he spits, although there’s not much bite to it. he’s looking a tad bit embarrassed, too. hesitating for a second, he diverts his gaze, before: “can’t i at least cook you breakfast?”

you pick up your jaw that just dropped to the floor as fast as you can. “you—you mean you don’t want me to leave just yet?”

at that, he scoffs. “what do you take me for, a fuckboy?”

he says it so incredulously you almost snort. instead, you cock your head a bit to the right, not entirely able to deny your impressions of him.

“seriously?” he splutters for a beat, before sighing in resignation. shaking his head, he finally shifts to meet your eyes and regard you, the switch in the air to that of palpable seriousness so potent.

“i don’t normally do this,” he states, gaze remaining fixed on yours, as if he’s trying to communicate the rest with just his eyes.

you don’t have to ask him what ‘this’ means.

and so you reply just as honestly. “me, neither.”

neither of you says anything for a brief moment, the revelations from both of you taking up the small space between.

“so,” bakugou breaks the silence eventually, “breakfast?”

#KGFLGKFLGFK oh the money i would pay to be reader in this situation #sighs #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou imagines #mha imagines #mha scenarios #bnha imagines #bnha scenarios #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou imagine #bakugou drabble #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #bkg #2k milestone drabble

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redvexillum · 2 days ago

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Me: Alrighty-ho! Time to work on my grossly late fraugwinska's DBD x HH event and @6esiree's contest!

Me, completely a sub to my desires despite having zero experience writing a lucifer x reader fic: This is gonna be a quick, dirty, SHORT one shot. No problem-o! *nearly 5000 words later* fhuck.

TAGS/WARNINGS: vexi's brain rot, p in v, cunnilingus, wtf did I just write, f!reader, lucifer isn't quite over lilith because ✨drama✨️, low key blaming @sociosin for sending me spicy Lucifer's ask and @the-other-soup for drawing sexy lucifer - I stood no chance guys

When you first matched with DuckLover69 on Cinder, you laughed, thinking it was a typo—surely, he meant to type DickMaster69. That seemed on brand for a hook-up app straight out of Hell. But as you stood there in his room, surrounded by luxurious, crimson-hued furniture and bed sheets of rich satin that would have looked decadent if they weren’t crowded by piles—actual mounds—of rubber ducks, you realized this guy hadn’t mistyped at all.

This man really, truly, loved ducks.

Maybe a tad too much.

You wove your way carefully through a veritable army of rubber duckies, each dressed in an outfit more absurd than the last. A little one in a sombrero sat beside a duck knight, complete with a silver helmet and a feather. You squinted. Was that one wielding a miniature sword? It stuck out from its back at a haphazard angle, as if this duck had met some unspeakable end in battle.

How…avant-garde?

“Sorry for the wait!” A nervous, high-pitched voice broke the silence, followed by an anxious chuckle that echoed through the room. You turned to see Mr. Duck Lover, as he’d introduced himself online, standing stiff as a board, his hand twirling a crimson red apple atop his sleek, obsidian-black staff.

He was exactly as odd in person as he’d been in your chats: curious to a fault and totally oblivious to social cues. His very first question had been, “So, do you know the King of Hell?” Not exactly small talk. But you had shrugged it off, telling him the truth—that you’d hardly kept up with Hell’s political scene since you arrived. You were too busy dealing with entitled assholes in your new, endless service job, a punishment so mundane it felt like Hell’s personal version of torture.

You’d expected the conversation to taper off after that, but Mr. Duck Lover had caught you off-guard by taking a U-turn, asking without reserve if you liked sex. The question had been so blunt, so awkwardly dropped into the conversation, that you’d ended up laughing. After a hellish day dealing with rude customers, his lack of tact and straight-up weirdness had been refreshing, if bizarre, and you’d surprised yourself by playing along.

And now here you were, standing in his duck-filled lair, looking at him in all his nervous, overdressed glory. “You weren’t kidding when you said you liked ducks,” you said with a grin, trying to keep your face as neutral as possible as you waved at a particularly stylish duck with a feathered boa around its neck.

Mr. Duck Lover's shoulders stiffened, and his eyes darted back and forth. Two bright red circles painted his cheeks, and he looked like a mime who’d been caught halfway through his act. His fingers fidgeted with the apple on his staff as he tried for a casual smile, though it came across more like a grimace.

“I-is that a dealbreaker?” His voice cracked, and you could practically feel the nerves radiating off him. You chuckled, stepping a little closer, savouring the way his breath caught, and his cheeks flushed a unique shade of gold, the colour spilling across his nose in a way that was like glittering treasure strewn across white sand.

“Nah, just… observing,” you said, your grin turning wicked. “What’s wrong, Mr. Duck Lover?”

You reached out, tucking a stray strand of gold that had fallen over his forehead back into place. He froze, his breath hitching, his eyes widening as if he’d been zapped. The blush on his cheeks deepened, and he puffed them out, holding his breath, looking for all the world like he was trying not to combust from embarrassment.

Odd, yes. But somehow, interesting. You found yourself curious—very curious—about just what went on in that strange, nervous, duck-obsessed mind of his.

You chuckled softly, warmth pooling at the base of your throat as you took him in. How adorable. Everything about him felt so out of place for a guy on an app specifically for hookups. He stood there, stiff as a board, his eyes darting to your every move, arms glued to his sides as though his own body wasn’t sure what to do with itself. And as you leaned closer, you noticed a large portrait hung in the back corner of his room—a family picture, quaint and well-loved.

Am I his rebound? you thought, as you slid your fingers along his collar, grazing the crisp fabric before slowly easing it off his shoulders. His vest, a pale pink stripe against white, gave him a soft, almost innocent look—a stark contrast to the nerves dancing in his wide eyes. He didn’t resist, simply let his jacket slip down his arms, his breath coming shallow as you leaned in, feeling the heat rise as your faces neared, breath mingling.

With a gulp, he stammered, “I gu-guess we’re doing the do, that's fantastic!” He tried to smile, his teeth peeking out in a goofy, uncertain grin as he let the jacket fall to the floor.

“You mean…” you whispered, your voice low as you pressed against him, feeling his entire body tense beneath your touch. “Fucking?”

He squeaked—actually squeaked—and tried to clear his throat, summoning a shred of composure. “That’s right, f-ffucking,” he stammered, the word awkward on his lips as he sounded it out like it was a foreign concept. “Because that’s… what we do. Now. Here.” His body shivered slightly, and you could feel the tremble that ran from his chest to yours, betraying his every anxious thought.

A spark of curiosity bloomed in you as you watched his attempts at bravado crumble with each beat of silence. You felt it all click into place. In Hell, family didn’t exactly… exist. Sinners couldn’t create new life here, so the idea of settling down with a partner wasn’t the norm, let alone the idea of casual intimacy. But here he was, talking about sex with the clumsy innocence of someone barely familiar with the concept. “Hey…” you murmured, a thrill lacing your words. “Are you… a virgin?”

The question struck him like lightning, his eyes going wide, his fingers clutching at his vest in a mixture of embarrassment and flustered denial. “Wha—first time?” He laughed—a loud, forced laugh that seemed to rattle out of him, like he was trying to chase away the truth. “Oh, no, no, no, not at all! I’ve… I’ve used my penis in… numerous ways.” His voice dropped to a low, desperate tone. “I even shape-shifted a few times for… added spice,” he said, his forked tongue flicking nervously, searching your face as though hoping to see doubt there instead of amusement.

But you couldn’t help it. The men you usually met were arrogant, self-assured, and too focused on themselves to care. Yet here he was—blushing, hesitant, endearing in his innocence. A wicked grin spread across your face as you let your fingers trail lower, smoothing down his vest, tracing each trembling line of muscle underneath until you reached the waistband of his pants.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze with a mischievous smirk, and his breath caught. His lips quivered, his cheeks flushed, but he returned your grin—innocent and eager, albeit with a slight, deliciously shaky edge.

You wondered just what kind of man Mr. Duck Lover truly was as your hands moved along his body, peeling away each layer of his clothing, his meagre defences landing on the floor with gentle thuds joining with yours. For all his usual fidgeting and awkwardness, there was something disarmingly tender in the way he touched you, as if each stroke of his fingertips was sacred, each caress reverent. That boyish, clumsy charm he wore like a mask seemed to slip away, leaving behind a quiet intensity in his gaze that made your pulse race.

“Been… a while,” he murmured, his hands wandering in tentative exploration, pausing over the soft curve of your breast, then settling firmly at your hips. The admiration in his voice deepened as he sighed, his eyes tracing over you as though you were something divine. “God really did create the perfect being,” he whispered, his lips grazing your shoulder, and as your bare bodies met in a slow, full embrace, it was your turn to hold your breath, struck by the unexpected gentleness of it.

You almost chuckled, the urge to tease him—“Praising God in Hell? How blasphemous,”—hovering at the tip of your tongue. But as he drew you closer, his face tucked deep into the curve of your neck, words fell away, replaced by a silent warmth that seeped into every nerve, every inch of your skin. His arms wound tighter around you, his body pressing against yours, not out of desire, but a kind of longing that felt… deeper.

Meaningful.

Your arms wrapped around him on instinct, though your mind buzzed with confusion. Shouldn’t this be a quick, meaningless fuck by now? Yet, here you were, tangled in his arms, savouring the sensation of him, feeling the quiet, almost desperate comfort he sought as he held you. The naked intimacy was strange, yes. Unexpected, yes. But something in you didn’t want to break the moment; it felt like a balm, easing all the stress and tension that had worn you down for far too long as you toiled away in your eternal damnation.

You closed your eyes, surrendering to the steady warmth of his body, your fingers tracing delicate paths along his spine. Each gentle touch pulled soft, barely audible sounds from his throat, the hint of a moan muffled against your skin as your fingers reached his hair, petting through the soft strands. His hair was even softer than you’d imagined, and you felt him sink into your touch, both of you on the brink of letting go.

Letting go of what? You weren't sure.

But suddenly, he pulled back, and the spell shattered. His cheeks flushed, his hands awkwardly clutching at your waist as he avoided your gaze, his nervous energy flooding back. “Right, uh, sex. That’s what we’re… here for, isn’t it? So, we should, um…” He forced a grin. “Do the, uh… the sex!”

That was when you finally absorbed your surroundings, the vast emptiness around you, the solemn quiet of his home. There was a lonely hush here, dark and endless, filling every corner, every shadow. And, of course, the lifeless ducks haphazardly thrown around.

But there was no one else.

Not a soul in these halls.

You slipped your hand into his, guiding him toward the bed with a gentleness that felt at odds with your own intentions. You almost considered tucking him under the covers, wrapping him up and telling him that he didn’t have to prove anything to you, that he could wait until he was ready. But he wasn’t a child, and you weren’t here to be his caretaker.

He lay down first, an eager anticipation flickering across his face despite the faint tremor in his limbs, his gaze fixed on you as you joined him. His body, still soft with nerves, lay at ease, his cock resting against his thigh. You reached out, taking him in hand, moving slowly as your fingers traced down his length, stroking him with a softness that coaxed him to relax. You felt him tense, then soften beneath your touch.

“Oh… oh wow,” he breathed, his voice catching as he watched your hand, eyes wide with wonder. “Y-you’re… you’re pretty good at this,” he stammered, awe shimmering in his voice as he struggled to keep his composure, his gaze flicking between your face and your hand, his lips parting in quiet gasps.

At that moment, you couldn’t help but smile—feeling the thrill of his innocence, of his complete surrender. And somewhere in the warmth of his admiration, his trust, you realized you didn’t mind slowing down.

True to his word, his body responded to your touch with a newfound firmness, his length growing against your hand, his skin silky and heated beneath your fingers. The sensation felt achingly familiar, like a melody you’d danced to before, each note resonating with a purpose neither of you had voiced aloud but understood all too well.

Loneliness.

That was the reason, unspoken and raw, why you both found yourselves here tonight. You didn’t need his name, didn’t need his history because tonight was about filling that hollow ache. It was a fix—a fleeting, intoxicating drug against the gnawing ache deep in your chest. For one night, the world and its relentless wear could fall away in the ecstatic blur of release.

You moved to straddle him, your body lowering until your wet, aching centre pressed firmly against the length of his cock, heat melding with heat. His eyes flicked down to where your bodies connected, then back up to meet your gaze, a hungry, almost reverent look filling his face. As you began to grind your hips against him, the friction sent a rush of molten heat through you, a spark igniting as you slid over him, slick and needy.

He watched, his breaths coming in short, shuddering waves, head falling back against the pillow, his hands twitching at his sides, unsure if he should reach for you or simply feel. His own pulse matched yours, every breath and heartbeat syncing to a rhythm of shared need, unburdened by names or burdens.

Slowly, you lifted your hips, guiding him to your entrance, pressing yourself down until his thick, warm tip pushed past your folds. Inch by inch, you took him, feeling every delicious stretch, every bit of pressure radiating inside you. A soft, desperate mewl escaped your lips as you sank fully, your bodies meeting in a perfect, seamless join. The raw sensation of him filling you hit deep, igniting pleasure like embers to flame.

His head tilted back, his eyes fluttering shut, a low hiss slipping past his parted lips. “This is…” he began, voice trembling, his fingers flexing as if fighting to keep control, “oh gosh… really wonderful.” His hands faltered, barely grazing your hips before he let them fall to his sides again, his face flushed with both pleasure and nervous restraint. His hips lifted, seeking you instinctively, meeting each of your downward strokes with soft thrusts that went deeper, each time pushing him further within.

“Oh, oh jeez, oh—golly…” He groaned, his fingers twisting into the sheets as he struggled to find words, every breath shuddering as he fought to keep up. His words, his earnest surprise, almost made you laugh, a kind of sweetness seeping into his awkward sounds as he gripped the sheets tighter. “Wow…”

You bit back a smile, letting a small laugh escape between breaths. “What? You’ve never had good sex before?” you taunted, rolling your hips, drawing him fully within before slamming back down again.

His cheeks flushed a deep gold, his chest expanding as he gasped, his muscles tensing beneath you. “N-No—ah, that’s not…” His voice wavered, breaking off in a moan as he sucked in a breath. “Oh, no… if you keep doing that… I won’t last long.” His voice softened, rich with pleasure and just a hint of pleading, as his eyes met yours, full of shy desire. “Please… I want this to last… just a little longer.” His words trailed into a low, trembling moan, his hands finally reaching, hesitantly finding their place on your waist as he held you, breath heavy with yearning, surrendering entirely to the moment with you.

You hummed thoughtfully, sliding him out of you, his cock springing free and bouncing against his stomach, throbbing with the loss of warmth. His sudden whimper made you smirk, biting back a laugh as you hovered just out of reach.

“I'm nowhere close to finishing,” you teased, keeping your wet heat tantalizingly close to him, yet unreachable all the same.

“I can fix that!” he nearly shouted, grinning like he’d just found a solution to all the world's problems. Sitting up eagerly, he waggled his eyebrows with such intensity that it made you giggle. “After all, I was quite the… generous eater in my day,” he added, flicking his forked tongue out for effect.

“Oh, is that so?” You chuckled, giving him a playful look. “Show me, oh great, generous eater.”

He joined in your laughter, but then his eyes drifted over your shoulder. His face faltered, brows knitting together, and you followed his gaze. The same family portrait you had initially noticed back in your view—a tall, curvaceous woman with long blonde hair standing beside him and a child who seemed to carry hints of both their features.

You moved next to him, and leaned back, trying to keep your tone casual. “If you’re going to bring a one-night stand over, maybe next time use a room without a family portrait.” The words came out sharper than you intended, a twinge of bitterness souring the edge.

His shoulders tensed as he turned to you, eyes wide with a guilty look. “Oh—no, that’s not…I…” He stammered, his hands fluttering in the air as if trying to reach some explanation.

You sighed, deciding to throw him a lifeline. You were here for fun, not drama. “Hey, relax. It’s…whatever,” you said with a casual shrug, a grin playing on your lips. But that lingering bitterness in your chest didn’t quite vanish.

Mr. Duck Lover seemed to seize onto your words, scrambling between your legs, though his excitement from earlier was starting to wane. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured, leaning close, fingers hesitating on the curves of your hips, as if battling his own mind. His face hovered near your core, yet he seemed frozen in place, like he was staring into the void rather than your body.

It was quite a comical sight.

If you weren't in the picture, that is.

There he was—his head bowed at your centre, practically on the verge of a self-reflective breakdown. While you laid there, spread out and ready, and he was having an existential crisis.

You sighed, raising an eyebrow as he muttered to himself, “I can do this,” almost like he was about to leap off a bridge instead of…well, pleasing you. His hands twitched as his hands hovered over your hips, eyes squeezing shut in concentration as if gearing up for some monumental challenge.

By now, the mood had evaporated, leaving behind only the lingering awkwardness of his whispered self-encouragement. Five seconds later, you realized that, yes, you’d completely lost the heat of the moment, and this was likely going nowhere but more awkwardness.

You reached out gently, brushing his cheek. “Hey…maybe we should…” you started softly, hoping to ease him off this self-imposed, anxious ride and spare you both whatever spiral he was about to go down.

His eyes snapped to yours, full of a pleading, vulnerable intensity, his lips parted and his gaze almost desperate. “No, no, I can do it!” His voice trembled, and he bit his lower lip, the slightest twitch in his left eye betraying his nerves. “It’s just been….”

You softened, trying to help him find the words. “Years?”

“Centuries,” he murmured, looking away as if confessing a secret.

Centuries. The realization hits you with a strange thrill. You liked older men, sure, but you wondered how long he had stayed in Hell for. “Oh…” was all you managed, feeling the surreal weight of the moment.

“May I?” he asked, his voice a tender murmur, fingers twitching, hesitant to touch you. You could only nod, slightly taken aback that he was asking for permission now, especially after where you'd both already been just minutes earlier.

The moment his fingers touched your skin, he exhaled deeply, closing his eyes as if relishing the warmth. He pressed a featherlight kiss against the curve of your hip, his touch more gentle than you could have imagined. With each kiss, he drifted lower, his lips tracing delicate patterns along your skin, until he found that sensitive spot just above your core, making you jolt beneath him.

Your emotions tangled, caught between surprise and pleasure. You’d expected something hasty, careless, but this…this felt almost achingly tender.

He opened his eyes, the intensity of his gaze softening as his lips brushed against you. Then, slowly, his tongue traced between your folds, a warm, pleasant heat that sent a gasp spilling from your lips. His own groan followed, deep and low, a sound of unrestrained need, as he continued to explore you, his lips and tongue working in gentle, insistent rhythms.

You bit your lip, mirroring the way he’d done earlier, clutching the sheets as your body arched, heels pressing into the bed. Every reaction you gave seemed to stoke something in him, drawing another low, desperate moan from his throat. He rocked his hips against the mattress, as if drinking each of your gasps, as if they were fuelling his own desire.

“Ah—D-don't stop,” you whimpered, your chest rising as your back arched from the bed. But he didn’t let you escape, his lips chasing every inch of you. His mouth closed around your sensitive nub, sucking gently before he dipped his tongue to explore further, the alternating sensations sending you spiralling.

Your breath came ragged and broken, each wave of pleasure building faster as he licked and sucked with an almost feverish devotion. His own body responded in turn, his hips grinding against the bed, the friction drawing needy, guttural sounds from him that only fed your own pleasure.

The rhythm intensified, and just as you thought you might break from the mounting sensation, he pressed deeper, his tongue a soft, insistent force. You clenched around the bliss rising within you, every muscle tensing, as he held you there, relishing every sound, every tremor of pleasure that passed between you both in the heady, dizzying night.

“Shit,” you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair, fingers tightening as you pulled him closer. His lips pressed even harder against you, and you felt yourself unravelling, teetering on the edge of something wild and raw. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” you whimpered, your legs bending as the fire in your belly coiled tighter. Then, with one last fierce suck and an indulgent lick, he shattered your restraint. The wave of pleasure crashed over you, tearing a ragged cry from your throat as it flooded every inch of your body.

He moved with you, his own hips shifting as if in sync with the rhythm of your climax, his mouth still sealed to you, eager to take in every tremor and quake of your release. His hand slipped beneath him, the hurried motion of his strokes intensifying, his fingers relentless as he chased his own peak while lingering over every pulse and shudder of yours.

He moaned against you, his mouth vibrating with his own mounting pleasure, his hips twitching as he hit his release just after yours. His strokes slowed, tapering off as he gasped, his lips finally releasing you as his chest heaved. He knelt there, breathless, lips glistening from the shared passion, drenched by the evidence of his pleasure pooling between you.

But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he crawled up beside you, eyes softened as he reached for you, arms wrapping tenderly around your shoulders, guiding you to rest your head against his chest. You stayed there, uncertain yet draped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His heartbeat pounded against your ear, each beat so fierce you couldn’t tell if it was his or your own.

His hand drifted up to brush your hair back, fingers combing gently as his breathing settled into a steady rhythm with yours. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, then another to the crown of your head, his lips lingering as if they held some unspoken affection, each kiss like a vow.

“You were wonderful, dear,” he whispered, his voice a low, affectionate murmur, pressing another soft kiss to your hair. He stayed there, his arms cradling you, showering you with gentle kisses, an unexpected tenderness weaving around you both in the aftermath, grounding you in a warmth that felt real, if only for this moment.

“I'm not sure how to even respond to that” you murmured, your mind still a haze, struggling to piece itself back together in the lingering aftershocks of your release. His fingers brushed tenderly along your cheek, and when you looked up, his eyes were warm, soft, his gaze holding an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“You’re perfect,” he said, tilting your chin up, his voice thick with emotion. His lips pressed gently to yours, lingering as if he wanted to etch this moment into his mind. “You’re everything I want and more.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper, before he pulled you against his chest, his arms tightening around you with a fervency that felt almost desperate, as if he were holding on to something he couldn’t bear to lose.

The raw affection in his embrace left you spinning. He held you as if you were his—an intimacy that felt foreign and startling. You’d just met him, after all. Yet here he was, clinging onto you as if you were more than a passing connection, as if you meant something deeper, something that couldn’t be dismissed. It was unnerving, a stark contrast to what you’d expected.

Your eyes drifted to the shadowed portrait in the corner of the room, catching the faint outline of the woman in it—a powerful figure with curling horns and a smile that was as beautiful as it was unsettling. Whoever she was, she lingered here, like a ghost following his every step, a reminder of a past not fully left behind.

But then, he murmured into your hair, “I love you. Please… don’t go.” His voice was fragile, almost broken, and his arms wrapped around you even tighter, his head pressing against yours, as if the strength of his embrace alone could keep you with him.

There were many reasons people used Cinder. Some were looking for a thrill, some for a fleeting escape, some for connection in a moment that might otherwise feel empty. Maybe that was all this was, a bandage to the wound of loneliness he didn’t want to admit to, a warmth he hadn’t felt in ages.

You hesitated, your hands resting limply against his back. This wasn’t what you’d come for; it wasn’t what you’d expected. But then, you could feel his frame trembling beneath your touch, the vulnerability in his grip as if he’d waited lifetimes to feel the comfort of another. Gently, you placed a hand on his back, feeling the way he drew in a shaky breath.

“I won’t,” you whispered softly, almost to yourself, your voice filling the quiet between you. “I’m here for you.”

It was a lie, but a beautiful lie, nonetheless.

At your words, he shuddered, holding you tighter, his trembling easing as if you’d just unlocked something buried within him.

You were just a passing soul, but at this moment, maybe that was enough.

252 notes · View notes

p0orbaby · 3 days ago

Text

She’ll Know Me Crazy, Soothe Me Daily

summary: you go into labour (leah’s version)

warnings: mentions of pregnancy and labour, who’d have guessed

a/n: i got a request for this and dropped everything at work to write it so if i get fired it’s your fault !

word count: 1.8k

It’s three a.m., and you’re lying in bed in that half-dream, half-wake state, thinking about nothing and everything at once—plans, names, logistics, the strange feeling in your back, how Leah’s snoring sounds almost like a broken radiator. You’d drifted off earlier with the usual suspects on your mind—last-minute nursery tweaks, what it’d be like to actually meet this new person, how you’re supposed to keep them alive once they’re here.

Then suddenly you’re very awake. And aware. The kind of aware that has you blinking up at the ceiling, trying to gauge if you’re imagining this, if maybe it’s all just part of the anxious last-few-weeks-of-pregnancy weirdness. But no, no. It’s real. The sensation you’d ignored all night is now gripping you in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

Your waters have broken.

You’re in labour.

In the midst of grappling with this sudden, primal realisation that your body is not only capable of this but actively doing it, your first instinct is to look to Leah. After all, this is the same Leah who can keep her head in the midst of a stadium of screaming fans, who’s always told you, right up until yesterday, that she’s “got this, babe.” The same Leah who’s been planning this night in her head like a military operation—bags packed, snacks labelled, an entire eight-page birth plan on the kitchen counter with sections highlighted in three colours. She’s got this.

You roll over and give her a shake. “Leah,” you hiss, breath short and tight, like you’re hoping the urgency will slip through the layers of her sleep.

She doesn’t stir. Instead, she mumbles something incoherent and continues snoring, entirely oblivious to the fact that you are, in real time, about to bring a whole new human into the world.

“Leah,” you say, louder now, and with a sharper jab to her shoulder. “Leah, wake up. My waters just broke”

This gets her. She bolts upright, eyes bleary and unfocused, looking around with all the awareness of someone woken up by a fire alarm. She has one sock on and her hair is falling out of her bun in every direction, sticking to her forehead in curls that make her look, for lack of a better description, entirely unhinged. What?” she blurts, looking at you like you’ve just told her the moon’s fallen out of orbit.

“I said, my waters just broke. I’m in labour”

She stares at you blankly, and then at the clock. “Now? Like…now, now?”

“Yes, now, Leah. That’s how it works”

“Oh… oh my god. Okay. Right.” She throws herself out of bed, hands flailing a bit in what could generously be called an attempt to find her balance, looking every bit like she’s just woken up in the middle of a burning building. She blinks, rubs her face, and then stares around the room with all the sharp focus of someone who’s lost all concept of time, place, and purpose.

She begins moving around the room, grabbing objects seemingly at random—a pair of your slippers, a half-empty water bottle, the book she’s been reading that she still hasn’t finished because every time she gets to a chapter break she’s distracted by some tangent or half-thought that spirals out of control. You watch as she picks up her phone, only to immediately drop it in a panic.

You try not to laugh. You fail, slightly, but she’s too distracted to notice.

“Hospital bag,” you remind her. “By the door”

“Right, yes. The hospital bag.” She says it with the blankness of someone who’s just been reminded of the existence of the universe itself. She nods emphatically, almost comically, and rushes out of the room, one sock on, one sock off, muttering, “Hospital bag. Yes. By the door. Got it”

For a few blissful seconds, she’s out of the room, and you can breathe, collecting yourself in the strange solitude. You can’t help but feel a strange, surreal amusement in the whole thing—after months of birthing classes, of Leah listening intently to the instructor, nodding along like she was studying for the final exam, of stacks of books and bookmarked articles and quiet reassurances that she’d be ready…she’s now charging through the house like a headless chicken, her panic almost louder than the quiet early-morning calm.

She’s back in less than a minute, looking absolutely horrified. “It’s… it’s not there”

“What do you mean, it’s not there?”

“I mean it’s not—by the door. I don’t see it. Did we…did we put it somewhere else?” She’s visibly panicking now, eyes wide and darting around as if the bag might materialise if she looks in enough absurdly irrelevant places, like the windowsill or behind the potted plant.

“It’s by the door,” you repeat, managing to keep your tone steady and encouraging, despite the fact that you’re, oh right, currently in labour.

“Right,” she says again, nodding in a way that looks almost mechanical. “Right, yes. By the door. Of course”

She’s off, scrambling out of the room with one sock half-off, muttering the word “bag” to herself like it’s some kind of holy incantation. The momentary peace of her absence gives you a moment to focus on your breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling in slow, measured counts, trying to recall the absurd number of hours you spent watching labour tutorials and wondering if any of that information will come back to you now, in the thick of it.

Moments later, she returns, this time clutching the bag triumphantly in one hand. Her face is a strange mix of pride and exasperation, like she’s just conquered Everest but is deeply unimpressed with the mountain.

“Got it,” she announces, as if the sheer act of retrieving it from the entryway deserves some sort of medal. She sets the bag down on the bed with an air of absolute finality, as though the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders.

You smile at her, keeping your voice calm. “Alright, love. Let’s get dressed and head out”

“Dressed,” she echoes, her face going blank again as if the concept of clothes is suddenly beyond her comprehension.

“Yes, Leah. Clothes. You might want to put some on”

For a long moment, she stares at the wardrobe as though it’s some kind of cryptic puzzle. Then, with an almost bewildered shake of her head, she pulls it open and begins pulling out clothes at random—a pair of jeans, a jumper she only wears when it’s freezing, and, inexplicably, a thick wool scarf.

“Leah, it’s June”

She freezes mid-scarf-wrap, blinks, and slowly unwinds it. “Right, yeah. June. Good. Warm.” She tosses the scarf aside, looking faintly sheepish.

“Hang on… should I call someone? I feel like we should call someone. Do we… call 999? Or is that just for emergencies?”

“Leah,” you manage between breaths, “this is an emergency. It’s literally… labour. It’s happening right now”

“Right! Emergency.” She nods rapidly, like a bobblehead on overdrive, and jabs at her phone screen with so much intensity that it nearly flies out of her hand. She stops mid-dial, eyes wide with panic. “Wait. No, no…maybe we just drive there? Or do they… do they send someone?”

You look at her, trying not to let your exasperation show through the mounting pain. “Leah, we’re just going to drive. We’ve been through this.”

“Right. Yes. Driving. Of course. I knew that.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to physically dislodge the panic, muttering, “I’m just—okay. Drive. Right. Okay.” She finally lets go of her phone and starts making her way toward the door, muttering things like, “Got it. We’ve got this,” in a way that sounds more like she’s trying to reassure herself than you.

But then she stops. Turns. Looks back at you, blinking in realisation. “Are you…are you alright?”

“I’m in labour,” you say with a thin smile, “so no. Not really. But let’s keep going”

“Right, yeah. That makes sense.” She nods like you’ve just imparted some deep wisdom, like the words in labour contain ancient knowledge previously unknown to her.

By now, another contraction has hit, and you’re clutching the edge of the bed, breathing through it with every bit of focus you can muster. Leah watches, horrified, looking like she might faint just from witnessing the sheer audacity of labour itself.

“Should I… is there something I can… I don’t know, can I do something?” She’s hovering now, looking at you helplessly like she’s waiting for you to hand her a to-do list.

You grit your teeth, squeezing out a reply. “Just… breathe. With me. Okay? In… and out”

She takes a shaky breath, her hand rising and falling in time with yours as if synchronising her breathing might somehow keep you both tethered to reality. For a moment, it’s almost peaceful, the two of you breathing in unison, a strange little pocket of calm amid the chaos.

And then, just as quickly, the panic is back.

“Wait. Snacks. We’re going to need snacks”

“Snacks?” you manage, halfway between a groan and a laugh.

“Yes. For energy. They said snacks are crucial.” She’s already halfway to the kitchen before you can protest, practically flinging open cupboards and rummaging through drawers with the frantic energy of someone who’s just realised they’re on an episode of MasterChef and has thirty seconds left on the clock. She emerges with an armful of items that make absolutely no sense together—a banana, a bag of crisps, two protein bars, and, inexplicably, a tin of chickpeas.

You stare at the tin in her hands. “Leah, we’re not bringing chickpeas”

“They’re protein,” she says, with a ridiculous level of conviction.

You watch, trying desperately not to laugh as she rummages through drawers, muttering about water bottles and phone chargers and—god help you both—“emergency blankets.” She’s wearing one shoe, and her sock has somehow ended up on her hand, and she’s pacing so frenetically that she nearly trips over her own feet at least twice.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you manage to corral her towards the door, where she stops suddenly, wide-eyed and visibly distressed.

“Wait!” she exclaims, her hand shooting out to grip your arm in sheer, abject horror. “The… the speaker for the birthing playlist!”

You stare at her blankly for a moment before realising that, yes, she’s referring to the hours-long playlist she’d meticulously curated in the months leading up to this moment—a mix of calming piano tracks, soothing instrumentals, and, inexplicably, a handful of 80s power ballads that she swore would “keep the energy up.”

“We… we don’t have time for the speaker, Leah”

She looks at you like you’ve just suggested abandoning a child. “But you… we planned it. I spent hours on Spotify—”

“We don’t need the speaker,” you tell her, trying to keep your voice gentle but firm. You’re at the door, shoes on, bag in hand, and if she doesn’t start moving soon, you’re fairly certain you’ll be having this baby right here in the hallway.

She stares at you, visibly torn, before finally nodding, reluctantly. “Right. No speaker. We can…we’ll improvise”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “We’ll improvise”

And finally—finally—she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and steps out the door, hand in yours, still muttering under her breath about the playlist, about snacks, about breathing techniques and birthing balls and god knows what else.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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yourlocalcon-man · 18 hours ago

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I actually did stop in front of a car who was taking the turn knowing I was there. He was not happy. He had to hit his breaks as hard as possible, and as I was doing it I was thinking,

“what if he just doesn’t stop and kill’s me instead?”

And then I thought, “Well he’ll certainly never try to take a right on red with a visible crosswalk signal on and a very visible pedestrian in bright yellow and cyan crossing the street directly in his path ever again now will he? He’ll have learned his lesson to stop and look before you make the turn like you’re required to by law if you’re turning right on red.”

Obey the fucking laws of traffic dude. We pedestrians have places to be too, and you can get there a lot faster than us. Sorry I’ve delayed you by 10 seconds, didn’t realize me exercising my rights as a pedestrian by using a crosswalk was going to make you late to your daughter’s wedding. It’s not my fault you left last minute and didn’t give yourself buffer time for traffic.

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buckevantommy · 1 day ago

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Everyone's always telling Buck what he should do. Okay, sometimes he did ask for their advice, but every piece of advice he's followed through on lately has ended badly and everything they tell him to do he doesn't actually want to do.

He should want to do something if it's supposed to make him feel better, if it's supposed to be better for him, right?

Josh told him to bulldoze ahead and tell Tommy what he wanted. Tommy told him to re-enact his Buck 1.0 days and spend time with some indeterminate amount of people until he finds someone forever. Maddie and Chim told him to start dating again and also wait for the universe to bring him someone special; another someone. Hen and Eddie told him not to contact Tommy.

He doesn't want to do any of that! He wants to talk to Tommy, to see him, to get Tommy to talk to him instead of giving up on them and running away because he's scared. He wants to tell Tommy he loves him. He wants Tommy to know first and last aren't mutually exclusive. He wants to yell at Tommy, and kiss him, and hold him. He wants Tommy to apologise for breaking his heart and for being a dumbass. He wants Tommy to believe him when he says he won't do the same; well, he might be a dumbass sometimes - but he would never break Tommy’s heart. He wants to apologise for jumping ahead but also not have to apologise for wanting a life with Tommy or for being too much.

Since that first night Tommy kissed him, he's felt reborn. Not in some starry-eyed way that Tommy seems to think is fake and won't last, but in the way that he's shed the skin of past Buck upgrades and finally grown into his body, become comfortable in who he is instead of trying to fit a facade that other people would accept. Always too big, too much, not enough, never content to just sit in his self and be without his worries and insecurities moulding him into something else, something with a better chance of getting people to like him, love him, stay with him.

He’s never felt more himself or more at ease in a relationship that meant something to him than he did with Tommy. Never felt more wholly seen - the good, the bad, and the too-much and not enough - by his partner and adored anyway, wanted anyway.

Halfway through making swiss meringue buttercream instead of breakfast, he realises he's thinking about Tommy. His coping skill, as Bobby called it, has stopped working.

There's butter and sugar in the creases of his hands and nailbeds even after he hurriedly wipes them with the dishcloth over his shoulder. He can see it as he scoops up his phone from the charger and thumbs over to his message thread with Tommy, leaving greasy crumby residue on the screen.

i saw you bubbling

After it happened, after the Chief distracted everyone enough for him to grab his phone and retreat somewhere he wouldn't be disturbed, he'd stared at the space where the unsent message had appeared for twenty minutes waiting for the type bubble to reappear. Waiting for Tommy to hit send on whatever he'd backtyped.

Buck's mind had spiralled with all the possibilities and while it spiralled and he stared and waited he never got around to actually calling or texting Tommy himself. And then the bell rang.

He has time, now. He has things he wants to say.

you were going to tell me something an maybe i wont like what it was but just knowing you almost reached out is kinda driving me crazy bc i have a fridge full of baked goods bc everytime i think about calling you i bake and now i havnt cooked a proper meal in my own place in over a week bc i dont have room in my damn fridge to store anything besides chocholate chip bananan bread and baked alaskas

He wants to say: and it's all your fault! but that's not the whole truth. Buck played his part in this, set the wheels in motion that drove Tommy away from him. But how the hell was he supposed to know that? And Tommy should've known by now he doesn't really do 'slow'.

i'm not sorry for being too much bc i shouldnt haveto apologize for being myself

Screw it. Can't get any worse, right? Tommy's getting all of him whether he likes it or not.

i dont see you as some queer life coach or someone to fill space until someon else comes along

thats not who i am

i thought you knew me better than that but whatevr ig

i wanted to live with you bc i want a life with you bc i love you

i love you

i shouldve said that first

Send after send, typing like a man possessed, he gets out everything that's been pent up inside him since the shock wore off a week ago.

His chest is heaving as the adrenaline rushes through his veins. And his eyes sting. He has to blink away tears as he reads over the last message.

He never told Tommy. Tommy doesn't know. Maybe Buck wasn't sure that night Josh asked him, but he knows it now.

i wanted you to be my last

He still does.

i wanna hate you for giving up on us

but i cant seem to hate you

This whole thing would hurt a lot less if he could just hate Tommy for what he did. It would hurt a lot less if they could find a way through this mess, together, and come out the other side stronger because they know each other better and know they want to fight for what they have.

Real love is worth fighting for. Red taught him that. Real love isn’t found, it’s made. Old gay Thomas taught him that.

Well, Buck found Tommy. Or, the universe did. And he’s going to fight, dammit, because he wants to build a future with Tommy.

His vision has blurred with hot tears. Movement on his screen catches his attention from where his gaze had drifted over to the couch where Tommy had stayed to take care of him through his Billy Boils saga.

Tommy is bubbling him.

Buck’s heart lurches in his chest. His breath catches.

can we talk?

There’s a huff of something like manic laughter as he swipes at his snotty nose.

that’s what i typed

Hope blooms in his chest, sudden and bright and painful in the best way.

can we?

I think I owe it to you to yell at me in person

There’s a long moment where Buck tries to return his breathing to normal but its bated as he watches three little dots appear, then disappear.

Then reappear.

Then disappear.

Then:

I don’t want to give up on us either

Buck’s tears are still making his vision watery, but now they’re tears of joy. He did what he wanted to do - he reached out. And Tommy heard him.

He should take his own advice more often.

#bucktommy #fanfiction #911 8x07 #fixit #.txt #s8!buck #evantommy #tevan kinkley firepilot #basically: everyone is giving buck terrible advice an dhe just needs to trust himself and follow his heart

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butchvamp · 1 day ago

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i finished Harding's quest... whew... i don't like Harding. or i should say i don't like how nice the game treats her. she gets all of the emotional beats around the lore revelations while the elves are left to go kick rocks.

i pointed this out previously in another post, but the dwarves (and Harding specifically, and thus by extension Andrastians, too) get so much more sympathy from the game than any of the elves. you can clearly see it just in these two screenshots-- compare dialogue choices when comforting Harding after the reveal about the Golden City (and also important to note that the game assumes my elf is Dalish multiple times before this choice, but for some reason i can suddenly make her Andrastian):

versus the first real discussion you get to have with Bellara about the truth of the elven gods:

Bellara implies that everyone is right not to trust the elves, actually, because the elven gods (the same ones that enslaved her people btw) are bad and we should all feel bad about it.

and Davrin is unfortunately distanced from the Dalish, remarking that they're too traditional and stuck in the past (a racist trope that Dragon Age really loves for the elves), and only seems to care about how the elven gods make elves "look bad." we do get to see Davrin reconnect with one of the members of his clan later, which is a sweet moment that shows us a new side of him, but it exists more so to push along the griffon storyline than anything to do with Davrin (a problem i find quite annoying when it comes to Davrin's writing... they care more about Assan and "turlum" than him or his feelings. but that's a different post)

when we finally get to Heart of Stone, Harding has her big, emotional confrontation with a titan, and gets granted the memory of the titan's loss and all of their pain. she says some Choice lines, here.

who is thriving? the elves that were enslaved en masse by the Evanuris? the elves that are still enslaved and live in alienages? that are wholly, systemically oppressed throughout Thedas? then to follow it up with both of these lines, spoken to an elven Rook:

and i understand that this is the titan speaking through Harding, and we can be generous and say that they are addressing the Evanuris, and not elf Rook personally. but. uh. why doesn't my elf get to Say Anything. it's repeatedly insinuated that everything is the elves' fault, that the elves should feel guilty and that they should be held responsible for what happened to the dwarves (and by extension, the blight and everything bad that's ever happened including what's happening right now), and that they deserve to suffer because of what "they" did to the titans.... and there's no option to challenge this line of thinking at all.

and it's really frustrating that none of the elven companions are allowed this kind of emotional catharsis with the Evanuris. up until that one (bad) dialogue with Bellara, all of Bellara's comments/her reactions to the gods are treated as comic relief. none of them get to grieve their gods like Harding is allowed to grieve the titans-- they're not even allowed to be as angry with Solas as Harding is in some scenes. even Andrastians, in that one single dialogue choice, were afforded more sympathy and grief than the elves in this game.

it's a baffling choice, considering the plot, that elves are given so little grace or consideration. and i do think part of it has to do with the way this game has tried to distance itself from previously established lore as well as scrub itself clean of anything morally dubious-- it's all black and white and the game needs someone to blame, so the elves are bad because the Evanuris are bad, nevermind all that other stuff, because see, the elves actually deserved it all along! i don’t even think it’s unreasonable that Harding may have these feelings (even if they’re racist lol) but the fact you just have to accept Blame and the narrative never challenges her or Bellara’s guilt or Davrin’s apathy and instead just agrees with all of them and forces Rook to agree as well is shitty and takes it from “this character feels this way” to “the game is implying that everyone feels this way, and also that they’re right.”

it's really unfortunate because i do think this reveal about the titans and why the dwarves can't dream or use magic is exciting, it could cause some compelling conflict between the companions (but that's not allowed in this game at all unfortunately and you especially Cannot be even slightly rude to Harding, ever). and i do like the idea of her quest and what they're trying to convey here-- confronting this old, repressed trauma, and finding a way to reconcile with it and move forward.... but not at the expense of the elves, who also suffered massively at the hands of the Evanuris (and continue to suffer. right now)

bioware has been criticized repeatedly about their depiction of the Dalish and even the mages, too, and i really do not understand what they were thinking with this, because it's just racist (and exactly what people have repeatedly criticized them for). this is why a lot of "fantasy racism" fails. you can't write a marginalized group as being responsible and deserving of their own oppression, that's not how it works!

#datv spoilers #datv critical #i think. im over the hurdle at this point with the majority of my criticisms. unless something else really horrifically racist happens #but hopefully this is the last of my insufferable posts #im completely blind going forward i havent seen any other spoilers beyond this point (i checked out harding & taash's quest preemptively #after seeing people criticizing them)#kinda scared.#im finishing up lucanis's questline next i think. im p sure i have his final quest already and it's the last one i have before #blood of arlathan. besides the crossroads quests

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serpentface · 1 day ago

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THE KHAIT BRIDEGROOM (South Wardi variant)

(A romantic folktale in which a girl marries her khait, kinda)

There once was a poor maize farmer, living in a mud hut at the edge of a village on the Brilla river. His beloved wife had died in childbirth, leaving him with only a daughter to raise on his own. The two led very difficult lives, and he mourned that he could not grant his daughter the ease and safety that she deserved. She had to work the fields just as hard as he did from the moment she was able to walk.

The most valuable asset to the farmer’s name was a beautiful young bull khait, who he had found roaming wild in the scrub. The khait was big and strong, with fur that shone gold like sunlight and was spattered with white spots like stars. He was never gelded, for he was a gentle and docile animal that bore none of the wild ferocity of many an intact bull. He took the yoke without complaint, and bore a rider with unwavering patience. Many had tried to buy the great beast from the farmer, but he refused all offers. Having such a fine working animal of his very own was a gift beyond the farmer's wildest dreams, and the khait was worth far more to him than anything he was offered.

The farmer had no fear that his khait would ever harm his daughter, and so she spent many days working him in the fields on her own. She always treated the animal with a kind, gentle hand, and he trusted her deeply and worked himself hard for her sake. The girl and beast became dearly bonded during the years of her childhood.

But the farmer’s daughter had just recently come into womanhood, and he was now tasked with finding her a good husband, and perhaps a better life in the process. He approached every man of good standing that he could find, but each laughed in his face. His daughter was too ugly, they said, and the farmer certainly couldn’t offer a good enough dowry to make up for it.

And it was true that his daughter wasn’t all that pleasant to the eye. Her hair was loose and matted, her skin was sun-worn and rough, she was often dirty from her labors, and the only cloak she owned was tattered and worn over her naked body. But beneath all that she was kind and gentle, hardworking and obedient. A man could not truly ask for a better wife, and so the farmer persisted.

The only potential suitor he had yet to approach was the son of his village’s chieftain, who was newly a man and as of yet unwed. The farmer knew he had little to offer the man, but hoped that the son of a wise elder would see his daughter’s virtue.

And so brought his young daughter to meet the chieftain’s son. He supplicated himself before the youth, laying one hand on the man’s foot and one across his own breast.

“My lord, I would offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage. She is kind and gentle, hardworking and obedient. You could not ask for a better wife.”

The chieftain’s son held back a laugh. He certainly could ask for a better wife, and quite easily! He found the very proposition to be insulting. But he had a rather lowly and vicious nature, and thus he pretended to contemplate the offer.

He looked the girl over with a deep frown, and shook his head.

“As tempting as this sounds, I must refuse. Her hair is too matted and ugly, I cannot have an unkempt woman for my wife. Perhaps if she manages to fix it, we can discuss engagement." The chieftain's son said.

And he sent the father and daughter away.

The girl had nothing left but to attend to her chores. It was the beginning of the planting season, and she had far too much work to do to wallow in her sadness. She held back tears as she placed the yoke on the khait’s neck, and began to cry to herself as she hitched him to the plow.

“What’s wrong?” Asked the khait.

“The chieftain’s son won’t marry me. He says my hair is too matted and ugly. He thinks I am unkempt.” The girl wept.

The khait felt great pity for her. It was true that her hair was quite disagreeable, but through no fault of her own. She had no mother to teach her to braid it finely, and her daily labor was too dirty and strenuous to keep it neat. It hurt his heart to see her so sad. And so he asked his friends, little egret and magpie, for help.

Magpie flew off to a distant town, and there he stole a ball of sweet-smelling soap and a jar of sesame oil. And meanwhile, little egret sat upon the girl’s shoulder as she guided the plow, picking lice out of her hair and teasing apart the tangles with her nimble beak.

The next morning, the girl rode down to the river upon the khait’s back. The great beast stood guard and shielded her body while she washed her body and cloak with the fine soap and oil. She scraped the dirt from her skin and oiled and rinsed her hair until it was clean. Little egret taught her to braid her hair finely, and together they wove it into two neat strands, scarcely a hair loose.

She thanked the khait for his help, and he nodded his great head, relaxing as little egret and magpie took flies from his ears in payment.

The girl returned home and excitedly showed her father the good news. Her once filthy hair now shone bright and clean like chains of bronze, fragrant with oil and falling in two tight braids down to her breast. Both rejoiced, and her father took her to meet with the chieftain’s son again.

The farmer supplicated himself again, and said:

“My lord, I would again offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage. She is kind and gentle, hardworking and obedient. Her hair is beautiful and well-kept, and shines like bronze. You could not ask for a better wife.”

The chieftain’s son looked her over with a deep frown, and shook his head.

“I suppose her hair is quite beautiful now, but on second look-… Her cloak is tattered and worn, and she carries herself like a barbarian, wearing nothing underneath. I cannot have such a lowly woman as a wife. Perhaps if she manages to clothe herself properly, we can discuss engagement.”

And he sent the father and daughter away.

The girl returned to her tasks, humiliated and miserable. She flung the seed as if she disdained it, stomping through the freshly tilled fields in her anger.

“What’s wrong?” said the khait, gently nosing her shoulder.

“The chieftain’s son still won’t marry me. He says my cloak is too tattered and worn, and that I am naked like a barbarian. He thinks I am lowly.” the girl said.

The khait was upset for her sake. She had only one cloak to her name and walked near-naked underneath, this was true, but she took precious care of what little she had, and carried herself with modesty and dignity. It hurt his heart to see her honor insulted.

“Go down to the river and gather a bushel of the sweetest, greenest grass you can find, and take your father’s sharpest knife. Return to me, and I will take you to someone who can help.” the khait said.

And so the girl and went about gathering grass, taking only the most succulent of stalks and wrapping it all in an old blanket. She returned to the khait, knife and grass in tow. He took her upon his back, and together they rode into the brush.

They traveled for half the day, all the way to the Red Hills. There they came across a big horse with wool the color of snow, surrounded by his brightly spotted yakintsi wives.

The khait saluted him with a loud bellow. He stood nearly thrice as tall as the horse, but bowed his head in deference all the same.

“Lord of the hill, I humbly ask you to give this girl some of your wool. She brings fine riverside grass as a gift in trade.” the khait said.

This horse, though of tame stock, was himself wild and proud. The thought of being sheared was a bit humiliating, and he considered leaving his visitors in the dust then and there. But the forage of his hills were poor and sparse, and the bundle of grass the girl had brought was quite enticing. And his wool had grown a bit too thick and fine for the hot weather, and he could certainly stand to lose some.

“Fine,” he said, “She may shear my wool for as long as it takes for me to finish eating, and not a moment longer.”

And so the horse chomped away at the grass while the girl made quick work of shearing him. By the time the horse finished and ran off, the girl had gotten herself a hulking pile of fine, white wool. She carefully bundled it into her blanket, and the girl and khait rode back home.

She spent many days spinning the wool, and meanwhile the khait brought her kolis flower and foxgloves to make dye and precious feathers and cowries for adornment. She then spent many more days in weaving, until she had a fine cloak and veil of yellow, a grass-green headband with white stripes, and a pure white dress to wear underneath.

She happily showed her father her new clothes. Both rejoiced, and her father took her to meet with the chieftain’s son again. This time, the girl rode astride the khait so that her dress would not be dirtied by walking. She was a resplendent sight atop the beautiful animal, her brown braids gleaming against the rich yellow of her cloak and lovely white gull feathers and shells ornamenting her headband.

The farmer supplicated himself a third time, and said:

“My lord, I would again offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage. She is kind and gentle, hardworking and obedient. Her hair is beautiful and well-kept, and shines like bronze. Her cloak and veil are fine and well-made, and she wears a dress of pure white. You could not ask for a better wife.”

The chieftain’s son looked her over with a deep frown, and shook his head.

“Her hair may be very beautiful, and her clothes may be fine, but on third look-… Don’t her hips seem a little narrow to you? A little too lean? She will never be able to bear healthy children.”

And, seeing a possibility, he added:

“But perhaps that could change with a good offering. Give me your khait as part of her dowry, and I will offer him up to bless your unfortunate daughter. Then we can discuss engagement.”

The farmer was pained at this. He could hardly bear to lose such a precious and hardworking animal. But the thought of seeing his beloved daughter sad and alone pained him far more. He reluctantly agreed.

“This khait is a fine and noble animal, gentle and docile, and agreeable to hard work. He is young and has never once been bred. One could scarcely make a finer offering than him.” The farmer said sadly.

And with that, the khait was handed off to the chieftain’s son. But he had no intent on making an offering of the animal in sacrifice, just as he had no intent on marrying the girl. The khait was a very fine beast indeed, and the chieftain’s son wanted him for his own herd.

But his satisfaction at his play soon turned to frustration. He had hoped to use this fine bull as a stud, but the khait refused to cover any mare. He thought that certainly he could pull a plow or carry a rider, but the khait shook off the yoke and bucked and kicked at the sight of saddle. The man couldn’t even bridle the khait, who would lower his horns and paw the earth at the mere sight of him. The chieftain’s son finally decided to geld him in hopes that the beast would become less spirited, but he couldn’t even make the approach. The khait charged him on sight, and ropes meant to hold him seemed to slip off his neck like water.

“That wretched plowman lied to me, this animal is bad-tempered and wild. He probably has a better khait hidden somewhere, that greedy dog. This one is useless.” The chieftain’s son said to himself. He decided there was no remaining use for the khait but to butcher him for a feast.

It took ten men to capture the khait, and ten more to hold him down. The chieftain’s son, who by now felt quite vindictive towards the great beast, decided he wanted the honors of the slaying himself. He held the furious khait by the horns and sliced a deep gash across his neck.

But to the astonishment of everyone watching, no lifeblood poured from the wound. Instead, the khait’s form seemed to shift right before their eyes, its great bulk shrinking beneath its flesh. Its golden hide fell open, and out from underneath climbed a human man. He was tall and handsome, with freckled skin that shone like bronze, and a thick beard and long curled hair the color of gold. He covered himself in his own shed hide, and spoke to the chieftain’s son with great disdain.

“You are a pathetic dogfaced excuse of a man, a liar and a thief. You live crawling so low that you can’t see a good thing standing right in front of you. If you won’t marry her, I will.”

And with that, he left the man and his entourage behind in astonishment.

The khait-man did not head back home straight away, but instead slipped into the brush where little egret and magpie were waiting for him. He had bidden his time under chieftain’s son’s care so that they could help him collect a great bridal gift.

He clothed himself in a fine cloak and skirt, and said farewell to the birds, who mourned their loss of lazy spent eating flies off his back. Hefting his gift onto his strong, broad shoulder, the khait-man made his way back to the little mud hut.

The farmer answered the call at his door with his daughter hiding behind him, frightened of this strange man. But as she looked at him she quickly recognized the gentleness in his eyes, the familiar sunlit shine of his hair, and her heart was glad.

The khait-man knelt and bowed deeply, and said to the farmer:

“I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. She is kind and gentle, hardworking and obedient, and more beautiful than the sun. I could not ask for a better wife.”

And the khait-man laid out his gift- rare and resplendent feathers, precious shells, fine wool, and his own lovely golden hide. This would more than cover the girl’s dower and the farmer’s loss of his khait, and leave him a hefty sum of wealth behind as well.

The farmer agreed to the proposal with great enthusiasm, and the girl and the khait-man were thus betrothed.

And so they were wed, and had many children. The girls were beautiful and the boys were handsome, but all were a little strange- their hair was shone gold like sunlight, and their skin was spattered in freckles like stars.

NOTES:

Animal stories feature heavily into Wardi folktales. There are two distinct (though not wholly separate) traditions of animal stories- the older tales focus more heavily on talking animals as archetypal figures- a trickster hare, a greedy hyena, a cowardly jackal, a brave lion, etc- interacting in the wild with little to no human presence, or with Human being just one animal figure. These are at least in part the remains of original animistic religious traditions among early Wardi groups, wherein animal spirits would be used as figures in tutelary and/or explanatory fables (and for entertainment).

The modern era tradition tends to focus more on talking animals interacting with humans within the framework of human society. In some cases the animal’s ability for speech is unquestioned, in other cases the animal is explicitly magical in nature. These variants still tend to retain old style animal fable elements and their learned archetypal relationships. IE: a khait having a little egret and magpie as friends is an old archetype- (the little egret is a bird that follows large ungulates to feed on flies and stirred up insects, and a type of magpie in the region is known to eat flies and ticks off of large ungulates, and to be more tolerated than oxpeckers), these birds would often be cast as friends or servants of large, noble ungulates. The theme of the khait having access to a sort of separate animal society also resembles the theming of the older animal stories.

This particular fable has many variants across the Wardi sphere. The girl is usually a peasant’s daughter, but is sometimes a noblewoman mistreated by her family. The animal is usually a khait, but sometimes a bull, very occasionally another animal (a horse in some North Wardi traditions, one highly derived Highlands variant has a dragon as a spouse).

The khait bridegroom story is just one part of a much broader folktale archetype, whose core points are:

A virtuous young woman is unable to find a husband, is beautiful but made ugly and dirty by her lifestyle (usually either poverty or abuse)

An animal helping figure assists her (sometimes its an actual animal, sometimes its the spirit of a dead relative in animal form, sometimes its a shapeshifter, a wild spirit, a minor deity, or a cursed human)

There is a conflict between a good suitor and bad suitor- in some cases the good suitor is the animal, in other cases he is a third party.

This archetype extends far beyond the Wardi cultural sphere, and directly connected variants can be found among all the Viper and Mouth seaway adjacent peoples (Burri, Kos, Titen, Finn, Royal Dain and some other Dain groups, Ubiyan, Uboe, Wogan, Wardi, Cholemdinae, Hill Tribes, Yuroma), sometimes in addition to or merged with separate animal bride(groom) folktales. This spread is through a combination of common ancestry of some groups, and regular historical interaction of others. Very similar folktales occur elsewhere in the world, but likely developed independently.

In this variant of the story, the khait's ability to talk and transform into a human is not explicitly explained, as it's not a core concern of the narrative. In some other variants, the khait is specifically a nobleman or prince or otherwise upstanding man who has been cursed into animal form (and is cured at some point in the story), or he is a benevolent shapeshifter (belief in people with the ability to magically change into animals via wearing skins is very common, largely considered silly commoner superstition by the urban elite but still very popular in folktales). The latter is heavily implied here, especially by the khait removing his skin to transform and giving it up in marriage.

A perhaps unexpected subset of this folktale's popularity is its imagery being a common motif erotic art objects, particularly the matter of inevitable consummation of the khait-man and girl's marriage. These are usually not considered outright pornographic (as is true for most Wardi erotic art), and often are mildly humorous in nature, fully embracing the strangeness of a girl marrying what was, up until recently. an animal. The suitor is usually depicted with a head of a khait, even when in human form. Animal headed figures in Wardi art are almost never meant to be taken literally, and instead are used to describe inner nature (in this case, him being a literal animal, but in other cases it's nature in a more abstract sense- ie: some visual representations of Odonii or the Odomache depict them with the heads of a lion) or as a visual shorthand for shapeshifting.

The less explicit cup in a matching pair depicting the khait-man and girl's wedding night (though is only tied to the story by its concept, and is otherwise quite tonally disparate).

He's shown presenting her with a courtship gift of an ornamental domestic duck, which will read as comical- it may suggest that he's nervously trying to secure her affections despite being already married, or that he doesn't know how courtship works (because he was an animal up until, like, yesterday) and thinks he needs to give gifts to get sex. The oversized phallus will also be read as humorous. The tapered shape is not intending to represent an ungulate penis, and is instead a visual pun on the phrase 'a bull led by his horns'.

While this cup is intended to function as a decorative and mildly humorous art piece (rather than outright arousing to the audience), the depiction of the young woman is straightforwardly sexualized, with the high focus on her thighs and buttocks (which is a cultural focal point for feminine sexual beauty) and her wavy un-braided hair (common in erotic scenes, as it gives the audience a voyeuristic sensation that they are VERY specifically looking in on a highly private scene (due to women normally keeping hair braided outside of the home)).

This cup is a very fine art piece made by a devoted craftsman. This degree of stylistic realism is rare in Wardi art and a largely contemporary phenomena, due to the increasing demand for accurate visual representations of public figures in statuary, frescoes, and coinage partly leading to the rise of a highly skilled, wealthy craftsman class. The relative surplus of these elite artists has led to some instead making a living on such things as antelope-man erotica objects for nobles to leave out in their domiciles as conversation pieces.

#folklore #imperial wardin

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siryouarebeingmocked · 2 days ago

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>I've said it before, and I'll say it again: one of the most successful alt-right psyops 4chan ever pulled was sealioning leftists in general and feminist women in particular to such a degree that, in response, we started reacting to every polite, 101-level question about feminism or leftist politics from men with anger and hostility, thereby driving said men directly towards the sympathetic arms of the alt-right, which was the entire fucking point of conditioning us to do that.

The concept and predominant use of the term "sealioning" is "it's wrong to politely ask me extremely basic questions about my publicly stated beliefs if they make me uncomfy".

Feminists have had hostile reactions to questioning and disagreement - from men or women - for a very long time. Just ask Erin Pizzey. She opened the first women's shelter in the UK and the world.

And then when she realized lots of men were being abused by women, she tried to get support for them too. The era's feminists harassed her, her family, and her publisher, up to and including death threats.

Not to mention the countless posts I've seen from feminists who say women owe feminism their support because of what it did in the past, even if those women have issues with what it's doing now.

This was not some sort of double reverse backflip gambit. The call was coming from inside the house.

All 4chan did, if anything, was get feminists to expose their own flaws.

And 4chan weren't responsible for the 2013 protests by feminists at the U of Toronto, when people tried to talk about men's issues.

Or the time they falsely blamed MRAs for a "misogynist" mass murderer named Elliot Rodger.

He had nothing to do with MRAs, and feminists erased the fact that he hated, killed, and injured twice as many men as women.

Just the existence of the term "mansplaining" is ironic (and sexist), considering feminists condescendingly tell men what men's lives are supposedly like, all the time.

Even when obvious evidence shows they're wrong.

>which is where the role of radfem/terf shit in furthering the same gender essentialism espoused by the alt-right really needs to be acknowledged:

I love how so many progressives and leftists are determined to ignore that TERFs, by definition, are just further along the same line as regular feminists. The biggest difference is that they openly hate men, directly.

And TERFs just consider trans women men.

>: because as necessary and overdue as #metoo was on a cultural level, the framing of so many subsequent discussions as Yes All Men is radfem brainrot, not because patriarchy doesn't exist (it does!), but because patriarchy is an institutional and sociocultural problem rather than some inherent, indelible facet of masculinity, and that distinction matters, because you cannot solve the problem of patriarchy by treating it as fundamentally unsolvable.

Minor issue with that. #NotAllMen predates #MeToo by several years.

"Stop negatively stereotyping men" is the single most common criticism of feminism.

Also, "patriarchy" just means "rule by patriarchs". Feminists were the ones who associated it, indelibly, with sexism and misogyny.

Heck, you're still implying that it's somehow inherently wrong. Which is, um, not so different from the people you think you're criticizing.

You're almost there, but you're still refusing to admit that some of this was, and always has been, feminism's fault.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

#nafalt #long

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salemlunaa · 2 days ago

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TOUGH REMINDER: BEING A BABY WONT GET YOU ANYWHERE 💋🤷‍♀️

some of you need to stfu with this whining bullshit!!

There is a single fact that if you have not induced pure consciousness by now it is your fault. You can change that in seconds of course and no one is mad at you because at the end of the day it’s your life, but when push comes to shove its you who needs to put the work in (not when it comes to inducing the void because that is effortless, but in general when it comes to discipline and staying focused) it’s you who needs to lock in. It’s you who needs to identify the problems you’re having and deal with it, or you will get no where, no one is here to hold your hand.

You can keep crying at your big age like some innocent baby. “but it just doesn’t work for” “how dare you say people are lazy when it’s not our fault” “it’s not my fault i fall asleep” bla bla bla you might as well suck your thumb while your at it. And when it hits 2030 you can be in the community preaching that’s it’s “still not your fault”, go ahead!! Sure call me horrible for this but if you’re still here it’s your own fault, because when people come into my asks my dms my comments and tell me that my posts are too harsh and that it’s “not their fault”, I ask them “who’s is it then?” and crickets…

And if you’re sitting here bitter I want you to ask yourself, who’s fault it that you’re still here, who’s fault is it that you still fall asleep, and do you know what fine maybe you try so hard to stay awake but can’t, but let me ask you, who gets affected by that? who gets affected by the fact that you’ve wasted so many years here because you “fall asleep”, because it doesn’t affect me.. it’s you, it’s you who will never progress talking to the wall about how it still somehow isn’t your fault…

The way some of you will read my posts which are meant to be motivational, and helpful all the way through and still try and absolve yourself from the blame is so embarrassing, but it will be you who reaps the consequences of this attitude. My posts apply to EVERYONE, you are not a baby who is exempt from criticism and from tough love, you can continue to be hard headed and tell yourself it’s not your fault that your still here. Sure that will help you sleep at night but it won’t help you get your dream life.

From now on I will be deleting demotivating comments, my account is about helping others, not coddling some babies who can’t live with the fact that it is their job to get their dream life, if you want that look elsewhere, but I will not have yall get into people’s heads, there are people who are ready to accept the fact that they control their reality and there are people who are ready to lock in, i will not have yall ruin that. I will not accept comments dms and asks, trying to avoid blame.

Neville does say “do not blame, only resolve” but at what point does it become enough. Circumstances are hard and of all people i would know, but at what point do you start taking accountability knowing that your thoughts create your reality and knowing that if you locked in you would have everything already.

there is no such thing as “this doesn’t apply to everyone”, you aren’t exempt from the facts of the law, ever, and you can delude yourself into thinking so and i hope those thoughts keep you company within all the unsuccessful years to come

GET TF UP AND STOP WHINING, YOU CAN DO THIS!!

last time i checked, bitter and pressed aren’t apart of the ingredients for the manifestation recipe 💋

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risustravelogue · 2 days ago

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Welcome, Little One

◐ summary ◑

It's the birth of your and his child.

◐ featuring ◑

Husband!Wriothesley, Husband!Alhaitham (separate), fem!reader

◐ tags & warnings ◑

Childbirth (DUH), fluffy fluff. A bit(?) self-indulgent. Wriothesley has a baby boy, while Alhaitham has a baby girl.

◐ a/n ◑

I think I'm having a baby fever.

🔗 AO3 | masterlist 🔗

If staring daggers into a blabbering businessman is counted as work, then the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide is currently busy.

Very busy.

To be fair, he has been waiting on news from the hospital regarding the birth of his child—your child.

You have been waiting for this little miracle for years now—it took you no small amount of convincing your husband to even start trying. And after he agreed to try, it took another one and a half years before you successfully got pregnant.

And now, the life both of you created together is about to arrive.

Alas, work called him while the two of you were waiting for the baby’s birth. The Iudex, with a heavy heart, had to take Wriothesley away from your side. Apparently, a businessman heard that the Duke is on the surface and demanded to meet in person today, else he’d cut off supplies to the Fortress.

So here the Duke is, having to listen to the man bragging about how he’s inheriting his father’s business and such. Wriothesley taps his feet onto the marble floor and clicks his tongue.

“Get to the point,” he growls. “I have little patience for your games. What do you want?”

The businessman replies with a sly grin. “Why, I only want to continue the arrangement between my business and yours!” he puffs. “I’ve heard that you are an adept businessman yourself, Your Grace. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be able to get so many Clockwork Mekas produced in a year. You must have—”

“Get. To. The point.”

“What I mean is—”

The door of the Iudex’s office suddenly swings open. Sedene comes in, shouting Wriothesley’s title while running.

“Calm down, Sedene,” Neuvillette shushes. “What is it?”

The Melusine turns to Wriothesley, gesturing with excitement.

”I got a call, Your Grace. Your wife—”

That’s all Wriothesley needs to hear. He stands up and runs out of the office, of the Palais Mermonia, all the way to the hospital downtown.

He arrives as you are ushered out in a wheelchair by a nurse, cradling a small, cloth-wrapped thing in your arms. His eyes widen when he realizes that you are holding a baby.

Your baby.

He whispers, then calls out your name. You lift your eyes, gaze meeting icy blue, and smile.

“Look, there’s Daddy,” you whisper to your newborn. Wriothesley slowly steps until he’s in front of you, and kneels on the floor to embrace his family.

“You have a baby boy,” you say to your husband, your smile widening. “Say hi.”

“Hi,” he coos. “Hi, baby. Daddy’s here.”

Wriothesley glances up to meet your gaze, and you can see tears welling up in his eyes. He leans in to give your lips a sweet kiss.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be by your side while you delivered,” he apologizes.

“Mm. No need for that, you know. All’s well,” you hum. He closes the distance between your lips again.

“I know. Thank you.”

Your husband gives his baby boy a kiss on the forehead. The baby yawns and coos, and a smile blooms on the Duke’s lips.

“I love you,” he says. “Both of you.”

It’s highly unusual to see the Acting Grand Sage pace around.

He’s usually sitting cross-legged, face buried in a book that has caught his attention, or behind his desk, lazily scribbling on official documents needing approval or review. Sure, he runs for morning exercise, but anxiously pacing around is definitely not his style.

Who can fault him, though? He’s waiting for his child to be born, after all.

Luckily, the two of you were able to rent your own room in the Bimarstan to wait for the baby’s arrival, so he doesn’t bother the other patients. You watch your husband pacing from beside your bed to the entrance of the room, pausing a second in front of the door as if he wants to leave, but he always comes back to your side to shoot a glare at your very pregnant belly—only to sigh and repeat the motions again.

“How are you feeling?” Alhaitham asks, finally.

“Still fine, love,” you say, holding back a chuckle. “I’m sure I’ll know when it starts.”

He frowns and huffs. His arms are folded in front of his chest, and he shifts his weight on his feet.

“I’m not ready,” he admits.

You smile, gesturing for him to take your hand. He obliges, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tight. You pull him closer and give the back of his hand a peck.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” you say. “I believe in you.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, but—”

Before he finishes speaking, you feel something flowing and your sheets getting wet.

“Uh, Haitham?”

“Yes?”

“I think my water just broke.”

—

Your screams reverberate in the delivery room. One of Alhaitham’s hands squeezes yours, while the other rests on your sweaty forehead. His expression is one of horror—he’s never heard you scream this loud. He’s read that childbirth is very painful for the mother, but seeing you undergo the experience is a truly harrowing thing.

“You can do this. I’m here,” he whispers, thumb caressing the back of your hand. “I’m here.”

You squeeze his hand and push with a pained groan. A baby’s cry echoes through the air.

“It’s a girl!” the doctor exclaims. “Congratulations!”

The nurses collectively sigh in relief. The doctor wipes down the baby and wraps her in a soft cloth, then puts her in your arms. You can feel your husband squeezing your hand even tighter as he looks down at his baby with a soft gaze.

“Oh,” he sighs. “I’m… a father now.”

The little girl opens her green eyes, and although she cannot see her parents yet, she smiles.

Alhaitham feels tears roll down his cheeks.

“She’s beautiful,” he breathes. He braves himself to caress his newborn daughter’s cheek.

She’s so soft.

A smile grows on your husband’s lips as he leans down to kiss the baby’s forehead.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers. “Welcome to the world.”

#cw childbirth #wriothesley #alhaitham #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #nereids' realm #kurisu writes #yahooooo another fic born from my procrastination /bonked

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