#also like. congrats on your Decision to do

[ash-says]

Handling curiosity so the cat doesn't get killed:

We all have been there at least once in our life where we allowed the curiosity to get the best of us and instantly regretted the decision. Being extremely mercurial in nature it comes naturally to me. To be curious on the continuous lookout to find something that will stimulate my brain or make it go crazy obsessive.

That's how I learned the harsh way that being a curious cat might sound cute but it can cost you your life or sanity. One of my dearest friends once said something along these lines,"Some truths are better left unknown. Truth and knowledge can turn into poison when consumed carelessly."

The reason why I am talking about this is because I hardly find people discussing it.

Yet mythology has so many great examples, Pandora opening the box, Eve eating the apple it wasn't just temptation it was also laced with curiosity of what might happen?

I am listing out a few things that you should avoid pursuing under sheer curiosity to save the poor cat in you:

1) A street fight. Two people are fighting. Let them. It's not your job to be the mediator and it's irrelevant to find the reason. Until and unless there's no aggression involved mind your own damn business.

2) Spiritual stuff especially dark ones. I believe energy is both light and dark in nature if you don't know the way to alchemize it better stay away.

3) Attempting things without any prior knowledge. Especially speaking about dangerous stuff here. If you love your life better do it under professional supervision.

4) Your partner's/crush feelings towards you. Girl if he likes you. You will know. Trust me. Been there. Done that. Constant microanalysis. It's tiring. Let him be.

5) Others life. Stalking and obsessing over how a particular person is living their day to day life is literally embarrassing. Get a life, Sushma!

6) Know the red zones in a conversation. If meeting in a professional setting try to avoid personal questions. Learn to sense a person's discomfort and never push someone to answer your questions that have literally nothing to do with you.

7) Celebrities personal life. Another waste of time.

8) Do not show your curiosity for sexual acts, things,etc in front of a man. It's the easiest way to put yourself in danger. You are the target babe. Congrats!!

9) When someone tells you knowing the truth will hurt you. Let it be a secret. Don't persuade that person to tell the truth. I strongly believe when you don't control the situation the truth automatically finds its way to you (conditions applied).

10) About the stuff people say behind your back. A full proof route towards people pleasing, anxiety, self doubt etc. Don't go out of your way searching for what's cooking. The cake might turn out to be burnt. Who knows.

That's all for today's show on ash-says. Stay tuned for more illegal tricks and explosive opinions.

#girlblogging #glow up #it girl #self care #that girl #gaslight gatekeep girlboss #self love #becoming that girl #dark feminine energy #becoming her #femme fatale vibes #femme fatale #level up journey #level up tips #advice #motivation #wellness #self development #self help #pink pilates girl #pink pilates princess #dream girl #dream girl aesthetic #that girl aesthetic #it girl aesthetic #coquette #ash-says #thewizardliz #wonyoungism #feminine energy

[ms-demeanor]

any thoughts on the new post that staff went scorched earth on which is now making the rounds abt tumblr live? it basically screenshots all the tos and claims if you've ever opened the app (or in some rbs, unsnoozed live) tumblr has gotten your data. on the one hand i feel like this is fearmongering, but on the other its true that MOST sites have your data as is so its pretty standard. you seem pretty knowledgeable abt data gathering so i was wondering abt your take

This is going to be pretty unkind but watching tumblr users interact with staff and live is a great primer on how conspiracy theories happen.

Nobody on this fucking website knows how to read a ToS, nobody on this website knows how anything fucking works (sorry, this is not a dig at you but how would tumblr "get" your data from you clicking or unclicking live; the only data that tumblr has on you is the data that you have put on tumblr what data do people think that clicking the "new" button is scooping up that is anything beyond interactions or posts or IP addresses which are the things that tumblr already has information about like you do not introduce new information into the tumblr ecosystem by clicking a button you haven't installed anything you haven't changed permissions on your browser if everyone is so goddamned scared about live stealing their data i strongly recommend they stop using anything but public internet through an anonymizer and making sure location data is shut off on all of their devices and anyone who is flipping their shit about the type of data that live is collecting but who is using chrome on any device needs to chill the fuck out about live and flip the fuck out about google)

this is like that post about twitter's content policy that circulated the other day or that post about deviantart's content policy that circulated ten fucking years ago nobody knows how to read legal documents and nobody knows how to read technical documentation and this comes together into unholy matrimony on the no reading comprehension at all moral panic website

live never violated the GDPR it was just rolled out in the US first but the entire userbase decided that because it hadn't been rolled out simultaneously in the EU and the US that it was SO UNSPEAKABLY PRIVACY VIOLATEY THAT THE EU HAD BANNED IT FOR ITS CRIMES with, like, nothing whatsoever backing that up because, again, even at its most intrusive Live collects about as much data as Twitter or Yelp, both of which are *capable* of meeting GDPR standards with that level of data collection (even if musk sometimes makes decisions that violate GDPR).

Live is significantly less intrusive than any facebook product, than Amazon, and than any Google product. If you use youtube logged in, don't worry about live, the horse is out of the barn and tumblr is the least of your worries *regardless* of live. If you regularly use Google as a search engine please god learn how to evaluate and compare risks across platforms because Live is like a coughing baby compared to about a dozen things that most highly online people interact with every single day.

If you don't want to use live don't use live. Clicking the button doesn't magically transfer your secret FBI file to tumblr and even agreeing to the ToS doesn't share anything that tumblr doesn't already have if you don't continue to interact - if you don't interact with live after agreeing to the ToS it's not collecting any data except your non-interaction.

For everyone who is losing it over Live just turn off your goddamned location on your fucking cellphone and turn off your location on your goddamned computers and that's it, you're good, you're fine, relax. If your response to "turn off your location" is "but I need it for _____" then don't worry about Live, whatever "_____" is was already collecting and selling your data.

Do you use an activity tracker? Congrats, you have much, much bigger privacy issues to worry about than tumblr live.

Okay but also I yelled about that post and the very many ways in which it was incorrect in January.

And I happened to take an archive of the page at that time because I'm a paranoid motherfucker.

And if you want my guess as to why staff went "scorched earth" on that post it's probably because if you scroll down to the bottom of the page on the archive, OP calls on everyone looking at the post to send a kind fuck you to the CEO then tagged his tumblr.

If you look at the other posts that went scorched earth in relation to tumblr staff they were also posts that very pointedly directed a lot of ire at a single staff member.

I don't think that any individual tumblr staff members are above criticism and I don't think that staff as a whole is above criticism but part of learning to read a ToS is understanding that someone can be shitty and vague and use TERF talking points and skirt the line and be technically okay under the ToS while someone can have a legitimate gripe about another user being horrible and manage to violate the ToS by accidentally spinning up a harassment campaign or suicide baiting someone.

Shitty people like nazis and terfs thrive on being edge cases. They are very good at finding a boundary and standing juuuuuuuuust on this side of it and going "la la la I'm not violating the ToS, you can't stop me!" and that blows and it leads to a lot of people encountering a lot of shitty stuff on a lot of websites but personally I'm pretty glad that there's a lot of gray area because when you cut out gray area that's when you see things like It's Going Down getting banned as extremist content alongside white supremacists. Please continue to report nazis and terfs, and when possible go deep into their pages to report because a pattern of behavior is more likely to get recognized as hate speech than a single post that gets reported a hundred times. Please block as many people who it's harmful for you to interact with as possible because it's clear that staff is not going to do the kind of work protecting users that users would like staff to do.

However I just can't get angry on behalf of a blogger who got nuked for saying "Hey everyone who hates this feature that we all hate please go tell the CEO to fuck himself at this URL specifically" - that is an extremely clear violation of the ToS because it is absolutely targeted harassment.

So now tumblr-the-userbase is going off on its merry conspiracy way skipping through fields and lacking reading comprehension and saying "users are getting banned for reporting the crimes of tumblr live and its gdpr violations" and ignoring the fact that the post was nuked because the last line was saying "hey everyone, let's all individually tell the CEO to fuck off in messages sent directly to him that are certainly not going to include any threats, exaggerations, gore, etc. etc. etc."

If I were to make a post that had 50k notes and the last line was "and while you're at it, please send tumblr-user-ms-demeanor a personalized message telling them why they're a terrible person so they know what we think of them" it would absolutely be reasonable to say that was harassing that user. And that post did it with the CEO. Who is not above criticism (and I have my criticisms! I don't think he really gets tumblr and that's a problem!), but jesus fucking christ don't tag the goddamned CEO or any other staff member in a call to action asking users to send them messages saying "fuck off" this is literally the stupidest thing I've ever seen a tumblr conspiracy theory coalesce around.

Anyway thank you for giving me a place to vent i've been getting more and more pissed about this for three days. Everyone feel free to kindly tell tumblr user ms demeanor to fuck off.

[phntmeii]

♡ Dating Thomas Hewitt Headcanons

❝ I often ask myself, 'What makes a man a killer?' ❝

[ SFW + No Gendered Terms]

General Warnings: Mentions of Murder, Slight Stockholm Syndrome, Hoyt being Hoyt

A/N: Congrats to Tommy for winning the last poll for headcanons :) I love this man sm. I scour the entire internet just for fanart of his body he's so soft and aaaaa !!!

🔪 Tommy is unfamiliar with romance entirely. The most he'd gotten to know of it were stories from Luda Mae during childhood but he never got to experience it himself.

🔪 And the mention of what a "man does to a woman" by Hoyt wasn't appealing to him in any way. Tommy just focused on providing for the family and ignoring what Hoyt said.

🔪Then, a new set of victims made the mistake of running into Hoyt and Tommy was to do his job. Yet, for some reason, he couldn't help but stare at you when he brought you down to the basement and rather than running, you clung to him instead to hide from Hoyt.

🔪 For once, he wanted to protect you while Hoyt yelled at him to just kill you. But, everything was different this time. Someone willingly approached him rather than screaming.

🔪 Tommy was firm in his decision, towering over Hoyt as his own silent threat to keep you around. And so he did. While he couldn't speak to you, he tried his best to care for you despite you now being a prisoner in a home of cannibals.

🔪 He'd carefully place a plate in front of you and then just sit and stare at you, waiting for a reaction or for you to eat. Telling him you don't trust the meat in the case that it's human has him confused because they taste fine to him? But since your stuff was taken from you, Luda will just buy other foods for you to eat with your money.

🔪 In truth, Tommy is just as scared of you as you are of him. He doesn't want to upset you in any way because for once, it seems like he has a friend. An attractive one too. He waits for you to be more comfortable around him.

🔪 Tommy is a light sleeper so he'd have you sleep in his room with him. If you were to try and sneak out, he'd be right there to stop you. But, it's not like you have much of a way to sneak out anyway since he is completely clung to you in his sleep without realizing it. It's as though you were his pillow or plushie to cuddle during the nighttime.

🔪 When Luda noticed the way Tommy treated you, she would whisper little things he could do to impress you or make you happy. She always wanted him to find someone, especially since Tommy had his struggles.

🔪 He gets nervous when trying to do some of what Luda suggested because it felt like he was a little boy again. A little lovesick boy. But he’s a mama’s boy and knows Luda is helping him. He'd approach you and hand a flower to you, just as she suggested, hoping that it works to make you happy.

🔪 Some days, you’ll wake up to find a little note in your dresser. It’s in poor handwriting but you can tell it’s from Tommy. He picked it up from what Luda used to do—Leave notes in his lunch each day.

🔪 The first note you got had some drawings on it. You could make out smiley faces and hearts. The only legible words on the note was “I LOVE YOU”.

🔪 Tommy is very careful around you since he's aware of his size. He tries to be like a gentle giant, although, he can default to being too gentle, treating you as though you were made of glass.

🔪 He's scared to hurt you. After all, that's the only thing Hoyt has him do. Gods forbid if he did hurt you in some way, he'd slink away into the basement to avoid being around you. He would need some coaxing to understand that you're okay.

🔪 Overall though, Tommy is an absolute sweetheart. He's very attentive and willing to do whatever to make you happy. And he's also very easy to please! He's been taught to be happy with the minimum so anything besides that immediately makes him overjoyed.

🔪 Tommy's favorite thing to do is hold hands with you. He's self-conscious over the fact that his hands are scarred and rough but he can't help but be an internal mess at the electric touch between you two.

🔪 Sometimes when he's upset with Hoyt's constant yelling and berating, he'll toss you over his shoulders like nothing and bring you outside with him so he can cool down with you.

🔪 He finds solace in you. You'll find how Tommy will just sometimes stare at you because he's admiring your appearance. He has a particular fascination with your eyes. He finds it hard to look at them directly but when you aren't looking at him, it's all he can focus on.

🔪 One thing about Tommy: As much as he can be sweet, he still is a brutish murderer. Any victims who even catch a glimpse of you are his first targets.

🔪 It can be almost unnerving how easily Tommy can switch like that. To be so gentle with you to becoming a murderous beast towards anyone else.

🔪 One quick way you’ve seen Tommy get upset is when he heard Hoyt talk explicitly about your body. Hoyt did it specifically to make you uncomfortable as that is what gets him off most.

🔪 But his grin was quickly wiped off by how Tommy turned around and stared down Hoyt. He didn’t have much restraint but decided to simply pick you up and leave to his room with you. His silent threats spoke for him.

🔪 He also has a tendency to be paranoid about you staying. He makes sure you understand that this is your home now. He is your family. You wouldn't leave him alone again, right?

🔪 Tommy isn’t that hesitant to never take off his mask but he is around you because of his insecurities. He knows what generally attractive people look like considering the victims he’s caught before and knows he doesn’t look like that.

🔪 He grows more accustomed to having his mask off when you aren’t afraid to kiss and caress his face. You couldn’t be lying about that when your touch was so sweet and gentle with him.

🔪 Tommy’s main Love Languages to give are: Acts of Service and Quality Time. He loves to receive in return Quality Time and Words of Affirmation.

🔪 Tommy likes to go out of his way to do things for you because he likes to feel useful to you. Anything he can do to help you out and he’s rushing to help.

🔪 Any errand around the house he immediately takes up so he can hear you praise him for it.

🔪 If he sees you working, he’s made it a habit to get you tea or lemonade. In the mornings, he’s used to waking up early so he’ll let you sleep in and surprise you with breakfast. Before bed, he has a whole ritual for you before going to bed.

🔪 Pulling back the covers, making sure the pillows are cold and plumped up. And once you walk in, he’s planting kisses across your face, picking you up and tucking you in while he gets in beside you and holding you close.

🔪 One of his favorites to do is when you ask him to pick something up for you if it’s too heavy. When you compliment him for being strong, he’s barely letting you pick anything up anymore because he wants to hear you praise him more.

🔪 Tommy also just generally loves to spend alone time with you. Constantly being around his family in the home can leave him feeling slightly stir crazy.

🔪 He loves to just sit under a tree, under the shade and away from the harsh sun, beside you and just enjoy your presence.

🔪 Tommy was a little hesitant at the suggestion of a spa day with face masks and other things, considering he’d have to take off his mask but seeing you in the same face mask as him in the mirror and he was silently asking each week to do it again and again.

⤷ divider credits: @cafekitsune

#my precious slasher cannibal bby boy deserves the whole world in my eyes #i crave more of tommy content everyday fksgshwb #slasher x reader #slasher community #slasher fandom #slashers headcanons #slashers x reader #slashers imagines #slasher fucker #slasher headcanons #leatherface #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x y/n #thomas hewitt x you #thomas hewitt headcanons

[peachypinkygloss]

✨congrats on 2k✨

Can you write a drabble where virgin reader and JK shower together for the first time? He doesn’t pressure her into anything but she wants to do something with him in the shower iykwim (oral, handy I’ll leave the decision up to you). And he kinda guides her through it? it’s fluffy and smutty; so smuffy ahah. Basically no penetration but a lot of lips and a lot of touching! Thanks loves! Your writing adds some spoice to my life. <3

thank you a lot!! 🫶🏻

apollo

You and your boyfriend have fun in the shower.

pairing: bf!jungkook x virgin!reader

genre: established relationship, smut

warnings: jk's in love, shower sex, handjob, lots of cum 🤭, 700 words.

This is part of my 2k milestone celebration! Here is the post for the drabble game! 🤍 (requests are closed!!)

♡・2k celebration masterlist・♡

A shower with Jungkook is definitely not a good idea when you're trying to keep your sanity. It's also the best idea ever. Yes, it's the worst and best idea at the same time, no in-between.

You can't keep your hands for yourself when you have him in front of you totally naked. A body crafted by Apollo, a soul created by Aphrodite. He's the most beautiful both on the inside and outside.

You sometimes think that you don't deserve him, but he's always there to remind you how much he loves you and cares for you.

"Are you sure, angel?" Jungkook questions between sloppy kisses, his hands roaming over your waist, down to your ass.

You moan in his mouth when he gropes your flesh, his skin having direct contact with yours. Your arms hang around his large shoulders, impatient hands pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck.

Jungkook backs away, stopping the kisses to look at you. He wants a clear answer.

You bite down on your lip, a fire burning in your stomach as you think about everything that could happen. Even though you want your first time to be with him, you want it to be more special and safer than in a shower.

But you still want to do something. You really want to.

You feel his hard cock poking your belly and it only amplifies your desire for Jungkook. You want to ease his pain, make this shower a bit steamier and hotter.

"Yeah," you respond in a quiet voice, glimpsing down at his dick. It twitches, and you just know you have to do something about it. "Can I just...?" You don't finish your question, but your hand tentatively hovers over his cock, not sure if you can touch it, and Jungkook understands what you want.

"Want to touch it?" He whispers and this simple phrase makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. You nod shyly in response. "Let me show you then," he softly proposes.

He takes your hand and wraps it around his cock. It's so stiff under your fingers and a bit wet, of course. You really like the texture.

"Don't squeeze too much. It's perfect like this," he explains and you nod again, listening carefully. "Now just move your hand up and down. No need to go fast, we have all the time we need."

You start doing what he told you to, going slow with his hand still over yours. You hear him hissing, but when you look up at his face there's no sign of pain.

He seems to enjoy it, which makes you really proud and turns you on a lot. He eventually lets go of your hand, his eyes focused on your palm moving around his hard cock.

"You're such a good girl," he rasps out, absolutely liking the feeling of your soft skin stroking his wet cock. "Ah, shit," he curses under his breath, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His eyebrows are frowned, giving him this adorable concentrated look.

"Does it feel good?" You ask, genuinely curious if it is with all the grunts he lets out.

Jungkook chuckles, finding your innocence so cute — too cute for your own good. "Yes, angel, it does..." He replies, feeling himself getting closer to his orgasm. "You make me so fucking hard, you know. It's hard to not- fuck, to not cum straight away in your hand," he confesses and you feel your face heating up at that.

You continue, keeping the same regular pace. Your palm seems to do wonders because his cock twitches and he ejaculates all over your hand. You gape, stopping your movements.

His cum drips down on your hand, little beads spilling out of his tip when you squeeze slightly. You look at his cock in awe, even more turned on if it's possible at this point.

"Oh, god, baby," Jungkook breathes out, his voice a bit whiny. This was probably the best handjob he ever received. You might not be experienced, but just the fact it was you, made things so incredible. "I fucking love you."

He cups your face, kissing you feverishly and sloppily, so happy with what just happened.

"I love you too," you say back, smiling shyly, really proud of yourself.

.

.

.

#🍑 [drabble game] #requests #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts x reader #bts drabble #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook drabble

[night-raven-tattler]

What's your ideal type?

Summary: What would be the best traits for their potential partner to have?

Characters: Octavinelle dorm (Azul, Jade, Floyd) × GN!Reader (separate, romantic)

Other parts of the series: Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, Diasomnia

Warnings: none

By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Azul's ideal type would be...

Someone witty. Azul is a smart guy who likes being entertained. While his way of achieving that is less... for lack of better words, aggressive than the tweels', he enjoys a good mental game. If you can carry a good conversation with him, he'll remember you.

Someone who doesn't pressure him into making decisions. He is someone whose independence is very important to him. On top of that, his signature spell literally revolves around choice as a concept, so he understand the importance of it. Someone as stubborn as Azul will keep his distance if anyone tries to influence his free will.

Someone who appreciates music. He's a pianist and a good singer, which are skills that require a lot of practice and hard work, something Azul is known for. He will appreciate any genuine praise, but if you ask him to teach you more about music or, Sevens forbid, you want to duet with him, all of his three hearts are yours.

Someone who doesn't mock him, not even when teasing him. If you really know Azul, you know how bitter he is towards the people who have brought suffering onto him. The words they said are ingrained into his brain, controlling his choices for years after they were spoken to him. I'm not saying to constantly uplift him, but bringing up old wounds will only push Azul away with low chances of getting any closer again.

『••✎••』

Jade's ideal type would be...

Someone whose next move he can't accurately predict. It's kind of easy to catch the attention of any of the tweels, but it's also easy to lose it. The key to keeping Jade's eyes on you is to make him believe he's had you all figured out, then do something unexpected. Being a little unpredictable, even when you think you're outside of Jade's vision, will pique his curiosity.

Someone who plays along his little tricks and schemes. Jade is not an honest person: he always has some ulterior motive, hidden behind carefully worded questions and statements that he uses to poke and prod for information. If you try to help him and his twisted game of detective, he will certainly find you amusing, if not helpful.

Someone who goes exploring with him. Just like his brother, Jade has a fascination for the land above water, and he loves learning things about the fauna and flora. Someone who understands his appreciation for nature and genuinely embraces his curiosity will have a bit more of his appreciation.

Someone who doesn't try to understand him. Jade is very careful not to reveal too much about himself. Being awfully private with himself, he won't open up to just anyone. So he will appreciate someone who doesn't try to pry into his business too much. At the end of the day, Jade can be many things: a bartender, a vice housewarden, an informant, but he'd like to be seen as "just Jade" sometimes.

『••✎••』

Floyd's ideal type would be...

Someone who isn't intimidated by him. It's a surefire way to catch his attention. Even if you just pretend to not be intimidated by him, he'll stick around and try to push all of your buttons, test your limits, squeeze all that he finds interesting out of you.

Someone willing to teach him more about land folks. Everyone knows that Floyd has quite the interest about land folks and their customs. He wants to know more, so don't be afraid to throw random land people things towards him every once in a while. If it's something he didn't know about, he'll tell you to prove it. Congrats, he won't leave your side for a couple of hours.

Someone who doesn't compare him to Jade. Since he's the more polite and responsible one, Floyd gets compared to his brother pretty often, and some people even assume he's the younger twin. It is exhausting to have his other half be given as example on how to behave time and time again. If you reassure him he doesn't have to be like his twin, that being Floyd is just fine, it'll pull at his heartstrings.

Someone who takes his mood swings in stride. From people thinking he is a threat to people who just find him annoying and hard to work with, no one really takes Floyd's mood swings seriously. That doesn't mean he'll open up if you asked him "are you okay" and "what happened". Still, it would be the first time someone outside of his family reacted like that to him. It will baffle him, in a good way.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader

[oofthwoods]

PROLOGUE! ── ˙ ̟ bring home the glory !!

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: how heavy is the weight of a legacy, and what would you do to protect it? to you, legacy means the formula one team bearing your family name. as a child, you eagerly tagged along with your mother to races, sharing laughs with the engineers and mechanics, and being lifted into the air in triumph after every win. yet as time passed, those moments became fewer and farther between, and before you knew it, the once-legendary team was now scraping by at the back of the pack. in your final visit with your grandfather before he passed away, you made a promise to him: you would drive for the team that he and your grandmother poured their blood, sweat, and tears into, and you would restore glory to the williams surname, whatever it takes.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: new series!! so excited for this one. tell my your thoughts, and if you want to be added to a taglist <3

masterlist next ‭→

MOTORSPORT ARTICLE: WILLIAMS' LINE-UP FINALLY REVEALED.

In a groundbreaking move for both motorsport and gender equality, Williams Racing has announced the signing of Y/N Williams as one of their drivers for the 2024 Formula One season. With this move, Williams becomes the first female driver to secure a seat in Formula One in more than forty-five years, marking a significant milestone in the sport's history.

The decision to bring Y/N Williams on board comes on the heels of her remarkable performance in the Formula 2 championship in 2023. In only her second year competing in the series, Y/N clinched the championship title, showcasing her exceptional talent and determination on the track. Her impressive season saw her clinch multiple victories and podium finishes, solidifying her status as one of the most promising young drivers in the sport.

For Williams Racing, the decision to sign Y/N Williams represents a bold step towards revitalizing the team's fortunes on the track. Following a challenging season in 2023, marred by inconsistent performances and disappointing results, the team is eager to usher in a new era of success with fresh talent at the helm.

The announcement of Y/N Williams as a Williams Racing driver also comes with a reshuffling of the team's lineup. In an expected move, Logan Sargeant, who had been part of the team since the previous season, will step down from his role as a full-time driver. However, Sargeant will remain with the team in a new capacity, serving as a reserve and simulator driver, lending his experience and expertise to support the team's development efforts.

The news has sparked a flurry of reactions from fans and pundits alike. While many have hailed it as a historic moment for gender equality in motorsport, others have expressed skepticism, questioning whether swapping one rookie for another will indeed bring about the transformative change the team needs.

Some voices within the Formula One community have raised concerns about the pressure and scrutiny she may face as the first female driver in the sport in several years. Yet, amidst the debates and uncertainties, there remains a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation surrounding her debut season.

As the countdown to the 2024 Formula One season begins, all eyes will be on Y/N Williams as she prepares to make her mark on the world's most prestigious racing stage.

y/nwilliams

liked by clairewilliams_official, alex_albon, and 257,174 others

y/nwilliams a williams in williams. is there anything more perfect than that?

view all 9,245 comments

williamsracing we don't think so, y/n! welcome aboard.

y/nwilliams thank uuu 🥺

user1 SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

user2 the first woman with a seat in more than 40 years in the team that was basically created by a woman? this one is for the history books ladies and gents

-> liked by y/nwilliams

francolapinto congrats! excited to see you in f1.

-> liked by y/nwilliams

user3 watch as she crashes more than sargeant 🤣🤣

usern4 her surname is williams? as in the williams?

user5 yep. daughter of claire williams, granddaughter of frank and ginny williams. user6 so she's lance stroll but with panties.

user7 is she actually good? williams can't keep hiring random rookies and expecting great results...

user8 she won f2 with carlin in her second year, so i'd assume she is great

alex_albon welcome to the family!

user10 i didn't think i'd live long enough to see a woman competing in f1

©️ oofthwoods — 2024.

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[chronically-ghosted]

iron and charcoal

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: pero tovar x f!reader word count: 6.9K summary: Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –  Her. He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.  OR Pero falls hard for a princess and doesn’t know what to do with himself on your wedding night. warnings: angst, brief classism/xenophobia two very stubborn people, pero experiences one Human Emotion and cannot fully process it, arranged marriage, yearning, smut LIKE WOW, soft!pero that i broke my own heart with a/n: Thank you so much to @perotovar for this request: "congrats on your milestone, my love! so happy for you <33 i'm sending a little astrology 💫 + pero & #6 on the fluffy list OR #1 on the smutty list (whichever is speaking to you), because i wanna see your take on him 👀” – of course I chose the slutty one, just for you 😉 I’m actually pretty proud of this one - please consider reblogging if you like it too!

*the image in the header is for aesthetic purposes only and does not reflect the appearance of the reader*

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Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sometimes before battle, the clatter inside Pero’s head goes silent. It listens. It waits. 

Other times, it roars. Memories of family, of dead amigos, of mujeres he fucked – they all buck and scratch for a chance to blaze across his mind like a dust storm kicked up by an unbroken mustang. 

He doesn’t know which one he prefers or which one will win out. They both have their uses, necessary states of mind to survive whatever is barreling towards him – an ax, a monster out of legend, some other drunken mercenary he intentionally pissed off. It’s an unconscious decision, yet one that has served him well so far. He wouldn’t be alive today if some deep, primal part of him knew what he needed to live through another battle. 

And yet, his own trunk knocking against his hips as he climbed the sickly ostentatious stone steps to the top of the parapet, the handles starting to pinch his fingers, the barest – nearly invisible – tremor in his knees, he cannot fathom, for the life of him, why that singular phrase from his abuela played in his head like water swirling around and around a cenote. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

His inner voice, taking on a myriad of forms, of sounds and voices, never quite standing still, the one companion he could always rely on. 

Maybe it was warning him. Dust yourself off, boy, you know exactly how this was going to end. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –

Her.

He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.

He feels sweat escape from the nape of curls at his neck, his cheeks warm and chest hot. Two more flights, he can manage two more flights. 

His abuela also liked to tell him something else: if hell doesn’t get him, his pride certainly will. 

It’s certainly what got him into this ridiculous farce in the first place. Because he can’t alchemize whatever is in his gut into vocalized syllables, he instead has to climb a truly incalculable amount of stairs, while carrying a ragged, torn trunk that weighs as much as his armor. 

Because he can’t form the right words, any words, about what he carries lodged beneath his breastbone for her. What draws him up and up and up and up because it’s lighter than hope, makes him lighter than air, and yet it clogs him up, chokes him out all the same. His pride, his vanity, cuts through it, through her – enough to keep him tongueless and dry but not enough to offer this lightness in his chest to her, for her. He can’t take the light out of him or else he fears what he will truly become.

So, he walks, he goes around and around on unforgiving stone steps until finally there is a door. He thinks about waiting, to catch his breath, but he knows he will just as easily turn around and go back the way he came, trunk still heavy and knocking against his hips, and that pride will be the death of him. So he keeps going, opens the handle, and makes abrupt eye contact with the two guards outside her door. They seem uninterested and unamused in his sweaty, stilted breathing, but by his less-than-royal attire, they easily clock him as one of their own; a man who fights to make his way in the world. The one on the left nods jerkily at him. 

What they see him as, what he will always be, is nearly the reason he kicks that fucking trunk all the way back down. Instead, he nods back, shoulders rounded, eyes down. 

“The princesa - the princess - is requesting the last of her things, to be b-brought up from the stables –,” he clears his throat, “drop this off for her and –,”

“Can’t let you in. King’s orders.” The one on the right sees him as something else – a foreigner first and foremost, their similar stations in life irrelevant. His bright blue eyes rove over Pero’s dark skin, dark hair, jagged scar, distaste and disgust smearing his already ugly features. But he had been dealing with men like these all his life.

“Bueno, you can explain to the King himself why his daughter’s belongings were lost and disregarded. I hear she’s very fond of the Italian prints at the bottom of this . . .”

The guards glance at each other, calculating way above their paygrade. Pero jostles the trunk as if to show he is not above throwing it out the window. 

“Fine.” The second one snaps. “Drop it inside and come back immediately.”

He drops his head, a good little foreign boy. “Gracias, señor.” 

The heavy wooden door opens beneath the iron lock and the instant he is through, he bolts it behind him. Waits to see if the guards notice. They don’t. Perfectamente – all the time in the world. 

All in the time in the world – for what? 

To fail? Again?

He stows the trunk in front of the door, extra time, a few seconds maybe – as if she wouldn’t just tell him to get out the instant she laid eyes on him. Only time will tell. 

Out of the atrium, another door, this one set deep into the wall. A last line of defense. He knocks, once, then twice, then waits. El orgullo chokes him again but fuck it, he’s come this far. He knocks again, knocks something in his chest free and, with it, spill the words:

“Princesa? It’s me. I –,” it throttles him, “princesa, can you open the door?” 

Silence. His heart sits, buried in that trunk. Then –

“It’s unlocked, Pero.” 

His heart in his throat, he opens the door to presumably what will be your marriage bed. And yet, by the state of things, you could have been moving out of it. Trunks and bags stack high against the far wall – those fucking trunks he made such a scene over because the unnecessary weight would slow them all down remain untouched, arranged as they had been when they had been first brought in. He didn’t quite know what to make of that, his thumb absently pressing into the callus of his other hand as he glanced around. It is a beautiful room – tall windows, etched in scarlet drapes, to match the scarlet curtains around the bed. With gold thread and impossibly detailed paintings of the countryside, it is fit for a princess, a some-day queen. This is where someone with royal blood deserved to be, not in the back of a hot carriage for weeks on end, surrounded by dirty, loud, rough men. 

And yet, with your hair down, expansive gown from the ball tonight replaced with a simple cotton dress, you could not have been more out of place. Pero’s heart lurches briefly, moisture seeping from his mouth, as he realizes this is the same dress he bought you when the two of you had been accidentally separated by the caravan and your previous dress had been ruined in the mud. He had no idea you still kept it, much less wore it ever again. 

But if anyone asked him, you look more beautiful in this than any silk or velvet. 

Instead of unpacking, settling into your new home and eventual role as wife, you sit hunched over at the intricately carved mahogany desk, eagle feather quill scratching against parchment. You finish with a flourish and look over your shoulder at him, your eyes annoyingly unreadable. 

“Yes?”

A stupid brute some may call him, but he wasn’t entirely without awareness. Observation of your customs and what you considered inappropriate only encouraged him: if you really didn’t want him here, you would never have let him see you in this state.

But it’s hard to remember that under your icy stare. 

“Y-your things, Princesa. The last from the caravan.”

Your eyes slide over him, to the trunk in the shadows of the atrium. He can tell from a single glance that you know as well as he that trunk is not yours, that no one told him to come here with it, and yet he did it all the same. Something flashes over your eyes but it’s gone by the time you meet his gaze again. 

“Thank you. I am, as always, indebted to you.” 

He hates your words, but warmth spreads in his gut at the way you say it. That’s how it’s always been between you and him – saying one thing but meaning another. He’d never appreciated a sharp mind like yours until he realized you wield it as he wields a sharp sword. 

There are many things he’d never even dreamed of before he met you.

“Then, this means you’re leaving, I suppose.” You draw your sword against him. The metal flashes in your eyes as you stand, one hand against the curved tip of your chair. A bronze halo rims your outline, the fire behind you burning bright and hot. He knows if he touched your shoulder, your neck, your skin would be wonderfully warm. 

He wets his lips. “Si. Our contract with your father is done.” 

You drop his gaze, your lips tightening for a minute, your fingers running through the carvings of wood on the chair. “Even with William in his state? Would it not be better for him to stay and recover? The journey home is –,” you pause, as though someone had thrown a hand over your mouth, “– the journey back east is long.” 

All the longer without you.

“William, he is not an idle man. Two days of bedrest is often all he can take.” 

You grin, in spite of this thing circling you both. “Unless he finds the nun attending to him beautiful.

“He finds them all beautiful.” 

Your smile expands wide across your bright face when you find him smiling at you too. 

This – if this is to be his last memory of you (his heart wrenches at the thought) – this is the you he wants imprinted on his soul: smiling and glowing by firelight. 

But as quickly as it came, that grin that warms him down to his bones, fades. In an instant, your eyes grow soft, your mouth twisted, jaw tight.

“Where will you go?” you ask, in the quietest voice you’d ever addressed him with. 

It pains him, physically aches within him, to hear the distress in your voice. He hasn’t even thought about the next contract, the next royal cabrón who intends to yank him all across God’s green earth to perform a task he can’t be fucked to take on himself. How can he possibly answer you? Nowhere, without you. To rot in a dark hole in the ground? Off a cliff? What answer would provide you or him any sort of satisfaction?

“Wherever the coin goes,” he says and the words scrape his tongue like bile. That ache in his chest spiraling rapidly, deep into his gut – like a poisoned limb he cannot amputate – he does the same thing he always does when he’s hurt: he makes others hurt until they leave him alone. “You do not have to worry, princesa, your new husband will keep you in such comfort you will never wonder where the coin comes from.”

He must be a truly sick man, for the knife-sharp glare you throw at him only knots arousal around the base of his spine. It tugs on something attached directly to his groin which, in turn, yanks the next words out of his mouth.

“He looked especially happy with you in his arms on the dance floor tonight.”

The icy shards in your eyes go brittle and crack. His heart races; he’s overplayed his hand. 

“You watched me dance?”

“All guardsmen were required to –,”

You shake your head, eyes bright and searing through him. “No. It was only the King’s Knights there in attendance.” 

Your hand trailing off the edge of the chair, you take a step forward and he feels his weight shift back onto his heels. But he remains firm. 

Sana, sana.

“Pero, why did you come here tonight?”

“To return the last of your things, princesa. What else is there?”

You flinch, as if he had raised his voice to you. What else is there indeed?

“Not even to . . .  say goodbye? Sixteen weeks on the road is an awfully long time to be around someone, only for them to . . . leave so soon.”

He locks his knees to keep them from shaking. “Do you wish for me to tell you goodbye, princesa?” 

There’s something painfully sad about the way you smile at him. “I wish for whatever would make you happiest.” 

Anger roars within him, hungry and hot, like a burn from a white flame. Why can’t you just admit it? Why do you avoid it time and time again? He knows he hasn’t misread anything you’ve sent his way, so why? Why are you so vested in torturing him this way? 

“Coin makes me happy and, now that I have it, there’s nothing to keep me here.”

There, that hurts you too, just as he meant it.

“Then leave.” They could make ice fortresses out of the strength of your bone-cold stare. “If you have nothing else to say, then take your goddamn trunk and get out of my sight.” 

The flame scorches him, ripping him apart and in his anger, making him cruel.

He bows to you.

“I imagine you will be very happy with your new husband, ranita.”

The term slips from his lips before he can stop it, but his throat and cheeks blister so badly, he physically can’t open his mouth to correct his mistake. Instead, he turns and strides towards the door.

He thinks he hears a gasp from behind him, a sharp sound like breaking glass – small, tinkling, tragic. It spears him through his chest, pierces his heart. 

He gets to the door and pauses.

If you have nothing else to say . . .

Of course he has something to say – words in English and Spanish and broken dialects gathered like poisonous lichen all churning in the boiling cauldron of his mind, but nothing will suffice – nothing reflects or compares to the grief he is already feeling, the despair, the anguish that has settled into all the fleshy joints in his body. Not his pride, but this, saying goodbye to you, this is what actually will kill him.

Every word imaginable crawls up his throat and rages in his mouth, presses up against his teeth, begging for something, anything to be let out, to be free, to tell you that he cannot fucking live without you–

Nothing comes through, but one single word.

“Don’t.” 

The fire crackles in the silence, a wicked god pleased at the display of carnage.

“What did you say?”

A dull thud echoes from where he drops his forehead against the wood of the door, all anger flooding out of his system. Do you have any idea the power you hold over him? One request, one tremor in your voice and his knees all but buckle at your altar. 

Fuck it. 

He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of bloody glory, but he’d never expected to be so exposed, so flayed like this.

“Don’t,” he repeats, his throat as dry as sand. “Do not . . . marry him. Please.” 

The vision of your great warrior slumped against the door frame, his neck bent, shoulders curled up to his ears has your already pounding heart leaping forward into a gallop. He is defeated, laid low. You watch his guts all but pool out on your hearth. 

He looks about as hopeless and anguished as you feel. 

Your soldier, your man of iron and charcoal, goes blurry in your eyes.

“And what would you have me do, Pero?” Your plea is damp, malleable at the edges. You press your hand flat against your chest, near your throat, as if you could pull the grief lodged there with your fingers. “I have been engaged to this man before I was even born. How can I stop this?” 

“Fight.” The word snarls against his bare teeth. He turns, his eyes liquid ink, and suddenly he has you by the shoulders. His thumbs nervously skitter around the curve of your shoulder, gaze just as unsteady and unfocused as it wavers between your hands, your earlobe, your neck. "Where is my brave girl who fights for what she wants, hm? Fight – for me, please.”

Fight, he asks – but in spite of him or because of him?

You lay your hands on the silver shine of his breastplate, watch as they rise and fall with his steady flow of breath. How many nights had you woken up against that shine, in the crook of his arm for warmth, or protection? You didn’t cherish it at the time because you never knew when it would be your last. 

“Why won’t you fight, princesa?” His voice is low, strained, the groan of a wagon wheel before it breaks. You meet his gaze and the exposed look on his face, softening every line on his mouth and around his eyes, nearly sends you into hysterics. You swallow the tears, swallow the hook in your throat as your fingers curl around the clasps of his cape. 

"Because if I don't fight then I can't lose.” His fingers slip from your shoulders, to your elbows, to your waist. You inhale and the scents of warm leather, oil, and ash flood your mouth. The tip of your nose is inches from the scruff of beard against his cheek, the ruddy brown of his sun-drenched skin. He has curled you into him and this, you do not fight either. His massive palms map your back, against your skin, but without any urgency or control. “If I can’t lose, that means I don’t lose you. You'll just be . . . gone."

That last word is a lie. It hangs in the air like a sweltering humid rain and you both know you’re lying. He has you wrapped up in his arms, you didn’t stop him even for a second, and you are all too aware that it would take some great, insidious alchemy to ever truly tear him out of you. 

You stare at his silver collar, defiant against the waves you had managed to shackle down until this very moment: a wave of hopeless crashes into you, a wave of heartbreak, a wave of helpless that fills your eyes to the point of spilling with that very same salt water.

He touches your cheek delicately, fingers rough with callouses, and the floodgates break open with a sob. 

“Preciosa,” he rumbles softly against your hairline, “hush. You break my heart with your tears.” 

“Do not mock me, Tovar. Not now.” you sniff, trying to turn your face but his wide hands catch you around the cheeks.

“You are beyond mocking. I’d show you my heavy heart but I do not wish that weight on anyone.” The snag of his rough thumbs against your cheek draws your watery gaze to him. His mouth is a flat line, barred against whatever climbs his throat, but his eyes move like mercury across your nose, your eyelashes, the arch of your cheek. Your fingers wrap themselves around his wrists, a grounding agent against the waves that threaten to pull you under. 

“Pero, I –,”

“I have fought you, tooth and nail, for days without end. Every favor, every breath, you have forced them from me. I fight my own mind when I sleep at night. Sueños, always of the same woman.” He smears away the tears with his thumbs, gently, sweetly, before pressing his lips to your wet flesh by his knuckle. He inhales deeply, eyes closed, mouth hovering stationary above the skin of your cheek. “You fight me every step of the way . . . and I am so tired of fighting.” 

For all your struggling, for all your tearing and clawing and snarling against the blooming in your chest, nothing is as easy as it is to turn your head and press your lips to his. 

The brush of his bristled mustache against your upper lip. His warm, rough palms holding you steady. His lips soft and hot. You are overwhelmed by the scent of him.

There is nothing like, and nothing will ever be like, finally kissing Pero Tovar. 

All it takes is the movement of his hands from your cheeks to your lower back, the light trace of his tongue against your lips, and the yearning you’d been smothering for weeks now roars to life. His hands squeeze your hips and you can suddenly barely breathe. 

“Pero–,” the noise in the shape of his name that escapes you is near a whine, begging. He nips at your lips, hand firmly at the cup of your jaw, mouth now rough and insistent, and your fingers claw up his neck, wrapping themselves in his dark curls. You tug, nails scratching his scalp, and he groans into your mouth as if you’d just kneed him in the gut.

A thread-bare gasp of your name from his lips splits you from him, then his hand on your hip and the back of your neck pushing you backwards gives you enough air to breathe – to think.

"Your husband will know you're not a virgin,” Pero warns, breathing hard and fast, his eyes like black flints, “if we go on." 

You curl your fingers around his neck, dragging your mouth near his jaw, the soft skin at the edge of his ear.

"Then he will also know my heart is not his either.” You ask everything of him with this. His armor blocks his warm body from you – you want to sink inside his hard shell. “If you’ll have it.”

He is not himself, half-human with an inhuman want, with the snarl that leaves him. 

“Don’t make such promises, dulzura –,” A threat, a dog forced to expose its underbelly, fear radiating like the pain from a broken bone. Your fingers dig into the buckles of his cape, steadying you against a sudden terrible awareness that bloomed, purple-bruised. 

“Unless you don’t want –,” 

The desk rattles when your hips break against it, the force of his kiss enough to topple over your inkwell, spill rolls of parchment to the floor. The wood groans under your weight when he gathers the thick swell of your thighs in his hands, heaves you onto the flat surface, and spreads your knees around his waist. He is as hard as the iron on his chest. 

“Can you feel how much I want you?”

A frantic sigh of relief, a groan shared between two pairs of lips, seeking skin and warmth and other hungry places. 

He drags you onto his chest, your skirt bunched up around your hips, the rings of his armor digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, his mouth covering yours in wet pulls, and he stands up right, as though you weighed less than his sword. 

A stumble, and he spreads you out on the velvet covers of your marriage bed, his hands imprinting on your hips, your knees, the supple meat of your calves. The touch of him on your bare skin feels like the licks of flames, the smoke of arousal blurring your awareness and dragging your eyelids half-closed. On his heels at the edge of the bed, the flint shards of his eyes drift over the bones of your ankles, the bend of your knee, your heaving chest, hair in snarls around your neck and caught behind your back, and finally to your cunt, hidden by the folds of your dress. 

Velvet hums as you slide your ankles to the curve of your ass, widening your legs, parting your knees. His lips part open, dark want etching every line of his face. You feel the wet linen of your dress cling to your achy cunt. He swallows, unbuckling his cape one latch at a time, his eyes nowhere else. The metal clatters as it falls to the floor.

Piece by piece, the chinks in his armor fall away. Piece by piece, he is revealed to you. Your hands rise up, up your thighs to your knees, your thumbs rubbing soft circles. He watches, never tears his gaze away from your sticky hole, his nimble fingers working away the buckles and knots with practiced precision. You can see it in his eyes – memories of bedrolls by firelight, of such a deep painful, yearning ache, separated only by thin tarp, they are a physical weight beside you in this marriage bed. 

You see them because they’re there for you too. You see them because you've been here a dozen times, on your back, legs spread wide, your hands circling but never dipping, waiting. Wanting. For him. 

His bare chest is warm, the wings of his ribs expanding around short, half-drawn breaths, as he crawls up into your pliant mouth. The kisses are slow, like before, with a crackle of heat just beyond them, his hips slipping into the cradle of your thighs, the wet warmth of you separated by the thin linen of your dress. He sucks the tendon below your ear, a whine slipping out of your mouth, fingers spreading over the harsh planes of his back, and his cock bobs against your thigh. 

Pero is bare and warm and entirely yours. All man beneath the sweltering armor. 

“Amorcita,” he drips into your ear, kisses smeared against your collarbone, your mouth, your earlobe, “amorcita, amorcita . . . ranita, let me take you.” 

He starts to use teeth, a harder nip behind his kisses, when he dips down to your chest. A wide palm with stocky fingers grasps at your breast and it’s a startling sensation for you both. 

“Soft,” he moans before licking up under the supple curve of your breast, mouthing at what his tongue missed. He slips your erect nipple into his mouth and twists it between his teeth. “Sweet,” he murmurs with your nipple firmly between his lips. 

This is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You deliriously thank the gods that he hadn’t touched you like this on the road; you would have kept him, your own wild animal, in bed without rest for days on end.

Pero plucks just as aggressively at your other breast, the spit-wet nipple that preoccupied his mouth verging on purple and aching. He cups you from the outside this time, squeezing and massaging, ringing your nipple with his tongue until your back bows and you let out a whine that has his eyes flickering up to you, the scent of wounded prey filling his nostrils. 

That whine of pleasure elongates into a whimper: “please.”

“Tranquila, ranita.” His touch is softer around your bruised tits, but he keeps one hand bagging the weight of your breast while the other slips beneath your skirt.

The pads of his fingers brush your creamy cunt and with a yelp, you grab him by the wrist, your eyes open with a familiar emotion he draws out of you: rage.

“Pero Tovar, if you value your life you will take me under the covers and put your —,”

He chuckles, his cheek against yours, nose rimming the velvet hairs on the ridges of your ear. The vibrations liquify the tension in your bones, loosening your grip. Your eyes flutter, slick obviously running down his fingers. “Ranita, I don’t think you know how you want to end that sentence..”

His words roll like honey over the heat of your skin. It makes your skin tremble. Your grip tightens on his wrist and you roll your hips, your swollen clit finally relieved by the pressure of his palm. 

“Oh, oh, Pero—,” 

With a grunt, he shuffled closer, elbow by your shoulder and he cups your entire wet cunt in his hand, pushing the heel of his palm flatter against you. You cry out, a sparkling kind of pleasure radiating out from where his hand rests. You buck your hips faster, complete release flickering through your outstretched hand. 

“Can you come like this?” You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you barrel towards escape, and you feel him shudder next to you. You are intimately aware that he’s rubbing his cock on the crease of your hip bone but that only drags you faster towards the light. “Then come, ranita, come and I’ll fuck you.” 

The wet, curling heat growing between your legs descends, then in a bright snap, explodes across your body. 

“Fuck!” You tear open your eyes to find them damp, Pero’s massive hand cupping your cheek towards him, his stallion eyes dark as his fingers drag on the soaked material of your dress, your hips slowing. 

“Amorcita, breathe.” The words are torn from his chest, all cock-suredness gone from his frantic gaze. You gulp in air, the weight of his body over yours grounding and smothering you all at once. He pulls his hand away from you, rides it up your thigh to your waist, looking for something to hold onto. He strokes his thumb once against your overheated skin and you’re wriggling up out of your dress. 

“Help,” you hiss and his fingers nearly tear the fabric off you.

With a few undone buttons, you shiver out of your dress, the slick-drenched spots catching on your warm skin. He flings it behind him, near the fireplace. 

He takes you barely beneath the thick covers before you welcome him back to the heat of your open legs. 

But instead of reeling back and plunging his aching cock into you, he takes the time to kiss you. To praise you in all the ways he fears his mouth will end up short. He kisses you, grateful, reverent – wonderful to be swallowed by but also a distraction.

When he lifts your knees by his waist, your hips automatically tilt towards him and for the first time, you feel his red, sore cock between your tacky lips. The dual sensation nearly drags you over the rack of delectably delicious pleasure, as does his worn, broken groan in your ear. 

“More, please, don’t stop.” You cry against the bristles of his beard, his hand dropping between your sweat-slick bodies, finding yours already there to guide him. The press of him spreads you open, filling you one sinking notch at a time. The sensation of your pink, dripping walls moving to take more of him in has you arching up into his chest, nails dragging into his back. His dry lips stifle the moans escaping from your mouth. 

Pero takes both of your hands in his, dragging them above your head, his fingers locking your palms together as his hips roll forward. “Cálmate, amorcita, cálmate,” he murmurs between distracted presses of his mouth against your chin, your cheek, his breathing heavy and stunted. You writhe, pinned open by his hips and his hands, his cock filling you all too slowly and not fast enough. 

With the last few inches, you take him completely, your cunt throbbing, heart pounding, intoxicated by the sensation of being so maddeningly full. Pero drapes over you, his head tucked into your neck, forearms straining with the tension of gripping your hands tightly. 

“Santa madre . . .” He is not a warrior right now. He is but a man, cunt-drunk and heaving. 

His name is pushed out of the bottom of your lungs with the first swing of his hips. You cling to him, knees at his ribs, unwilling to let even an inch of space between your bodies. But this becomes increasingly difficult as his thrusts gain speed. His flushed lips stain a sticky line against your jaw, down to your throat, and he releases your hands, the oak of the bed creaking beneath the force of him drilling down into you, he props himself up on his palms, his shoulders bent and curled over you, biceps straining, hairline damp, eyelids fluttering. The scar on his cheek is flushed pink.

“Look, amorcita, look how well you take me.”

His words tear you from your nebulous high, the grit of them forcing your head down to the obscene squelch beneath the sheets. The thatch of rough curls over his groin is drenched in slick, his thick cock soaked to the point of shine as it drives into you again and again. The heavy draft of breath the sight steals from him, the tap of his cock against a place so deep you didn’t know your body possessed, draws the spooling bliss as tight as a wire. 

Your trembling thighs squeeze him tighter, that hot pressure rendering you speechless, except for the most pathetic whine. Please, Pero, please, you think, you mutter, you whisper, your body rocking damp against the sheets. 

With a sudden snarl, he takes the chunk of your hair at the base of your head flat in his fists and tugs. A shoot of bright pain sparks bliss down to your tight and bruised nipples, and you cry out again. 

“Stop fighting, puedo sentir cuanto la quieres. Let me have it.” It is the following word that splits you open like lighting carving apart a tree. “Please.”

The wail that you release is the rush of gooseflesh over your skin alchemized into audible sound. Heat radiates through you, sucking the air from your lungs, your vision going blurry, then black as you clamp your eyes shut against the rush, the final release, that curls you into his arms. His warm, flushed arms, shaking with strain. A final wobbly thrust or two and his elbows are buckling, sweat-drenched chest pressing into your own.

Distantly, you are aware of the warm, slick drip down your thighs, his cock pulsing the last drops into your cum-flecked cunt, and the dangers this sort of intimacy poses. You can’t gather enough breath, enough sense to settle the spinning room, to worry or even care. 

Your his, and he is yours. That is all that will ever matter. 

The crackle of wood burning is the only other sound than your ragged breaths, the silent roll of sweat from sticky hot skins into the bedsheets. The stone walls of the castle’s room entomb you together for a brief stretch of infinity.

Pero moves and you think he’s going to back out of you, but instead, he merely adjusts, his head fully on your chest, thick fingers clutching your bruised waist, the shift of his cock pushing more of his release out of your oversensitive cunt. But you’ll take overstimulation over his absence every time. You run your fingers through his damp curls and he hums. 

“I’m sorry,” he huffs into your humid skin. “I’m sorry I let my pride keep us apart for so long.” 

You grin lazily to the ceiling, your breath settling as affection takes its place in your chest. 

“You were not the only one blinded by vanity.” 

“But I’m not blind. Not anymore.” He lifts his head, eyes as dark as your spilled inkwell. “I am never letting you go.” 

You smile at him, fingers soft against the back of his neck. “I don’t plan on wandering away.” 

His oil-black gaze drops to your lips and he leans forward to take your mouth against his. Gentle, but with the promise of more. 

“Mi ranita,” he purrs to break the kiss. 

“You call me that all the time, Pero. What does it mean?”

At that, a nearly shy expression crosses his face. He shakes his head, shifting onto his elbows to lift off you. “I can’t tell you. It will ruin your good mood.” 

You gasp, offended, and you grab him by the ear and twist. He chuckles through a grimace. “You will tell me what that means, Pero Tovar, if you value your appendages.” 

“Órale, princesa, retract your claws and I will tell you.” 

You release your grip and settle against your pillow. Grinning bashfully, he kisses your neck briefly.

“Remember that I love you after I tell you this.” 

Your heart nearly stops, the absence of a steady beat nearly drawing tears to your eyes but you hold firm. You breathe deeply against the fluttering in your stomach and pin him with your glare. Of course, this is how he would profess his love to you – when he’s trying to get out of trouble. 

“Tell me, Tovar!”

He chuckles again and preemptively picks up your hands. He kisses the inside of your palms, settling himself between your thighs. 

“It means little frog.” Your mouth falls open in a gasp and you struggle to yank your hands back from him, hissing like a tea kettle, but he uses his weight to press down on you. He nips at your nose. “I call you that because when you’re upset with me, much like you are now, you puff up like a bullfrog, your cheeks like this–,”

He rounds his cheeks full of air, crossing his eyes, and you simply cannot take the slight anymore. You push roughly against his gut, the breath trapped in his mouth escaping in a hot puff, and you twist him onto his back. He lets you, of course, his bold, full laughter rendering him defenseless. His body shakes beneath you, his beautiful eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open wide as he laughs and laughs and laughs. You take him by the wrists and push his limp hands over his head, pinning him as he had you. You pinch his chin with your teeth, your messy cunt over his stomach, as his laughter subsides. 

“Have you had your fun yet?” 

“Barely,” he chuckles, turning his big nose against your cheek and inhaling. He hums.

“Is that all I am to you? A joke?”

Pero opens his eyes, sober as death rattle. He takes you in, not in a hungry, all-consuming way, but in a look that speaks of awe and rapture.

“You are everything to me.”

You sigh, releasing his hands and curling into his chest. He kisses the top of your head, your eyes on the roaring fire. His thumbs rub your shoulder blades, trace the lines of your spine.

“You’re so very lucky I love you too.” 

His wandering against the expanse of your back stills, just for a moment, before his fingers slide into your hair, around the nape of your neck, holding you to him with the intention of keeping you there forever.

“I know, ranita, I know.” 

He watches you sleep as the sky lightens beyond the tall windows on the opposite side of the bedroom. The dying fire traces your edges in gold, settling heat in the curve of your lips. 

His heart lurches with the wanting of you.

There’s more terrible things to come, he knows that. The plan the two of you concocted in the early morning hours will be dangerous, deadly even. But dying together instead of living apart would be much more tolerable, you told him earlier that night, your hand on his chest. 

He would kill if you asked. He would kill, even if you didn’t, to keep you safe and by his side. You’ve proven yourself capable of living a life away from this spectacular opulence, but it pains him to know he will never be able to give you anything nearly as lovely as the velvet dresses in the closet, the gold jewelry in your trunks. 

Instead, all he has to offer is himself. His strength, his hands, his heart. It’s his own fear that tells him that’s not enough, because you remind him again and again that’s more than you ever wanted. 

He traces the curve of your cheek with the hovering pad of his finger, brushing your hair away from your face. How he ended up so lucky with your love, he’ll never know, but he will spend the rest of his days proving that he’s earned it. 

You stir in your sleep, sensing him above you, and he hates to steal even a few minutes of blissful sleep from you, knowing the endless nights that are coming. When he steals you away from all that you’ve ever known. 

The sleepy grumble in your throat resembles his name as he curls around you, but your eyes remain gently closed. He pulls you against him, the air that leaves your mouth and sits between your chest and his something he covets with his whole heart. 

I love you and I’m disgustingly lucky and I love you. 

He is a man made of dust, serving men made of silver. He is a man of dust, loving a woman made of gold.

El orgullo? No, Abuela, his ranita will get him first, last, and every time.

+

Translations:

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. - This rhyme is typically said to children when they have just hurt themselves. The parent (or grandparent) usually rubs the part that is sore and sings this little tune. Literally translates to: "heal, heal, little frog’s tail. If you don’t heal today, you will heal tomorrow."

el orgullo - pride

dulzura - sweetness, romantic connotation

amorcita - little love, romantic connotation

Tranquila - quiet, as in "be quiet" or "relax"

Cálmate - take it easy, or take it slow

puedo sentir cuanto la quieres - I can feel how much you want it/love it

Órale - okay, or an exclamation expressing approval or encouragement.

ranita - little frog, but you knew that already ;)

the rest are cognates (or familiar words) which you can probably guess the meaning of, but feel free to message me if you don't know!

#pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pero tovar fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #the great wall fanfic #pedro pascal #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar fanfic #pero tovar the great wall #tovar x you #tovar x reader #tovar x f!reader #tovar smut #tovar fanfiction #tovar imagine #pero tovar x fem!reader #1k celebration #follower celebration #1k followers

[sophiethewitch1]

congrats on the milestone sophie! i'm so excited to read what you have to share with us! For your 1k celbration, if it's not too much, I'd like to ask for ABXS for Jason and Dick uwu And if ur feeling particularly sharing I'd also love an L from all of them owo

Strei!!! Thank you for the kind words, here's what you asked for. I even did the L's as well for my dearest most beloved mutual <3

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, gen yandere behaviour, murder, stalking, worshipping/weirdly religious undertones for Dick, um pet play sort of?? Jason would bark if you asked him to is all I'm saying.

A = Affection (Is Their Love All-consuming, Expressed Through Possessive Gestures and Overwhelming Intensity With No Bounds?):

Jason: Spreading my Jason Todd Loyal Dog Agenda here but he’s so unbelievably loyal. Way, way too loyal. It doesn’t matter if he personally agrees with whatever your decisions are, he’s listening like the loyal hound he is. Will push and prod at you, but at the end of the day, he’s devoted. While he’d always prefer to be as close to you as possible, he’s willing to stay away if that’s what you really want. Simple guy, aware of himself, and mostly in control of his more fervent tendencies. He refuses to lose control of you, to take too much, so he doesn’t take any. Just giving, giving, giving. He only hopes you’ll take him.

Dick: Dick is probably one of the most clingy yanderes out there. While others might stalk you, or protect you from afar, that’s not Dick’s methodology. He wants to be with you all the time, and make you happy all the time, and he spends his afternoons daydreaming about sitting between your thighs for hours at a time. All the time, if it was possible. While he’s trying not to overwhelm you, he’ll stay as calm and charming as possible. But eventually, he’s going to have to start confessing his love to you because he feels like he’ll explode with it. Along with acts of service, physical affection, and verbal affection, he also really likes buying you things. He’s an all-rounder. Still, he prefers buying you experiences rather than items, like holidays or trips to the fair. He decides against buying you a private island to visit for the summer, but only after staring at the property page online for three hours straight. Like I said, he really is trying!

B = Blood (How Messy Are They Willing to Get in Pursuit of Their Darling? Would They Embrace Chaos and Revel in the Crimson Tableau Painted by Their Actions?):

Dick: I’ve mentioned before that he’s pretty hesitant to kill. He’s gotten over his wild younger years, and is now more mature and in control of emotions. Now, all of that is one huge lie he tells himself that only lasts as long nobody ever tries to hurt you. Dick wears his heart on his sleeve, and then it gets even worse when you come around because his heart is just walking around outside his chest, with no aknowledgement for the dangers of the world. He does try, he really does, but when he snaps, he snaps hard. He’s not too bad of a sadist (also a lie) but when he easily catches whoever has been bothering you, he… well, he might play with them. Just a little bit. He doesn’t kill, he’s very careful of that, but honestly if I was that poor soul, I’d rather be dead. And then the next day, he goes back to being the cheerful sweetheart we all know and love!

Jason: I’ve also mentioned that Jason, unlike Dick, is very, very eager to get bloody. In canon, he enjoys punishing sinners and whatnot, and when he’s fallen for you, uh… So, basically, Jason would rather die than admit it, but he thinks of himself as your protector, your knight in shining leather armour. And along with that previously mentioned possessiveness, he totally lets it get out of hand. He’s aware you probably don’t want him slaughtering everyone who has ever harmed a single hair on your head, but unless you specifically tell him not to, he’s not going to stop. But if you do, he will. He’s loyal, he’s fervent in that loyalty. He wants to destroy anything that could ever hurt you. But he’d never go against your ruling, your will. He might complain about it, though. Loudly, very loudly. However, if you do want everyone who has ever annoyed you dead, he’s totally up for it no questions asked. Would probably consider it a date night of sorts.

S = Stigma (Can the Roots of Their Obsession Be Traced to a Dark Past, a Blend of Childhood Trauma, Twisted Curiosity, and a Skewed Perception of Love?):

Dick: Oh boy, this guy… He’s the poster child for childhood trauma affecting your perception of love. When his parents were murdered, he latched onto Bruce. And when Bruce kicked him out, he latched onto Bludhaven. And now when even Bludhaven can’t bring him any semblance of comfort, of home, you’re fucking heaven-sent. He latches onto you like a benign growth, and god help anyone who tries to tear the two of you apart.

Jason: Oh boy times two. Not the best childhood, raised on the streets. Taken in by Bruce, things are looking better and then- Well, we all know what happens then. After the trauma of literally digging himself out of his own grave, he feels a bit… disconnected from the world? He feels like a ghost, like he’s still dead, like his death never even mattered and the world kept going after he’d been gone. And that’d fuck up anybody, but someone personally trained by the Batman? Woof. We see in Under The Red Hood that Jason really does think vengeance is proof of love, at least in his case. To him, love is bloody and ruthless. It’s cannibalistic. A give and take. But since he doesn’t want to take from you, he’ll just give himself over wholly.

X = Xoanon (Does Their Reverence for Their Darling Border on Worship, Reaching Extreme Lengths to Prove Their Devotion and Ensure Unwavering Loyalty?):

Dick: He sees you like the sun. Powerful, brilliant, beautiful. And you’ll probably burn him to cinders as he loves you, but he doesn’t care. He probably enjoys the idea a little. Wouldn’t it be nice, to die in your arms? To close his eyes and disappear into you, where he’d never be apart from you again? He realises that sort of thinking is a bit creepy, but it’s one of the few things he simply can’t fight against. Not even the littlest bit. He’s self-aware to know he’s putting you on a pedestal, that you’re not some god or something, you’re just like him. Human. Maybe that makes him worship you even more. He can’t tell, it’s too blurry these days. He just knows you’re important, more so than he is. More so than anything is, really. Also, gotta mention body worship kink. Like, he’s really way too into it honestly. He’ll service you for however long you can last, and then place a hundred kisses against your exhausted body telling you how good you did, how perfect you are. When you look at him after a session like that, you can always see something a little too intense, too crazed to be called love. He knows he’s trying to hide it. He’ll do better next time, okay?

Jason: You’re his master. The hand around the leash. He’s angry at the world, so fucking angry. He wants to destroy it all. Assuming here, you probably don’t want the entire world blown to smithereens, so you’re his… conscience. Whatever you say goes. If you say Joker dies today, then he dies. If you say he can never kill another soul, then he won’t. He’s sassy about all of it, but it’s painfully obvious to literally everyone that he will follow every single order you give. And of course, he wants it that way. Maybe he really should get a collar for himself. He thinks it’d be cute, with your name on it in brilliant gold letters. He certainly thinks that the reaction his goons would give would be worth the effort, never mind your own reaction. Call him your good boy and you will get railed so hard you break the bed, lmfao

L = Love Letters (Is Courting an Intricate Dance Marked by Obsessive Letters and Gestures That Blur the Line Between Devotion and Insanity?):

Dick: I can’t see Dick ever actually sending you the letters he writes, but my god, he writes them. At first, it’s just little doodles in the corners of his very important paperwork, and then he’s scribbling on sticky notes, and eventually, he just gives in and buys a fucking notebook. They’re long winded and silly and he’d absolutely rather die than share them with you. But they make it just the slightest bit easier to choke down his devotion to you, so it doesn’t strangle him right then and there. He almost finds it as addicting as you are, almost being the keyword here. It’s genuinely pretty embarrassing, from an outsider’s standpoint. It’s like what a middle schooler would write in their diary, just lots of your name and hearts and very ridiculous poetry. He’d be good at it if it wasn’t about you, okay?

Jason: Jason, in direct contrast to Dick, writes very good poetry. Especially when it’s about you. It’s the sort of stuff they’ll put in museums, that future historians will write about. Of course they won’t know half of his more demented metaphors are just… straight up things he’s done for you. It’s flowing and beautiful and it’d make you tear up if you ever read it. You probably won’t just because Jason doesn’t really care if you read it, so he won’t share it with you on purpose. However if you find him one day in the library, and you ask to see whatever it is he’s made, you’ll be so very, very lucky. And Jason will turn tomato red, so that’s another plus.

Tim: Everybody knows that when Tim starts a list again, his mental health is on the decline. The list about you is concerningly long. And I’m really not saying that lightly, for Mr ‘I stalk literally everyone at least a little bit’. It’s something at four hundred thousand words by now, he’s not sure exactly. The little note app on his phone has had to suffer through hundreds or even thousands of hours of Tim writing down the most minute details of you and your life. How do you like to sit best? Is your posture okay, or should he worry about it? When you’re hungry, what food do you go for first? What about when you’re sick? If he’s ever around, tapping away on his phone, and you think he’s not paying you any attention, you’d be very, very wrong. Would probably share it with you just to laugh at your horrified face.

Damian: Damian was raised to perfect every form of art, from martial to dance, to even the more traditional ones. He’s always had a fondness for painting, and you’re most certainly his muse. Instead of letters, he paints you. For every memory he has of you, he has at least a sketch. He doesn’t care for almost all of them, as he doesn’t think they capture your beauty properly, so he doesn’t really care what happens with said drawings. Your first meeting has been drawn at least twenty times, and your sleeping face probably double that. Yes, he does draw you in more passionate poses as well. Your face all fucked out, drool leaking from your lips, is a personal favourite of his. He’ll probably share those ones with you, enjoying seeing you squirm. Asking if you want to help him find some extra inspiration because he’s all irritatingly smooth like that. Will laugh if you crush the lewd drawing up, agreeing it doesn’t do you justice. He’ll just have to try again.

#Event:1kCelebration #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader #the way i want to write a full fic where reader finds dicks journal and he has a full blown meltdown about it #hes just so cute idk #i wrote all this in like 2 hours so im going to go pass out now thx <3

[milksnake-tea]

hello! congrats on your 1k followers, u deserve it! may i request for dan feng + fluff prompt 9 … maybe smt similar to ur dan feng fic? vidyadhara!reader?

this ask might be late and u don’t need to do the suggestions but i’d like to say that your writing always makes my day, keep it up! 💗 and again, congrats!

thank u!!

❀ ˎˊ- prompts: It's raining outside, and when you see them completely drenched, you immediately offer them shelter. ❀ ˎˊ- 1k followers event ❀ ˎˊ- character: dan feng ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: none !! ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: AIYEEE THIS WAS SO CUTE GOT ME KICKING MY FEET AND ALL <33 also thanks for the congrats !! sorry this was so late lol, i hope the fic makes up for it! also context, dan feng and reader are friends here, but reader is a different reader from under the lotus leaves <3

Rarely does the Luofu see rain.

As an artificial planet, a man-made home that basked in the light of an artificial sun, the weather was very closely monitored and controlled. For a sudden storm to arrive either meant that someone higher up was having an off day, or the A.I. had decided that perhaps the Luofu was a tad bit dehydrated.

Still, it doesn't make it any less irritating to you, a civilian who wasn't informed of this sudden decision.

You clicked your tongue in annoyance. Of course it had to rain on your day off. You'd planned to have a nice, easy day outside of just strolling through Aurum Alley, but that plan was now out the window.

Oh, well. Nothing you could about it now.

Gripping your grocery bag closer to you, you held your free hand towards the sky. Water swirled around you in a mystical dance, the rain droplets stilling as if frozen in time. Soon enough, an invisible umbrella formed above your head, your hand keeping there in place.

It was times like these that you were grateful for your cloudhymm abilities. You stepped out into the drizzle, perfectly dry amongst the crowd.

As you neared your home, you faltered when you saw an unexpected figure taking shelter under one of the many overhangs.

"Feng'er?"

The man in question flinched upon hearing your voice. Immediately, he turned away, embarrassed to be found in such a disheveled state.

"I... I'm fine," he stuttered. "Just... caught off guard."

You sighed, taking in the sight in front of you. Dan Feng's robes, so pristine and regal, were plastered against his body, soaked beyond what you'd thought was possible. His hair plastered against his skin as he wrung out what he could.

"Feng'er, with all due respect," you stepped closer, "you look anything but fine."

Dan Feng glared at you from the corner of his eye, but you weren't intimidated. You worked in customer service, after all.

You held out a hand. "Come here, my house is nearby. You'll get sick if you stay drenched like that."

Fire swirled in his eyes as he looked at you, wavering between pride and safety. Amongst the pouring rain, that turquoise hue glowed like flames, an ironic contrast to his abilities.

Eventually, his desire to get out of the rain triumphed over his pride. He reluctantly took your hand. You pulled him under your makeshift umbrella, your hand held high above the both of you as you led him to your home.

The walk there was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain and the curses of those caught within it. Left with nothing but your thoughts, your eyes began to wander. Soon, they landed on the hair of the High Elder, still wet and glossy despite Dan Feng's efforts to dry it.

"Hey, Feng'er," you spoke out into the silence, "can I ask something?"

Dan Feng contemplated it for a moment. "You may."

"You also wield cloudhymm. Why not use it to dry yourself off instead of, well..." You didn't need to go on.

The tips of Dan Feng's ears lit up in red. He quickly averted his gaze, but your eyes were quick enough to catch the pink dusting his cheeks.

"I..." He coughed into his fist. "Yingxing, he claimed that I couldn't go a day in my life without using magic."

"Ah." You couldn't help a snicker sneaking out, but you were quick to disguise it as a cough. "Is that right?"

"Yes," Dan Feng sighed in exasperation, crossing his arms. You smiled. His ears seemed to burn brighter now.

"To think you'd take the words of a short-lived so seriously," you mused. "Your stubbornness will be the death of you."

"Better to die than to let that arrogant mortal insult me so carelessly."

"Right, right, of course," you nodded. "We can't let the dignity of the High Elder be tarnished."

You felt a hard blow to your back, not hard enough to hurt you but certainly enough to make you stumble. Looking behind you, you saw Dan Feng's tail dart out of sight.

"Feng'er."

Dan Feng closed his eyes, evidently choosing to block you out. You rolled your eyes.

"Try that again and I'm leaving you next time."

Your friend chuckled.

"No, you love me too much to abandon me."

You kicked him into a puddle.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #dan feng #dan feng x reader #dan heng #dan heng x reader #imbibitor lunae #imbibitor lunae x reader #x reader #reader insert #y/n #archives 🏵️ #event 🏵️

[akutasoda]

Hello hello!!! Congrats in reaching 1k followers!!!! I've always enjoyed your writing so I'm not surprised you'd get 1k!

For the event could I request Jing Yuan and Dan Heng catching an anxious!reader singing for the first time? Maybe they catch reader softly serenading both of them while assuming the two were asleep. (Jing Yuan x reader x Dan Heng)

thank you :)

🍵 nonnie

silent melodies

synopsis - you start seranding them at a long awaited reunion, unaware they hear you

includes - dan heng + jing yuan

warnings - gn!reader, reader is a long life species?, angst, bittersweet angst, comfort/fluff, wc - 825

a/n: thank you!! <3

dan heng would only have one reason to step foot back on the luofu, to brave what awaited him and that would be to see you again - jing yuan would be there too but mainly you. so when the express took to the luofu he really did want to join them but he knew a much harsher fate awaited him if he ever saw him again, but all he could think about in his stay on the express was you. even if he wasn't the one you fell in love with.

it was a compromise really. during the life of imbibitor lunae, he had become absolutely head over heels for you, the long life species that he wanted by his side until it was his time to be reborn. however he had a slight competition with his fellow quintet member who was also vying for your attention. it seemed more than reasonable for him and jing yuan to come to some sort of agreement, even just letting you choose your lover, but they were both too smitten to even fathom the idea of willingly giving you up.

ultimately, they planned to do the reasonable option and leave the decision to you and you alone but you were a bit indecisive and asled for some time to mull it over. eventually you informed them that you simply couldn't pick and that's when jing yuan announced that he wouldn't mind sharing you with imbibitor lunae if you didn't mind yourself - after all it was your decision at the end of the day. you did feel quite 'put on the spot' and you're nerves were starting to kick in but you agreed.

it seemed that was the right decision. it had merely been a week of your relationship with the two of them before it all delved into chaos and heartbreak. imbibitor lunae made a stupid decision in the grief of his friend and willingly would accept the consequences, he just wanted to see you one last time. you never visited him in the shackling prison, he understood and came to terms with it - even when he was forcefully reborn he didn't expect you to visit him and his only solace came from jing yuan who would inform him of how you were doing.

you had stayed with jing yuan ever since and now the express was docked at the luofu, dan heng couldn't help bit indulge himself and see the two of you. he wasn't imbibitor lunae. he wasn't your lover nor a friend but he hoped that you'd allow him a moment of peace, a moment to see how you were fairing after all these years. it was no surprise that he found you in a more isolated spot on the luofu - especially since he could faintly remember a place like this in his dreams. and there he could find you with jing yuan.

it was a bittersweet reunion, if it could even be called that. jing yuan showed some friendly intentions but he knew who it wasn't, and would soon return to his place were his head rested on your shoulder so he could rest once again. you didn't care that it wasn't imbibitor lunae, you knew this would be the closest chance you had to seeing him and this opportunity wouldn't escape. dan heng was rather pleased to know you hadn't changed much and he could practically feel a weight lifting from his chest just by being in your presence, he could also feel the lack of sleep overcome him.

soon enough you had your lover and your other lover's reincarnation rested comfortably by your side. for a moment you could convince yourself that nothing had happened, nobody had gotten exiled and no relationships were destroyed. in this fleeting moment you could cast aside your hesitations to start humming a small tune, you always had the habit of doing so back in the day when you were absolutely certain they were both asleep - you weren't exactly confident with your skills. you could easily lose yourself in the moment and finally be able to really imagine that this was how it used to be.

that would be up until jing yuan woke from his brief slumber to you serenading the both of them. immediately, you stopped and tried hiding your face in embarrassment at being caught serenading them only for jing yuan to stop you. the small commotion managed to drag dan heng out of the first peaceful sleep he had in ages and he was immediately informed by jing yuan that you had been serenading them - your hands flew up to your face in pure embarrassment as jing yuan chucked softly beside you. dan heng melted slightly at the pure idea that you still harboured something to him even if it wasn't him. maybe just maybe he could drop the pretences and enjoy his time with you and jing yuan.

akutasoda's 1k event

#↪♡akutasoda's 1k event ♡ #—stellaronhvnters. #🍵 anon↩ #x reader #x gender neutral reader #hsr x reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr jing yuan #honkai star rail jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #honkai star rail dan heng #hsr dan heng #dan heng x reader

[i-fucking-hate-ppl]

Sup mah dude! I've just finished binge reading your HH hcs and I freaking love them! ✨ If you're still taking requests, may I get how getting married with our demon boi Alastor would be like? From what lead him to deciding he was gonna marry our reader, how he proposes, what's the marriage gonna be like, etc., etc. And if you can, maybe include how our other main characters would react? Thank you for blessing us ❤️✌️

Wassup! I hope you enjoy this fluffy bundle of fluff!

Alastor decided he was going to marry you the moment he came to term with his feelings. He hasn't even thought about courting anyone since, well he was alive! Even then it was mostly to please his dear mother!

He can't recall a time he's ever felt this way about anyone before, and if he was ever going to marry someone he knew it'd be you.

Of course he's a gentlemen though, he won't start with that. No no no, it simply won't do.

He'll test it out first. Make sure you two are actually compatible. It'll be a few years before he starts asking subtle hints about what you like it rings, like certain cuts or perhaps gold vs silver, ring size.

To be safe you don't know, he'll buy you a ring for you birthday to throw you off.

And once he's done browsing and has found the most perfect, stunning ring he'll propose.

He'll make sure it's your anniversary to once again throw you off, and take you out to the best restaurant. He'll make sure to plan quite a few activities, and at the end he'll take you for a walk. Of somewhere private and most importantly quiet with the most beautiful view you could possibly find in hell.

He'll find the perfect opportunity to step back, while you're distracted by the site seeing to kneel and just wait patiently for you to turn around.

And the moment you say yes he's up and slipping that ring on your finger with a peck to your forehead.

-

Charlie was flabbergasted. She didn't think Alastor would ever, in a million years, propose and get married. Although that didn't stop her excitement. She's quick to congratulate you two and squeeze you both in a big old hug!

Vaggie really couldn't care less, she was shocked but just doesn't care as much. Giving a smile congratulations and a smile. She does wonder if you have magical, voodoo love spells or something though..

Angel Dust most certainly said something inappropriate and is now trying to fight off a pissy Alastor during all the congrats.

Sir Pentious is just "Really? That's who you want to marry? For the rest of your life that's who you want to be stuck with? I'm not judging.. but I'll be praying for you dear!"

Husk gives no fucks, he tried warning you and you ignored him. It'll be your own bad decision he already made his. No congrats either.

Nifty is jittery and beyond excited. Talking and asking questions a mile per minute. Climbing all over you while she does. She also can't believe Alastor will be married, what is your secret to a bad boy's heart! Tell. Her.

-

The wedding is most certainly in cannibal town, it's the place close to Alastor's heart. It reminds him so much of his era in life, honestly can't imagine the wedding taking place anywhere else.

He would prefer if the wedding was more traditional, such as you wearing a white dress/tux. But if you would prefer a dress/tux of a different color he will be willing to bend since he wants you to be just as happy as he will be.

He'll also want it to be very, very small. Just a few people.

He will try to do most of the work so you don't have to worry about anything.

Rosie will most certainly be the wedding officiant, she got certified just for him! She didn't expect an Ace in the hole such as Alastor to ever get married and is beyond excited to do this for him!

Zestial is his best man, and the rest of his best "men" are Husk (who was most certainly forced to be there) and Nifty.

He didn't care who you chose as your best, as long as it wasn't Lucifer.

He'll most certainly go for a red and black theme and hope you agree.

The flowers would be deep red roses with black lilies, with a small touch of pink roses just to brighten it a bit.

Cake would most certainly be yellow, with black frosting and deep red frosting roses on it, decorated beautifully.

He'd pretty much make sure the whole wedding was perfect and beautiful. Just for you.

Zestial will be walking you down if your Father isn't in hell. He doesn't want you to walk alone down the aisle!

His vows would be

"You know dear, you are very special to me. There isn't a single soul in heaven or hell that could possibly make me feel the way I do for you. You're one in a million! A random, wild chance that I will never take for granted! The first and only one that could ever warm my heart! I promise that I will always take care of you and protect you until the very end! A promise that will never be broken, forever and always my darling."

He'll make sure no one can see the sealing kiss, but he most certainly seals that shit. You are his now, always.

Zestial will also act as your father for the first dance and give you away to Alastor after as well, if your Father isn't present. Just to keep things traditional and make you happy.

Of course the music is played from a radio and of course it's mostly Jazz.

After it's all said and done and you're home, Alastor might feel the very rare want to have sex. But if not he'll hold you close and read to you from one of your favorite books without his radio static. He'll have tea and snacks on the side table for you to enjoy as you listen to him speak. If you doze off he'll change you into some pajamas and lay down you down in bed before getting ready and laying with you and holding you close.

Then it will be your turn to plan the honeymoon, he will let you have free reign to decided where you'd like to go and what you would like to do and only give input if you ask for it.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor fluff #alastor x reader

[agi-ppangx]

stranger (hwang hyunjin x gn!reader)

angst, hurt without comfort, break up, reader is in shambles

an: that's definitely not my best work so im really sorry for any mistakes >< nonetheless i hope you'll enjoy it, bc in my head the idea was pretty cool :3 also, the paragraphs written in italic are the memories, i dont know if i made it clear enough😭

“yn, don’t make it even harder,” hyunjin whispered as he glanced at your face. you must’ve looked truly pathetic - the tears were making their way down your red, puffy face and you were sobbing loudly. you couldn’t believe what had just happened - did he really break up with you or was it just a bad dream?

“hyune- baby, please, i-” you stuttered, gasping for air in between sobs.

“i’ve made my decision. goodbye, yn.” with that he closed the door, leaving you on the floor of your apartment. your vision was blurry and you were too weak to even get up. that day you fell asleep on the floor by the entrance, foolishly hoping that hyunjin would come back to you.

you recalled the memory, stepping out of the shower. it was the first time in a week when you decided to take care of yourself after hyunjin broke up with you. it’d been a hard week, but you couldn’t remember much anyway. the only thing you knew was the pain in your chest as if your heart was ripped from your body.

you didn’t bother to put on any clothes or to brush your damp hair since you headed straight to bed. you dropped your tired, achy body on the messy beddings and you shivered. it’d been raining for the past few days and you wondered if the sun had peeked into your bedroom through the curtains and told the clouds to match your mood so you wouldn’t feel lonely. you curled yourself into a ball, placing your hands on your shoulders as the raindrops pattered softly on your window. tap, tap, tap, the rhythm of the rain made your finger move faintly against your shoulder and suddenly the memories flooded your brain.

you felt someone tapping your shoulder and you yelped, blushing instantly as you realised you made too much noise in the library.

“sorry! sorry, i just-” the boy started hesitantly, whisper-yelling the apology. “are going to use that book?” he pointed to the textbook you were holding firmly in your hands. you nodded.

“oh, okay, sorry for bothering you!” he said with a frown and started walking away.

“wait! you can join me if also need it,” you suggested with a shy smile and he stopped in his tracks, turning around to you with a grin.

your hand wandered down your body, stopping at the waist. you squeezed it once, just like hyunjin used to do. a few tears made their way down your face.

“we passed!” hyunjin exclaimed as he ran to you with a piece of paper in his hand. you grinned at him as he stopped right in front of you, proudly showing you his score.

“congrats, hyune! are you going to-” you started but never finished as he suddenly grabbed your waist and picked you up, spinning you around, and you giggled. when he put you down he still firmly held your waist with one hand, squeezing it.

“let’s go and eat something, hm? my treat,” he said and you just smiled, letting him lead the way.

you squeezed your eyes, loud sobs now leaving your body as you remembered how happy you two used to be together. the rain outside intensified, turning into a downpour, and it made you feel even worse. “stop crying” you thought. “show the sun you’re okay so the clouds won’t have to suffer anymore.”

you moved your hand to wipe your wet cheek, but you just rested it there, suddenly remembering how hyunjin used to cradle your face.

“look, i can hold the whole world in my hands,” he whispered, looking you deeply in the eyes as his hands held your cheeks. you blushed and playfully hit him in the arm.

“stop being cheesy,” you whined, dropping your eyes because hyunjin’s gaze was too piercing for you. he giggled at your words and kissed your forehead.

“i just really love you, you know?” he then said and you hid your red face in the crook of his neck, breathing his cologne and relaxing completely as his arms protected you from the outside world. in that moment you felt complete.

a long wail left your body. it hurt, it hurt so much you thought you weren’t going to make it. what was left for you anyway? there was no one who could hug you after a long day, no one who could wait for you with warm dinner, no one who loved you.

you brought your hand to your hair, desperately trying to comb through them as hyunjin used to whenever you felt too overwhelmed. you grazed your nails on your scalp, imitating his movements, but it only increased the pain. you didn’t know how to treat yourself anymore - you gave all of you to hyunjin and as he left he took your heart with him, leaving you with the void that nothing and no one could ever fill again.

you wrapped your arms around your body again, squeezing yourself as hard as you could, but you soon realised only hyunjin could embrace you tightly enough for all the broken parts of you to fall back into place. with the day he left you you became a stranger to yourself.

taglist !

@lynlyndoll @iyenbread @flooo71 @skz-streamer @inniescandy-01 @hannahhbahng @prettymiye0n @ggsez31 @laylasbunbunny @like-a-diamondinthesky @axel-skz @kittymaryam-thebrowniefairy @l3visbby @skzhoes

#skz #stray kids #stray kids headcanons #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz au #stray kids scenarios #stray kids angst #skz hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #stray kids hyunjin #hyunjin scenarios #hyunjin angst #hwang hyunjin imagines #hyunjin headcanons

[nahoney22]

Some fluff/comfort with Crosshair? Where m!reader had a tough mission and was having an overall bad day? Also congrats on 4000!! :D

Certainty

M!Reader X Crosshair

word count: 1k

After a mission went sour, you’re left feeling deflated. So when Crosshair finds you training by yourself, he’s there to offer you a piece of advice.

warnings: fluff/comfort fic, can be read as romantic or platonic, reader has bad day, hugs, target practice, male reader.

authors note: sorry for the wait and thank you for the request! Enjoy 🩵

You gazed out into the endless expanse of hyperspace from the confines of the Marauder, the events of the mission replaying incessantly in your mind, particularly your own costly mistake. What should have been a routine shot spiraled into a domino of problems, turning what was supposed to be a simple mission into a desperate struggle. The weight of responsibility weighed heavily on you, and you couldn't shake the feeling of self-blame.

Already in a foul mood, the day had started with a spill of caf on your equipment, followed by Hunter's impatient reminders to hurry up cleaning your things as the rendezvous loomed closer.

“How long until we touch down?” you inquired, turning to Tech who manned the ship.

“I would estimate around 1 hour and 27 minutes. Why do you ask?” he replied, seemingly oblivious to your tense demeanor.

“Could you wake me when we're about to land? I need to focus on some training,” you requested, receiving a simple nod in response. With that, you made your way to your bunk, passing by Crosshair who stood against the ship's wall. Though he glanced up as you approached, you chose to bypass him without a word.

His frown followed you as you exited, prompting him to eventually make his way to Tech in the cockpit. “What's his issue?”

Tech turned to face his brother, a knowing expression etched on his features. “It seems he's frustrated with how today's mission unfolded. Your decision to let him take the shot likely added to his distress.”

Crosshair shrugged nonchalantly. “He wanted to. I trust his abilities. Besides, we've faced tougher challenges before.”

“True,” Tech agreed, recalling a particularly harrowing mission on Kashyyyk that ended in disaster before refocusing on the current issue. “But he has not been with us long enough to experience setbacks like this one.”

Crosshair sighed, crossing his arms. “I'll talk to him once we land.”

“That's a good plan, especially since he's planning on training,” Tech suggested, returning his attention to the ship's controls. With a deft press of a button, he guided the Marauder out of hyperspace. “Perhaps you should help him.”

As instructed, Tech had roused you from your brief nap, prompting you to gather your rifle, gear, and a few props before venturing out of the ship and into a remote area. Unbeknownst to you, someone trailed closely behind.

Upon reaching a clearing devoid of civilisation, you arranged some old canteens on a fallen log for target practice. After positioning yourself at what you deemed an optimal distance and crouching behind a sizable boulder for cover, you took aim and fired, only to miss. Frowning at the initial failure, you attempted another shot, only to repeat the same outcome. Your frustration mounted with each subsequent miss, leading to a barrage of shots that seemed to hit everything except the intended targets.

Cursing aloud, you impulsively kicked the boulder, immediately regretting the action as pain shot through your toes. "What did that boulder ever do to you?" remarked Crosshair, his familiar voice breaking the tense silence as he entered the clearing, observing your outburst and string of missed shots.

"Hi Crosshair," you grumbled, earning a low chuckle from him as you settled atop the boulder, nursing your injured toes.

Crosshair stood before you, tilting his head curiously as he watched your frustration. "How are your toes?" he inquired.

"Sore," you replied, wincing at the discomfort before meeting his gaze. "And my aim? Terrible. I don't understand. I'm usually a good shot. You've seen me shoot, but I've never missed this much before."

Crosshair remained silent for a moment before retrieving a toothpick from a pouch and casually placing it in his mouth. "Are you stressed?" he asked simply.

You pondered his question briefly before shaking your head. While it had been a rough day, you couldn't fathom how it would affect your performance to this extent. "Not that I'm aware of," you admitted, absently brushing dust off your knee. "Though today's mission was a disaster."

Crosshair shrugged nonchalantly. "It's not uncommon for missions to go awry. Your body can move and your brain is working so I’d consider that a win."

You chuckled softly, feeling a fondness for Crosshair as his presence always seemed to complement yours perfectly. "I guess. I just can't shake the feeling that I could've accidentally hurt someone."

"But you didn't," he countered, seizing your rifle. "So try again."

You blinked at the command in his gaze before reluctantly rising to your feet, bracing yourself for another potential failure.

As you lined up your shot, Crosshair subtly adjusted your position, his touch both unfamiliar and strangely comforting. "Relax. Only shoot when you're certain. Don't hesitate," he advised, his words echoing in your mind as you prepared to take aim once more.

Despite feeling the weight of his expertise bearing down on you, you focused on his guidance. But just as you were about to pull the trigger, Crosshair whispered in your ear, "Breathe," before stepping back and watching.

You blocked out the distractions, following his advice. Breathe. Relax. Wait for certainty. And when you finally took the shot, the satisfying clang of a canteen being hit filled the clearing.

"I did it!" you exclaimed triumphantly.

Crosshair smirked, twirling his toothpick between his fingers. "Told you so. You just need to shoot when you know it's right. Don't freeze up. Wait until you're certain."

His lesson resonated with you, and with newfound confidence, you lined up your shots again, hitting each target with precision.

Grinning, you leaned your rifle against the boulder and approached Crosshair. "Thank you, Crosshair."

"No need," he replied dismissively, but you couldn't resist wrapping your arms around his slender frame, surprising him momentarily before he reciprocated with a gentle hand on your back, offering a small smile. "If you ever need more practice, you know where to find me."

More Crosshair Works

Masterlist

Tags: @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @captxin-rex @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet t @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @chrissywakingup @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 7 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @lulalovez @green-alm0nd @kryptoknight123

#crosshair x m!reader #nahoney22 writes #crosshair x reader #the bad batch crosshair x reader #crosshair x you #tbb crosshair x reader #the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #bad batch crosshair x reader

[valmare]

Alrighty, I'm going there. For the previously discussed Cyclone thoughts ;).

If you'd like, could I please get Beau Simpson with "Get over here and let me touch you?"

Congrats on 100+ followers, love! You deserve it! :D

Stix, my love! Oh boy, this was a challenge! I wanted to do something a little diffierent with this prompt. It's a little fluffy, a little sexy, and something I think may be one of my favorite blurbs of this entire challenge. Enjoy, babe, and thanks for following!

Only the Pretty Ones

It’s a little after ten when the cold blast of the Hard Deck’s AC chases sticky humidity off your skin, and for a second all you can feel is relief as you step through the doors into the absolutely charged atmosphere of the Navy bar. 

Bodies are everywhere. Twisting in dances, tied up in one another, others standing around nursing drinks; more lingering at the bar, trying to catch glimpses of the pretty bartender that’s subbing for Penny Benjamin tonight. More move about the pool tables and dart boards, loud and welcoming, and your general consensus in the room is that not only does Penny run a tight ship, but everyone seems to generally be having a decent time. 

Low, glowing light in the place is a decision that’s common for bars like this, and whether or not it’s intended to hide sins really isn’t the concern as you step aside from the door, eyes scanning the pulse of the room as your heart picks up behind your ribs just a tick, matching the energy of the room. 

The back of your mouth needs a drink as your eyes track around the room. You bristle when the thick, rough hand finds the small of your back, which is exposed in the backless sundress you’ve been wearing all afternoon. Mostly from the sunburn that’s fevered your skin, but also because it’s sexy as sin. 

The Kinks kick on over the sound system at the exact moment he gently shuffles you away from the busyness of the bar’s door, hand still at the small of your back. His mouth brushes against the soft skin of your temple, raising goosebumps down your arms. Blinking, you gently let your head angle to the side as his hands find your hips, holding you gently in place. 

“Gin and tonic?” The seasoned gruff in his voice is sinful, your breath catching in the back of your throat. You can feel the smile spread across his mouth, which is still brushing your temple, and he inhales a full breath of the perfume you’re wearing. 

He thinks he knows you so well. He does, really, but you suppose that comes with a year of seeing each other. But, Beau Simpson is smug about these kinds of things, mostly because he’s a cocky son of a bitch that sits on a horse higher than any of the damn pilots he commands probably could ever fly. 

But it’s not really in a bad way—or at least, from what you’ve ever witnessed. Men under his command would swear he’s the antichrist, but all you’ve ever really witnessed from Cyclone is an insane amount of confidence, with a bit of selfishness peppered in here and there unless corrected. He’s not really the heartless cocksucker everyone makes him out to be—he’s rough around the edges, steadfast and calculating, but not mean spirited. He’s actually about the most understanding and upstanding man you’ve ever dated—something attributed to the fact that he’s nearly two decades older than you. 

On the whole he’s an entirely different man around you, and you’ve witnessed how he treats those under his rank. You don’t know much about the military, but you know about the nature of pilots and the firm hand they require— so you assume it’s a persona thing. 

“Cyclone” is someone he has to be, for the sake of his job—but Beau Simpson, when he walks through the door of his immaculate house in Mission Beach, is someone else entirely. 

At least, to you. 

You’d met him not long after his divorce, in the most cliche, Hollywood way possible—you’d blown a tire on the I-15, after a long three days traveling, and your spare was flat, probably just to spite you. As a capable young woman living independently in California, changing a tire was not the end of the world and was something you had managed to handle yourself before. 

Defeated at the flat, you’d resigned yourself to calling a tow truck and waiting out rush hour on the side of the freeway right when the biggest Ford F-250 you’d ever seen merged onto the shoulder, hazards flashing, and Beau Simpson had stepped out of the cab in all of his six foot glory. 

Broad shouldered, sunkissed, and sporting the classic aviators that seemed to be a staple personality to the pilots at Top Gun, he’d jogged over to you and asked if you needed any help. He couldn’t be any more military in his khakis, that hugged his perfect form just so, and you’d nearly stood there agog when he popped into a squat to check your rim, his ass perfectly filling the uniform pants in ways that the military should be ashamed of. 

Offering to give you a ride with a smile and a handshake, he slid the glasses up into his hair. Sunlight set off the fiercest green eyes you’d thought possible in a human being, and they had nearly sparkled with intelligence and his dry humor. Suddenly sweating, feeling every inch of the four hours of sleep you’d managed the night before and small, you’d accepted his offer of a ride on the pretense that he didn’t murder you with an ax and bury you at some military training facility. 

It was a flat joke, you realized, probably insulting and insanely stupid. You’d been kicking yourself in the ass as you ducked into the passenger side to grab your purse and the luggage you’d been lugging across the world, thinking that this was the most awful scenario to end the worst trip ever, but he’d started laughing and had been genuinely amused by the joke. 

Insisting he help you with your gear, he’d hiked the duffle bag onto his shoulder and winked, nodding to the F-250 with an amused smirk. “Would you like a background check?” Luggage still balanced on his shoulder, his arm moments from ripping out of his uniform sleeve, he’d popped the door on the truck, offered his hand, and helped you into his beast of a machine. 

You’d smiled, trying to fight the color on your face. “Make it a habit to pick up women on the I-15, do you,—” you’d glanced at the decorum on his breast, unable to make heads or tails of it, and he’d noticed.  “— oh, shoot—” you hadn’t realized any attempt at a comeback had unraveled, making you sound one hundred and fifteen percent ridiculous. 

He’d just laughed. “I’m a Vice Admiral, but you just call me Beau,” he’d adjusted the pack on his shoulder, but you doubted he felt any of the weight at all, “And I only stop for the pretty ones, honey.” His wink had started the long line of nails in your proverbial coffin, your gut freefalling into your knees. 

He’d tossed your stuff in the box like it didn’t weigh the 42 pounds the airport had charged you for. Batting the door closed with his gargantuan hand, he’d jogged around the front of the pickup and eased himself up into the cab like it was nothing. 

Leaving your car on the interstate as you drove away with a complete stranger, iPhone in hand the entire time, looking back, had been the biggest concern for your day. But, really, Beau had offered to tow your car home once he picked up some ropes, and from there the rest was history. 

You’d offered to pay him and he had strongly refused. Instead he’d asked for your number, in that masculine and old-fashioned way, if you were comfortable with it—that stupid little Camry that had broken down on the side of the road had been the beginning of the rest of your life. 

Like a true flirt, you’d plucked the pen from his breast pocket, and scrawled your name and number on the back of his hand as if this was 1986 and cell phones weren’t even a thing. Unable to remember the time you’d actually had to remember a phone number, it had come as naturally as breathing. It shouldn’t have, but it did. 

“Consider us even then, Admiral,” he’d stepped through the door, into your space, his six foot self towering you in the best way possible. Staring down into your face, mere inches from sharing air, he’d plucked the pen from between your fingers with a little smirk. “Thanks for all your help. I really appreciate it. Are you sure you won’t take any money?” 

He’d chuckled and it had punched you right in that sensitive little place that didn’t get nearly enough of the right attention. Lowering his hand between the two of you, he’d pointed a finger at the number you’d printed on the back of his hand, his smile slow and calculating as it split his lips. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am. This right here is the best payment a man could ask for.” Without anything more, he’d marched out of your doorway back to his pickup, leaving you and your clunky little Camry in his heady wake. 

More than promptly you’d taken a cold shower, unsure if you were thrilled or regretting giving him your number. 

It had taken him three days to text you back. Wondering if it had been on purpose you’d nearly pounced at the phone to respond back to his invitation to take you to dinner to a place not on the cheap—at all. It required heels and a dress, at the very least, and Beau was actually going to pick you up in that sexy ass pickup you hadn’t stopped dreaming about since it had merged onto the shoulder. 

Not really thinking twice, and really not caring if it was appropriate or not, you’d said yes—and he’d picked you up on a Friday and taken you to the grandest dinner ever. Everything about Beau Simpson was so very unlike any of the last dates you’d been on in the year before he’d entered your life, and that was probably because he was a man, not one of the drop-crotch pants wearing soft boy’s Tindr tried to hook you up with. 

His hands firming up around your waist send a bolt of pleasure down your spine. Brushing against his firm chest, you turn in his hands to kiss the corner of his mouth lightly, reaching on toes to whisper into his ear, “You find us a table with that intimidating death stare of yours, and I’ll grab the booze,” before slipping away to make for the bar. 

Laughing and shaking his head as you split up, you’re weedling your way up to the bar right at the moment the bartender turns to acknowledge you. She’s nobody you know, but she’s about your age, complete with blond hair pulled back into a braid and the wildest makeup you didn’t think existed off the red carpet. 

You ordered a Whiskey Sour with Woodford for Beau and your usual Gin and Tonic, resting your forearms on the bar’s surface as your foot lifted to the foot rail running the length of the walnut bar. Setting to work immediately on your drinks, it took less than a minute for a familiar face to recognize you, sliding into the spot at your right with a bright, goofy smile on his face. 

“Well look who it is,” his soft greeting welded your attention to him nearly immediately, and your face split into a wide grin as he leaned heavily on his arm. “Hello, ma’am.” 

Every one of the Top Gun aviators that pass in and out of Cyclone’s base had resorted to calling you “ma’am,” since that unfortunate mishap with Omaha last year. The poor soul had thought you were a pretty little thing sitting alone at this very bar, and had taken it upon himself to buy you a drink. Not knowing that Beau was meeting you here, he'd nearly died why Cyclone had chased him off with that sour expression of his.

“Bob Floyd,” you reached across to lightly punch his shoulder, “it’s good to see you! I heard you got papers to come back! When’d you get in?” He smiles at you in that sheepishly small way, a little flush rising to his cheeks when he realizes people have taken notice of your clear, loud voice drawing attention to him. 

“Yesterday morning,” he nods and lifts a shoulder, “it’s good to be back. Texas is great, but it’s nice seeing friends again. How’re you?” Bob Floyd is probably the sweetest human being that’s ever come through Top Gun, something that even Beau has confirmed—it’s no surprise he’s one of the best back seaters out there. 

“And Nat? Is she here?” 

He nods across the bar, to the pool tables–your gaze follows to find the pretty brunette laughing it up with some unfamiliar faces you don’t recognize, but know are one of Beau’s classes at the base. She’s beautiful, hasn’t changed a bit despite the fact she’d married last spring. You and Beau had flown to Miami for the wedding, a gorgeous affair that was small and close-knit. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Bob asks, gesturing to you with a hand. It isn’t presumptuous and he isn’t niggling his way into good graces—Bob is just a gentleman. He’s more of a little brother than anything, you couldn’t imagine anything more serious with Floyd, and you shake your head no after scrunching up your nose a little. 

“Nah, you save your money for a pretty girl—I’ve got all the money I need, somewhere around here.” you pat his hand on the bar good naturedly as the bartender nudges the two drinks to you with her knuckles, you registering them with a nod and asking to put them, and whatever Bob will order, on a tab, “I should go find Cyclone, but it was great seeing you back in Cali, Floyd. Happy Friday!” You raise the drinks, stepping back from the bar. 

“Good seeing you too,” he pushes off the bar as the bartender slides him a bottle of Grain Belt, and salutes lightly off his brow with a nod, “Say hi to the Admiral for me,” he calls forward, and you beam a bright smile to him before winking and turning on the heel of your wedge. 

Sliding between bodies moving to and fro about the floor, you find Beau has secured a booth in the back, near the TouchTunes machine. Lord he cuts a fine figure, even if he’s starting to gray a little at the temples. For a man his age, for a man in general, you’re usually always a breath from salivating at his feet when he even dares to speak to you. That much hasn’t changed in a year. 

His arm is draped back against the booth as he watches people, sunglasses and his well set aside on the surface of the table. Fingers drumming, he catches you in the crowd, the corner his mouth ticking up as he doesn’t even try to hide the once-over he takes of your body. Smirking at him as you approach, he shifts a little in the booth as you plunk the drink in front of him. 

“Woodford, the way you like it,” you chime, and he thanks you with a low and raspy “baby,” tacked on at the end that makes your gut flop. Taking a slow sip of the Gin and Tonic that’s sweating between your fingers, you angle your head towards the bar. 

“You’ll never guess who I saw at the bar, who I am only a little pissed you didn’t tell me was in town,” you whine teasingly, about to sit across from him. He shakes his head, sits up in the booth, and gestures for you to slide in next to him. 

“Get over here and let me touch you,” he orders teasingly, crooking his finger for you to come. You set the drink on the table and he moves it beside his own before asking, brow lifted in interest, “Now who was at the bar?” 

“Bob Floyd,” you slide into the booth, your side brushing up against his as you scooch under his arm, “I wish you would’ve told me they were coming, Beau. I’d have switched dinner with Warlock and his wife to have them over. I want to hear all about Nat’s time in D.C.” 

“Sorry, baby,” he presses a kiss on top of your head, “I’ll remember next time.” 

“The hell you will,” you try to sound serious, but his snort only makes you giggle. 

You heave a deep sigh, thankful the week is over and that you can indulge in the throbbing headache of this place, your favorite place in Miramar to spend Friday night when the pilots are young, clumsy, and drunk. Watching them is a passtime, like dinner and a show, and oftentimes you and Beau commentate on the scenes you witness—thankful it isn’t you, trying to swim in a sea of crotch-twitching blowhards that don’t know the first thing about what a girl like yourself is looking for. 

The two of you come here a lot, it holds great memories—this was the joint where Beau had first kissed you. Your third date, you’d been dancing and had absolutely killed him in pool in front of Warlock and the rest of the brass. Face flushed with one too many screwdrivers and your fill of greasy appetizers, you’d stumbled outside for fresh air, ready to call an Uber to take you home. 

Then you’d been stupid, not realizing that Beau Simpson would be escorting you home every single night you ventured out with him. He’d followed you outside, asked you what was up, and had plucked your phone from your hand right as you’d opened the app to snag a ride. Not drunk or over the limit by any means, you were just a lightweight, and hated driving past midnight—and it was 2AM, close to last call. 

Standing so close to you, smelling like cologne and whiskey and ocean, he’d slipped his fingers through your hair and told you he’d never let you go home with some stupid yahoo Uber driver who drove too fast and ogled too much. 

Snorting out a laugh, you’d tried to shove him back playfully, but his hand had somehow perfectly fallen along your cheek, his fingers soft despite the fact he had a true man’s hands—his thumb had brushed the seam of your lips. 

And even to this day, your heart had never thrummed harder in your chest as it had when you realized he’d wanted to kiss you. Eyes tracking your mouth, he’d hesitated only a moment, his chest brushing yours in a way that set off a nuclear bomb in your gut. Electricity had jumped up your arm, and you’d bit the bottom of your lip nervously, before leaning the rest of the way in and standing on your toes to brush your mouth against his. 

He’d kissed you, like all the books and movies and songs talked about—slow, deeply, it had started off soft and tentative, like he wanted to make sure it was right, and that he was reading you properly. It didn’t take long for you to sigh into his mouth and reassure him that yes, he was divine and yes, this is what you wanted. At lightspeed, he’d deepened the kiss, his arms wrapped so thick around your middle that you could’ve sworn he would snap you in two. 

You’d liked to say it was the best kiss you’d ever shared with someone, but somehow, Cyclone seemed to leave you breathless each and every time you dared to kiss him. That night was the first of many make out sessions that had left you reeling and heady—where Beau Simpson had learned how to kiss you didn’t know, but your ovaries were immensely grateful for it, even if they were on fire each and every time he simply looked at you. 

Beau’s thumb slowly slides up and down your bicep in that lazy, pleasurable way he knows you love. Finger spinning along the rim of your glass, you watch the ice float in your cocktail, counting the beats of his heart as the silence grows between the two of you. It’s comfortable, just sitting like this, and you rest your other hand on his thigh, tracing his muscle through the denim of his jeans. 

Lifting your hand off his thigh, he interlaces his fingers with yours, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. Your head leans back against his shoulder and you watch him brush his mouth along your knuckles, the stubble of his five o’clock shadow delightful against your fingers. 

Figuring you could say the rest of your life like this, drinking on a beach, pressed up against him so perfectly, you don’t expect his heavy eyes to land on yours so quickly, looking so deep and rich as he tracks the features of your face. 

“I want to talk to you about something,” he says smoothly, his voice low, whether from the whiskey or the look he’s giving you you aren’t sure, “but I’m not quiet sure what you’re going to think about what I have to say.” Oh, boy—the mind games. 

One of the things you loved and hated about Cyclone was the way he set you up for a conversation. He had an intelligence that you’d never really quite figured out, which was probably why he was a phenomenal Vice Admiral and in charge of important people. Beau saw through situations, and people, like they were invisible, and he always had the right thing to say—even if it wasn’t always the textbook “right” answer. 

Very often he played this game, forcing you to think a few steps ahead of him, which was hard. 

“There you go assuming you think you know what I’m going to say before I say it,” you shoot back at him, your tone lifting a little to take some of the weight out the statement, “You should really stop doing that, Cy. It makes you look like an ass.” 

He shrugged a shoulder, his smile slow and deliberate. “I’m man enough to admit I’m an ass, when the situation calls for it,” he reaches for his short glass, knocks back a rough drink, and scooches it aside. “But I’m pretty sure my reservations are valid—you could go either hot or cold on this one, sweetheart.”

“Maybe you should stop making assumptions and just tell me what’s on your damn mind, Simpson.” Mildly irritated he’s taken this this far, you gently shove off his chest to sit up against the booth, angling to face him with an elbow resting against the back of the booth. 

Head plunking in your hand, you watch him smiling crookedly at the hang of your dress in this position, before snapping your fingers between the two of you. “Well, spill your guts, Admiral. I’m listening.” Your fingers drop from the cocktail glass to drum on the surface of the table, brow popped curiously. 

His eyes skip over you and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows a breath, before his thick hand scrubs down the length of his face. His cheeks pop as he puffs out a heavy breath, sitting forward just a little at the table. Elbows propped on the surface, he rubs around his mouth before looking sidelong over at you, eyes dragging for a beat to the cleavage showboating over the top of your dress—it was intentional, this was a new bra, and you’d absolutely almost died at how perfect it had made your tits look at the boutique. 

Your gaze pulls his back up. Nothing but heartbeats and moving air is between you, and the blaring music of what sounds like Elvis in coming from the speakers, but it’s almost wholly inaudible as you take a sharp pull of the Gin and Tonic. Unable to miss the heat rising on Beau’s face, your gut takes a nosedive into your knees—something was wrong. Simpson was never this reserved, this nervous, in the year you’ve been dating. 

A man like him has little to worry about—his career is locked in, he’s gorgeous and financially stable, no kids to worry about at home. He’s got a rock steady relationship with a woman who adores him and would throw herself in front of a bus for him. The perfect truck, a phenomenal house that’s almost paid for, men and women who respect him in the Navy— it’s nothing but blue skies for Beau Simpson, or so it seems. 

“Beau,” you challenge, your brow dropping seriously, “what’s up with you? Is something wrong?” 

The smile splitting his lips is instant, and he chortles, shaking his head a little. “No, nothing is wrong,” he sits back sharply, lifting his hips off the booth for a second before his hand dives into the pocket of his jeans. “I guess that really just depends on you, honey.” 

You barely notice him drop something to the table, his half-lidded look at you entirely too hot for this early in the evening. He sits forward, gaze dropping to track whatever’s in his hands. Blowing out another huge, steadying breath, he opens his palms and plunks a little blue box, wrapped in that iconic white bow, on the table. He’s staring at it like it’s likely to overrun him. 

Your heart is in your throat before it drops to your knees, spinning in ways that has thrown the room simultaneously into a kaleidoscope of colors, and a slow motion picture show. Suddenly there’s just you and Beau Simpson in empty space, the Hard Deck and its crowds and blaring music forgotten, and all you can feel is the rattle of blood between your ears, the racehorse of a heart galloping behind your ribs. 

Your eyes are cemented on that box and that box alone, and you realize you aren’t breathing when you release a squeak of a breath for air. Barely able to remember your own name in the presence of such a small object, you don’t even feel Cyclone reaching for your arm to gently slide you across the seat, back beneath his arm. 

He’s wrapped you in a hug against his chest, both of you just staring at the blue box. Dumbfounded, your lips part and close like a fish out of water, and you swear to God that Beau can either feel your heart throbbing out of your body, or is ready to catch it when it leaps out of your chest. Fairly certain that your heartbeat could power a small city with how hard it’s beating, you swallow a thick, painful breath of air that’s trapped at the back of your throat. 

“See, baby, I never really thought I’d ever be doing this again,” his hand moves to lightly play with the ruffle at the top of your chest, dangerously close to touching the swell of your cleavage that he now has perfect view of, “but I figured since I found the perfect girl, I’d better at least try to get her to marry me before I’m officially old.”

You angle away from his chest to stare into his face, fascinated that this is even a statement that Beau Simpson has wasted breath on. Biting at the corner of your lower lip, the corner of his mouth ticks up into a pleased smile as color fans over your face. He’s chuckling when he touches his forehead to yours, his nose brushing against the tip of yours so perfectly. 

 You manage to squeak, “Beau,” before your eyes track back to the little box. He’s already reaching for it, popping it open with a hand while his other is lifting your left one to the table. A little gasp sneaks out of your throat as your other hand comes to cover your mouth, hoping it’ll help you breathe. 

He doesn’t seem to register that you’re shaking, and even if he does, he says nothing. His lips across across your cheek as he presses a soft kiss to your temple again, easing out a slow, “I’m asking you to marry me, pretty,” you can taste the Woodford on his breath as his arm pulls you a little closer against his chest, “It’s usually customary that you actually say something.”

With that, he rests his chin on the top of your head as he plucks the ring from the little box, guiding it onto your left finger easily, like he’s spent a lifetime doing it. It’s an emerald-cut, haloed in diamonds on what you think is a platinum band, and even the shitty lighting of Penny’s bar makes the thing radiate like the sun. 

It’s perfect on your finger, everything you’d ever imagined an engagement ring to look like. Fisting your hand a little to test its fit, it couldn’t be any more secure on your finger. Somehow it looks like it belongs there, like it’s been there forever—like it was made, exactly, for you. 

Your mind is flopping trying to imagine how much a diamond of this size actually costs before you remember that Simpson is right—that you’re supposed to say something, and actually answer his question. 

But really he should know he doesn’t even have to ask, because your “Yes, yes, of course!” is enunciated what little effort you're exuding to control your sobs. You can’t imagine your makeup is going to withstand a marriage proposal, and you reach for a sharp drink of the Gin and Tonic. 

Beau is laughing as you take the shot of liquid courage, and he pulls the ring to his lips to press a kiss into it, as if it’ll seal the entire deal. Downing the rest of the cocktail, the glass topples over as you practically hurl it back to the tabletop, moving in to press a full, hasty kiss to his mouth. 

Enunciating what feels like a thousand “Yes’” between every breath, he guides you to straddle his massive thigh as you stare down into his face, searching his eyes. You can feel his heart against your breasts, abs that shouldn’t be nearly as hard on a man his age rock solid beneath your hand as your knuckles brush beneath his naval, tantalizingly. 

“I can’t think of anything better than being the Mrs. Cyclone,” your forehead touches his, sweetly, and you kiss the tip of his nose lightly. “Your ex wife is gonna flip out.” 

“I was hoping you’d agree,” he groans a little when you clench against his thigh, the jeans absolutely perfect against the heat of your core. “And we won’t tell Celeste just yet, hm?” 

You giggle, drawing your left hand between the two of you, eyes casting down to the Tiffany ring he’s placed on your finger. “And let me just say, Vice Admiral Simpson—you have one helluva taste in jewelry.” He dares to question if you like it, and you give a firm nod, “Of course I love it,” you draw back enough to wrinkle your nose disgustingly, as if this is even a question, “I’d love it if it was a ring from a quarter gumball machine. Duh.” 

He laughs, head kicking back against the booth to stare down at you lowering to lay against his chest. His hand moves to skip a lazy finger down the length of your spine, gentle enough to mind the sunburn that’s still flaming on your skin. 

“I didn’t think I could love you any more than I do, Cyclone,” you press a kiss to either of his pecks, which are pronounced in the far too tight t-shirt he’s wearing, “but this is a whole new level, baby.” 

“Glad to hear it, honey. That makes me a happy man.” 

#100 followers celebration #100 followers #blurb requests #top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #controlled chaos squad #call sign meerkat #answered asks #i love chickens #top gun imagine #top gun maverick imagine #beau cyclone simpson #beau simpson x reader #cyclone x reader #beau cyclone simpson x reader #beau simpson imagine #beau simpson imagines #top gun imagines #top gun maverick imagines

[cuddles-with-dragons]

a shitload of incorrect quotes

Tech: *clicks pen* Crosshair: *clicks pen in response* Wrecker: Stop that. Tech: Stop what? Wrecker: You’re talking about me in Morse code! Tech: Yes, that’s what we doing. In our very limited time, we took a class on a very outdated, very unnecessary form of communication just so we could talk about you in front of you. Congrats, you figured us out! *later* Crosshair, to Omega: That’s actually exactly what we were doing.

Hunter: What’s something you guys are better than Crosshair at? Wrecker: Mario Kart. Omega: Yeah, all video games except first-person shooters and The Last Of Us. Tech: Emotional vulnerability.

Tech: If you took a shot for every time you made a bad decision, how drunk would you be? Hunter: Maybe a bit tipsy? Echo: Drunk. Wrecker: Wasted. Crosshair: Dead.

Echo, setting down a card: Ace of spades. Tech, pulling out an Uno card: +4. Crosshair, pulling out a Pokémon card: Absol, I choose you! Hunter, trembling: What are we playing?!

Wrecker: What is love? Hunter: An emotional minefield. Tech: A neurochemical reaction. Omega: Baby don't hurt me.

Crosshair: What starts with F and ends with Uck? Echo: No it doesn't. Tech: Firetruck! Omega: FUCK!

Omega: I wish I could control wasps and bees to sting my enemies. Hunter: You’re too young to have enemies. Omega: You don’t even know.

Crosshair: If I die, you can have what little I own. Hunter: Wait. What do you mean "if" you die? Crosshair: My unending existence is fuelled by pure spite, that of which the painful experiences of life have rendered me full. Hunter: Hunter: *Sigh* Let me call your therapist again.

Nexu: I’m not a doctor, I’m a medic. Wrecker: What’s the difference then? Nexu: Well doctors actually save lives, medics just make you feel more comfortable as you die. Crosshair: Note to self; never get shot.

Crosshair: Hand me the people opener. Hunter: ... Hunter: Pardon? Crosshair, annoyed: The people opener! Just hand it to me! Hunter, stressed: WHAT THE FUCK IS A PEOPLE OPENER? Crosshair: How do you not know what a people opener is? Its pointy- you know? With a handle? Hunter: Knife. It's called a knife.

Omega, hugging Crosshair: Do you feel any better? Crosshair: I feel much better now that you're here with me. *Hunter walks in* Crosshair: I feel half better.

Hunter: Would you rather kill Tech, or— Echo: Yes, kill them. Hunter: I didn’t say the other thing— Echo: I don’t need to hear it. Tech: …I’m feeling a little unsafe.

Benji, to cadet Crosshair: Oh my stars you are so cute and small! Crosshair: *proceeds to kick him in the shin and run away* Hunter, walking past: Rule number 1, don't call Crosshair cute or small.

Hunter: Omega is at that very special age where a kid only has one thing on their mind. Crosshair: Murder? Omega: Murder.

Hunter: How high are you? Crosshair: 6'4". Tech: No, he's asking what drugs are you on. Crosshair: Oh, antidepressants, why?

Crosshair: Hey, do you know the password to Hunter’s computer? Omega: Fuck you, Crosshair. Crosshair: Hey!! Omega: No, you misunderstood, the password is "fuckyouCrosshair". Crosshair: Oh, no numbers? Not very safe.

Omega: In my defense, I was left unsupervised. Echo: Wasn’t Crosshair with you? Crosshair: In my defense, I was also left unsupervised.

Tech: I will find us a ride. Tech: If you two can manage to not kill each other while I'm gone. Omega: Oh, please. We're not children. *Tech leaves* Omega, casually: ...Eat shit and die. Crosshair, also casually: Yes, fuck you.

Omega: Are you the big spoon or the little spoon? Crosshair: I'm a knife. Wrecker, from across the room: He's the little spoon.

Crosshair: Fun Fact! The average person will walk by 36 murderers in their lifetime. Echo: I like how this is a "fun" fact. Hunter: It's fun because they didn't decide to murder you.

#the bad batch #tbb crosshair #tbb tech #tbb hunter #tbb wrecker #tbb echo #tbb omega #clone trooper oc #mandalorian oc #so uh benji is a mando that trained commandos on kamino #and nexu is a clone oc of mine #crosshair actually likes hugs but will never admit it

[aclowntiny]

can you plz do first _ with yuyu for example: first kiss, first hand holding, first ily, first date, first puppy etc ><

CONGRATS BTW YKU WORKED SO HARD AND I AM SO PROUD!!!

Ooh I like this I would have never thought of that! So cute 🥺 can't wait to do this with all the members! & thank you sweetie 🥹🥰

Yunho + Firsts (Gender Neutral Reader)

(This picture gives off such out with your bf vibes 🥺)

First Date: He may have asked you out beneath beautiful blossoms, but your first date is at the zoo. He bounces like a puppy at the adorable way the baby pandas roll, holding out his phone for videos. There’s a photo op that gives you panda ears, so of course Yunho pulls you over to it for a shot! You guys probably also get matching gift shop plushies too.

First Time Holding Hands: On your first date! It’s a little step forward in affection for sure, but it feels right even though it happens by accident. It’s a bit of a run to get to the next round of aviary entrances and Yunho really wants to make it, to get a chance to feed the beautiful birds and maybe even have them land on you! In his excitement he grabs your hand, tugging you into his little jog to the pay booth.

First Kiss: You guys have a few dates before the first kiss. Neither of you mind, enjoying each other’s company and valuing that more than anything physical- Yunho makes that clear from the start! He wants that moment to be very traditional and romantic, so he knows the moment will come to him when it’s right. That moment comes at your doorstep after your first nice dinner together, when he tells you what a wonderful time he had, reminds you how beautiful you are, before cupping your cheek lightly and following your leaning lead to connect your lips.

First ‘I Love You’: It isn’t something you do, some concrete action that sets the gears turning in Yunho’s head. It’s just the joy, the sheer completion he feels in your presence, the way you don’t have to do anything to make him smile. Facts about each other fall naturally from both of your lips. So when he sees you all dressed up for an extra nice night out, smiling up to your eyes not at the gifts in his hand, but at him, it only cements his decision. When you ask him why he’s showering you with all that he is, he smiles widely and the answer comes out as easy as it would be to say his own name. “Because I love you, (y/n), that’s why.”

First Fight: In all honesty, it takes a long time for you guys to fight. Yunho isn’t an aggressive or argumentative person, so he doesn’t get angry easily or enjoy picking fights. The argument you guys have is small, but it feels heavier due to being your first fight. He hadn’t been sure if he could make plans of yours and cancelled last minute. You completely understood, but it was still very upsetting so you snapped a little and he shot back. You guys felt terrible and apologized quickly, though, hearts dropping at the thought of hurting the other.

First Anniversary: The first milestone is your hundred days. Yunho goes very classic, taking you out to lunch in the cutest café he could find and gifting you a set of matching couple rings! And playfully swapping them, of course, to see if each one fits both of you! By the look in his eyes as he slides your ring on your finger, you wonder if he’s thinking about another chance he could have to do that a little further down the line…

First Pet: Your first pet is a puppy! We all think of Yuyu as a dog person, and I think this would fully carry through as he muses on wanting a puppy, prompting you to surprise him for Valentine’s Day with the new fluffy baby! It’s important to adopt, not shop, so to get your golden retriever you research a rescue. You know he’s yours the moment you see him, big and wide-eyed as he jumps into your arms. When he came there, it was with a broken leg, and your heart melts at the pictures of him in his little cast. Yunho names him Hero because your little man is a survivor 💛

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez reactions #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #yunho #yunho x reader #yunho x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #fluff #firsts with ateez #ask #txt-yaomi #requested