#C language constructs to C++

[multiversetravelingjournalist]

Some Cults, Cultures, and Cants Conlangs

Keep in mind, that the conlangs for this side project are created in-universe by the influence of mind-bending soul-bonds affecting the minds and languages of those bonded. These are not meant to be realistic in the slightest and exist purely so the creator (me) can come up with language features that have never been witnessed by God nor humans. With that said, let's get into them.

Hestian

As of writing this, Hestian is my most fleshed out conlang. Features include mandatory noun incorporation for nominative nouns, particles put between the modifiers and their noun, and morphemes serving as nouns, adjectives, prepositions, and verbs while having broad meanings, and a small vowel inventory with little to no phonological constraints.

Noxial

The cant of the Sinner Nox and her cult, this conlang concerns itself with death, souls, and hiveminds. Planned features include three sets of first-person pronouns that concern themselves with an individual soul within a vessel, the vessel itself, and the whole collective of harbored souls within all the vessels of the cult, a gender system that distinguishes "things of the living" like weapons, food, toys, and so on and "things of the dead" like souls, murder, revenge, etc.

Astroculese

The cant of Stargazer and her cult, this language has roots of six-to-seven consonants, "past", "present", and "future" noun classes, and unmarked future tense on verbs.

[aeide-thea]

die eigentliche Frage: wie viel Duolingo muss ich noch machen, bevor ich hoffen kann, hier auf Deutsch zu schreiben?

(viel mehr, bevor ich etwas Interessantes sagen kann! aber die Katze sitzt jetzt auf mir, was nicht interessant zu hören, aber ganz angenehm zu erleben ist. 😽)

[instantpansies]

Me Taking a Communications Class with a Bunch of People who Don't Know Linguistics feat. Some of the Worst Takes on the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis I've Ever Heard

[gloomwitchwrites]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP829jLhP/

Hi there ! I accidentally submitted my request without finishing. I wanted to request something with the 141 guys based of the this TikTok. Their kid makes them a note. Them being innocent don’t know what it actually means. It’s cute and funny at the same time.

Hehe. Oh, I love me some dad!141. The idea of their child making a heartfelt card with a swear word in it (and not knowing that it is) is hilarious to me. I had a lot of fun with this, and I hope y'all get a good laugh out of it. Thanks for sending it in!!!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings: foul language, gn!reader, dad!141

Word Count: 400

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

John smiles at the folded pink construction paper in his hands. For Daddy, it reads with lots of hearts. He opens it, expecting to find a cute but poorly written note from his daughter.

He blinks. Bursts out laughing.

In capitalized letters surrounded by hearts is the word cunt.

“Bloody hell,” he chuckles, snapping a photo and sending it to his spouse.

See (c) you next time.

John types out a reply. Did you know?

Tried to suggest something else.

John shakes his head, wheezing with laughter as he clips the cunty card to the side of his file cabinet.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle smiles down at the flip book made of sticky notes on top of his packed lunch.

Settling back in his chair, Kyle starts flipping, watching as a small dot in the middle of the notes widen into a heart. Lines appear, forming words, forming—

“It’s a heart with the word shit in the middle,” he says to you over the phone.

Kyle quickly pulls the phone away from his ear as you fall into a fit of laughter.

You wheeze between giggles. “She asked me to put it in your lunchbox for her.”

“She’s four,” Kyle deadpans.

“I know!”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“What is this?” Simon presents a handmade card. It’s white paper with Daddy on the front in rainbow.

“It’s the note your daughter left in your lunchbox?”

Simon opens it, revealing the message inside.

You burst out laughing. “You’re an ass?” you read out loud, tears forming in your eyes as you choke on your own saliva.

“You find this funny?”

“I do,” you snort. “It’s an acronym. She put periods.”

“Bloody hell,” sighs Simon. “Wonder what it means.”

You slowly slide off the sofa as you cackle. “Get off the floor,” grumbles Simon as you fall onto your back.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Do you see what this says?” Johnny holds up the hastily folded piece of lined paper.

It’s a card from his youngest daughter. A note she put into his lunchbox. You take it. Open it up. Laugh out loud. You turn it around to show him.

Fuck you, Da! it reads with lots of smiley faces and hearts in pink marker.

“What a bloody scoundrel,” mutters Johnny.

“I think she thinks it means something else,” you reply. Johnny groans as you continue to cackle. “I’m putting this on the fridge in a place of honor!”

“Please don’t, love,” mumbles Johnny.

[writingwithcolor]

how to convey arabic language in a specific dialect is being spoken without lengthy descriptions of how words/specific letters are pronounced?

Anonymous asks:

I believe my question revolves around linguistics, but please correct me if there’s something I didn’t take into account. I’m an Egyptian girl who speaks Arabic (the Egyptian dialect specifically), and I am currently writing an urban fantasy set in modern day Egypt. Naturally, the characters would be speaking Egyptian arabic (i even have a scene where my character converses with a tourist and struggles to speak to them ‘in english’)  But as the story is written in english, I found this is really hard to convey, especially with the entirely different alphabet, and the words that simply cannot be transcribed (sometimes in definition, and sometimes in letters that don’t have an equivalent). What would be a good way to send the message that these characters are by no means speaking English (unless stated) without having to hold the reader's hand through lengthy descriptions of how a word is pronounced at every corner?

Hi Anon! This is a tough spot. I’m no expert, just a mod and fellow writer trying to support your fantastic ask. Any bilingual readers, especially other Arabic speakers, feel free to chime in.

1- Disclose they’re speaking Arabic, even though you’re writing in English:

Example A: “Hey, Noor! Wait up,” he said in Arabic. 

Example B: “Habibti, I haven’t seen you in a while,” she reminded me. It was true - I had missed the lilt of her Darija-Moroccan dialect-so different from the Mesri, the Egyptian twang, that rolled off my tongue.

2- Consider using Arabic semantic structure or phrases and idioms used mostly in Arabic.

Example A: She reddened with embarrassment. // They whitened at the sight of it. ((English would probably say she ‘turned red’ rather than reddened, or ‘paled’ rather than whitened. Since Arabic has this natural and fun ability to let color be a verb, which English can but doesn't have naturally - make use of it! It will read differently in English because it’s an Arabic construct. Use other examples like this that you’d know better than me.))

Example B: Consider using “May the Gods smite her house!,” instead of the classic English ‘Fuck You.’ Or use “On my eyes” rather than ‘min ayooni’ or its English translation of ‘of course.’ Since Arabic language is beautifully expressive, you could lean into that when you can rather than using common English alternatives.

 Example C: Consider interspersing Arabic transliterations of common words/phrases like; habibti/habibi; yani; mashallah casually through the story.  

3- When speaking with English speakers, consider using informal text/chat speak (Arabizi?) to communicate the Arabic, since it’s already transliterated to the Roman alphabet. [disclaimer - I am atrocious at this, and will be surprised if anyone can read it… but for science!]: 

Example A: Instead of (انت طالب بالجامعة) or “are you a student?” it becomes; 

“Ente 6albeh bel jam3a?” I asked, staring at the textbook in his arms. 

He looked at me confused. “I don't understand,” he said. “I can’t speak Arabic.” 

“Wain 3m tedrus? Where do you… y3ni… where do you study?” I tried again in slow, awkward English.

These examples may or may not work for you. It’s important to remember that there’s no single "right" way to do this, but it’s mostly about finding a balance that reads well, and feels good to you. Subtle cues like sentence structure, idioms, the occasional untranslated word, and natural context can help to show the language shift. Good luck and happy writing!

~ Melanie 🌻  

P.S. Mod Meir suggests checking out the book When the Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb, which handles this issue well. There's a lot of "He said in English" or "He repeated it in Yiddish for the old woman's benefit" or "It took him a moment to realize he had spoken in English" (( Thanks Sacha! @kuttithvangu ))

[lokisgoodgirl]

Mine, Utterly [Loki x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: After making Prince Loki a little jealous, he lays down the law on the eve of an important occasion. (w/c 2.1k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Minors DNI. Dirty talk, language.

Your hands hit the mattress and grasped at the silken sheets, as if that would save you.

“My Prince,” you gasped, breaths scorching against your lungs as he ripped the chiffon around your thighs.

All you’d done was smile at the guard. Okay, maybe flirt a little…just enough to rouse the jealousy Loki had suggested with a mischievous shine in his eyes before taking his place on the Royal banqueting dais.

A palm landed on your exposed ass cheek. Crying out, you shot a glance over your shoulder. Prince Loki stood, storms in his darkened eyes, the leather belt that had been slung across his chest now dangling from a fist. "You dare to make a god jealous?"

Your stomach dropped. What if it was a test; what if he was joking? But for all his antics, the Prince wasn’t known for his humour when it came to matters of the heart—or the flesh. He didn’t share, and as that thought sank in, the knuckles on the fist whitened. You inhaled sharply, grip tightening on the sheets.

Something struck your ass again, but this time it gripped. Loki’s back was pressed to yours. The emeralds studded into the intricately constructed doublet pinched through the thin fabric of your bodice as he whispered, “Perhaps I wasn’t clear that when you are mine, you are mine; utterly.”

His knuckles trailed down your bicep, those fingers that had been wet with your cum too many times to count in palace corridors and dark corners dancing across your skin. Those digits had fastened around your wrist and torn you away from the feasting hall, his obligations forgotten, and whisked you in an explosion of green light to the candlelit expanse of your own bedroom.

Now, Loki’s cock pressed through the layers of leather and velvet covering it right into the swell of your ass. It was a familiar feeling—but he’d always resisted. Only his fingers, his tongue, his words—that was the only relief he gave you over past months since your arrival at court. Never his pleasure—never his cock.

Norns, how you wanted to fuck him; wanted to ride him until his own name scattered on the wind like ash, feel him slam into your cunt until his brilliant mind was a blur of lines like wine spilled on parchment. You wondered how your name sounded on his lips when he came: staggered, gasping, choking for mercy.

His nose drew a line up your neck, inhaling at the pulse point like a hound. “You are mine, aren’t you?” he murmured.

In answer, your hand slid up his temple and knotted into Loki’s hair. A growl built in his throat, swelling your confidence in time with the heat throbbing between your legs. “No more, and no less, than you are mine, Loki Odinson.”

His teeth sank into your shoulder, just enough to make you squirm against his cock. He spun you around, tipping your over the edge of the mattress while he towered in a silhouette of black and forest green pulsating in amber flickers.

His fingers made quick work of the laces at his groin and then, his legendary, iron cock was in his hand. It was even more perfect that you’d dreamed. A well of saliva rose indelicately beneath your tongue. Loki stroked it, back and forth, as you watched: hypnotised.

“Tonight, I will show you what it is to be mine,” he said, low and thicker than molasses on a winter’s eve. “After that, I’m afraid you will be ruined for all others…” A devilish smirk lit at the corners of his mouth. Your heart pounded as you sat up on the bed, trying frantically to untangle the dress sprawled around your hips. Loki’s knees hit the mattress.

"Allow me," he said, before ripping the dress from your body in one, swift movement.

Your eyes widened as it fluttered to the floor. Only the corset remained. "My Prince…I," you said, attempting to keep the game fluid; but Loki pressed a finger to your lips with a hush. It was still warm from the friction of his cock.

"We have talked long enough, you and I. I would very much like to fuck you…" His eyebrows rose. "I will, fuck you. I will have you; utterly."

As the final syllable melted, so did his clothes. The emerald encrusted doublet was first, then the sigils of his station, then the boots and—oh, gods—the leather trousers.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him: carved like marble, the tremor of his muscle beneath taut skin as he rested back on his heels, thighs spread, enough to make you howl. Loki’s chin dipped to his chest, unbound hair falling around his milky shoulders like hot tar over battlements. His cheekbones flashed in pulsing candlelight as he said with a touch of malice, "I will not be kept waiting. Not anymore," but his eyes glinted.

You crawled the space between you and hoisted onto his lap. With your arms around his neck, your bare cunt pressed against the throb of his flesh, you couldn’t imagine it ever not being thus. And then, you kissed him; one sliding into the next like spring into summer, like night into day.

Loki’s kisses were a medley of ravenous restraint; morphing like his magic between complete desperation and tenderness. His hands cupped your ass, scooting you further up his lap. The tip of his cock rubbed against your slit.

"I want to consume you," he whispered, lips wet from your kisses. "And you will never be anothers."

"Never." A ragged moan ripped the air as you sank onto his length. Loki’s groan of pleasure was everything you’d dreamt of—a primal flash beneath the regal façade you wanted to tear at with your bare hands. His chin tipped back, nailing you with his dilated stare as his hips pushed up.

"Loki," you gasped, clutching at his back muscle. He was huge. The Prince bottomed out, teeth clenching. 

"You’ve no idea how much I craved this little cunt," he panted as your hands fisted in his hair. "How many times I’ve wanted to pin you against the wall and fuck you until all thoughts of other men were shaken from your mind forever."

The squelch of your pussy jammed with his cock punctuated every word. "How you’ve teased me, played with me; ruined me—all for the want of the Valhalla I knew would be between your legs."

Loki’s head fell back with broken cry of anguish as you clench around the root of his cock, dragging up before slamming down onto the meat of his thighs.

“Fuck, kvinne…now I find myself tricked…” he said, breathless. The god’s head rose, strands of sex damp hair plastered across his brow. "I want you more than ever."

His eyes narrowed, and then his lips collided to yours, tongue demanding entry with the sureness of a tide on the shore. His nails dug into the curve of your waist, guiding your hips. Every gyration made new sparks burst to life, sizzling from your clit to the deepest parts of your body and mind that had never been so alive.

“I will never be sated,” Loki growled, thrusting faster, “Never…never.” With a rumble, he flipped you onto your back. Loki’s lips worked down the hard sinews of your neck, sucking against supple skin, palming your breasts upward. He was possessed. Loki’s name was a chant in your throat, the absence of his cock inside you becoming unbearable.

"Fuck me," you whined, and Loki looked up from where he’d been distracted with your nipple between his teeth.

“Ruined for all others,” confirmed Loki, smirking. He crawled over your body, settling his legs on either side and drawing the leaking head of himself through your sopping folds. “Beg for it.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Beg…my pretty, pretty whore.” Loki’s lips grazed across your cheek like wind through barley; a short, trembling sigh flooding your ear.

“Maybe you’re my whore, Odinson. Did you consider that?”

His thick cock twitched against your heat as he stared down at you with your perfectly styled hair mussed, your thighs spread, your lips bitten and stinging, before he whispered, “I consider everything.” Dark curls hung down either side of his jaw, framing the angle of his jawline as he licked his lips and settled into a cage around your head. The muscles of his forearms twitched with the effort of not fucking you into the mattress. The words bubbled in your throat, spilling forth before you could second guess them. “Well, if you’re my whore, then satisfy me.”

“Tell me you’re mine.” Those words shaped his tongue like summer storms. “And you will have everything you desire; always.”

You scraped hair back from his face, the beat of his heat thumping through his skin. His hips dragged against your clit, making your knees tighten around his ribs. “I’m yours,” you whispered, “Utterly.” Loki’s cock squeezed inside, and his face twisted in relief absolute. One of his hands flew to the ornate headboard; whacks of ancient wood against stone sounding with every thrust. His pubic hair dragged against your swollen clit, moans mingling with the fragrance of sweat and sex that clung to your bodies and rose like steam.

The god knew your body like you thought only you did, and every grip of his hands, shift of his hips, work of his mouth—you couldn’t catch your breath. His lust was the chop of waves, drowning you on the undertow of his strength, and scent and the hair brushing your lips as he fucked you. You never had a chance. Need scorched up your skin as climax broke. It flooded through your body, Loki’s name a rattle in your throat as his exhales of pleasure pounded in your ear. He hissed as fingernails dragged down the wide expanse of his back, the slide of his cock primal and wet, balls smacking against cum-slick skin.

The prince’s thrusts slowed, rocking you through the final threads of orgasm stringing you together. You gaped at him, heavy eyed and open mouthed as his torso rose between your legs, his palms splayed on your thighs, his abdomen flexing with every glacial, devastating thrust.

Loki’s head fell back, his black curls a sheet down the faint flush of pale skin.

The veins in his neck hardened, jaw clenched to the ceiling as deep lines settled on his brow. Your breath hitched.

Every glide of his cock was met by the gluttonous squelch of your cum. Loki rocked on his heels, guiding himself over the edge inside your perfect cunt.

“Gods,” he choked to the murals above the bed. And then, he came.

His face screwed up as the wave hit was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Loki’s groan trembled through your skin, beneath your flesh and vibrating your bones. His fingers tightened, and you knew that tomorrow your gown would hide the evidence of obsession marked in blue and purple shadows of devotion.

Devotion, you thought lazily as he gasped out the syllabled of your name and collapsed on your chest; meeting your lips with open mouthed enthusiasm.

Somewhere, a bell tolled. Loki sighed, slipping himself out of you with a mutter of irritation. He clicked his fingers, and the elaborate garb assembled on him like a blossom of ink. His lip curled. “The next time I see you, it will be in white.”

“Mmm…” “And yet they will have no clue what a fantastically depraved wretch for me that my intended is.” “I think they might know that already if the maids who caught you pleasuring me in the kitchens last week weren’t mute—and besides, perhaps they’ll just think my intended is a bad influence.”

“Gods, I hope so,” Loki murmured against your skin before biting your cheek softly, melting into a kiss. “Until tomorrow, then.” Loki drew away, his eyes serious but a small smile playing at his lips. “When you’re my wife, you shall never be rid of me.” “Gods, I hope so,” you echoed, and in the space of a heartbeat, Loki vanished.

Tags in comments! 🤗

[trainer-from-unova]

sweet dreams

english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ 𝄞

ship: robert reynolds x afab!reader

summary: where you're in love with the man of your dreams, literally

au: more based on the comics than in the mcu and he's more powerful and aware of what he can do with his powers

c/w: constructed reality, amnesia, secret past, lies, implied stalking, lies, crying, light angst, domestic fluff, emotional hurt and not much comfort tbh, implied unsafe sex, not very graphic smut but a simultaneous orgasm, bittersweet open ending

a/n: even if you read it here kudos on ao3 are appreciated and english isn't my first language

word count: 1467

She didn't know how or why since she couldn't remember "designing" him in her imagination, nor was he apparently based on anyone real and she usually had enough to do with the fantasies she imagined before bed about her favourite fictional characters or famous people, but apparently her mind had designed another life and a fictional boyfriend that she dreamt about every night when she fell unconscious. His name was Bob, and they did all the things couples do: go on dates, tell each other they love each other, hug, kiss... Etc. He was the perfect boyfriend in every way — he was her type in every way and he was everything a girl would want in a boyfriend.

According to her diary she had known him for a little over a year, although it had been longer since she started dreaming about him — but in reality she had known him for much longer, she just couldn't remember him.

Little by little she became obsessed with him, and although she saw him every night, she wanted to compile all their encounters because when she woke up she sometimes forgot many things, so she began to write and draw in notebooks everything she experienced with him so as not to forget anything and to feel him closer, more real. Maybe he wasn't real, but unfortunately her love for him was.

Even when she was awake she dreamt about him, and how could she not? She knew that her obsession with Bob had gotten out of control and that it wasn't normal to dream about him all the time, but according to her it was a defence mechanism her brain had created. She knew it wasn't normal, but was she hurting someone, or herself? She thought about going to therapy, but she didn't have enough money to go and talk about her dreams — it wasn't a real problem. She told herself that her love for Bob wouldn't slow down her love life in real life, but unfortunately her love life was as non-existent as this one apparently was — she couldn't find anyone she really connected with, and she'd rather be alone than in bad company.

She knew the dreams were strange, that nothing there made sense and that it was better not to try to make sense of them unless you wanted to end up with a headache from the confusion, but it was strange to her that she always dreamt in first person, when normally, before him, she used to dream in third person. They also tended to have continuity and she no longer dreamt strange things, like flying a plane and in the next "scene" being on the beach having a few beers with Queen Victoria. And sometimes she was aware that she was dreaming.

But at the same time she was fascinated by how real it all felt at times, so real that it was even scary. At that precise moment she couldn't see him as they were in the dark, but she could perfectly feel every millimetre of his body against hers — his hot and naked chest against hers in the same state, her legs hugging his back, her arms hugging his head, her hands clutching his long hair, his breathing hitching and moaning in her right ear with every thrust... She could even feel him cumming inside her and pulling out his member.

"See you tonight, my love," he whispered sweetly in her ear before kissing her cheek with the gentleness he hadn't had while fucking her, but her mind was so clouded by the orgasm she'd just had that she almost didn't hear him. The only thing working properly for her at the moment was her sense of touch, and she felt him pull away from her as she felt his cum drain from inside her.

"Bob?" she asked when she caught her breath, or rather, when she woke up. There was no answer and she didn't feel him next to her either, plus she was wearing panties and a baggy shirt again and didn't remember getting dressed.

She only saw two small white dots in front of her, assuming it was sunlight coming through the tight slits in the blind. She reached out to turn on the lamp on the bedside table next to the bed. When the small warm light illuminated the place she saw that she was in the room at home and not in the room in the house she shared with him in her dreams, which she knew as well as the real one. She felt a tickling liquid coming out between her vaginal lips, and for a second she thought, or rather, hoped it was his semen as crazy as it was and even though she didn't want to get pregnant, but for better or worse it was just a lot of discharge from the erotic dream she had had. She was so busy trying to process everything that she didn't even notice that those little white dots had disappeared with the light.

Then she reached under the pillow, reaching for her mobile phone with her sense of touch. When she picked it up, she pulled it out and looked at the time on the lockscreen. It was early in the morning and she was working the afternoon shift that day, so she decided to lie in bed doing nothing but daydreaming, wasting time and waiting for him to fall asleep again even for a little while so she could see him again, but no luck.

He was sitting cross-legged on their bed, and on his crotch was her. He had his hands on her waist and she had her hands on his shoulders as they talked about whatever, though she was paying more attention to his face, scanning and analysing every detail as she took her hands off his shoulders and brought them to his bangs, brushing them out of his face in an attempt to tuck them behind his ears.

"I'm not so handsome that you can't stop staring at me," he joked, tilting his head to the side to see if her eyes followed him.

"You're such a dummy, you are so handsome!" she replied, pretending to be offended as she gave him a little tap on the shoulder with her dominant hand, and they both laughed. "But that's not all..." she said more calmly, "I have this feeling..." she said as she looked at various parts of his face and put her dominant hand on one of his cheeks, "that I know you in real life," she said finally looking into his eyes as he moved his head towards her hand, to feel her touch even closer.

"Maybe you did," he said with a melancholy smile and tone — he always got like that when she was aware that what she was living was a dream, "in another life."

It sounded beautiful, and maybe there were possibilities (considering the strange world she lived in, where aliens and magic existed), but she was a reasonable girl and thought it was more likely that he simply had the face of someone she saw at the train station where she worked. She saw thousands of faces a day, his face was probably of some guy who made a dent in her subconscious (and with how handsome Bob was, she wouldn't be surprised).

"And what kind of life was that? Um?" she asked curiously. She didn't believe that possibility, but she wanted to imagine this supposed past life.

"Maybe..." he said looking behind her shoulder. "I was a superhero and I had to make everyone forget about me with my superpowers," he said forcing a comical tone but still unable to look her straight in the eye, not wanting her to realise that what he was saying was the truth.

"Why?" she asked, wanting more information. The story sounded interesting.

"For safety, of everyone" and she assumed he meant it for his civilian identity, so that she and other loved ones wouldn't be attacked by villains.

"Well, that's sad," she said grimacing.

"Yeah," he said grimacing as her. He then hugged her, needing the comfort and protection of being so close to her and wanting to hide the tears that were beginning to form in his eyes. Evidently she returned the gesture, hugging his head in silence until she sighed deeply.

"...I'd love it if you were real," she said sorrowfully.

"...If it's any consolation..." he said looking at her again, "You're very real to me, you're everything to me."

"Yeah, but... I want to be with you always," she said, as much moved as frustrated.

"I'm always with you, I'm closer than you can imagine. Trust me, I'm your guardian angel."

And this time he wasn't lying.

© trainer-from-unova / alicent burton | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[ditzyrafe]

— blue collar!rafe begging to eat u out

warnings — sub!rafe x dom!reader dynamic, petnames, squirting, oral (fem!rec), lewd language

a/n — link to the request is here

the harsh words still hang in the air, a deliberate cruelty you spun just to see him break. it worked. rafe is on his knees before you on the worn living room rug, head bowed, the usual quiet confidence he carries home from the construction site completely shattered. his hands, calloused and smudged with grease he hadn't washed off yet, are planted firmly on the floor.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice rough, pleading. he finally looks up at you, his eyes wide and wet with unshed tears, filled with a desperate ache. "so sorry, mommy. please. whatever i did… please, forgive me."

you look down at him, letting the silence stretch, savouring the sight of this strong, capable man so completely undone by you, by a few sharp words. a slow smirk curves your lips. "sorry isn't good enough, rafe," you say, your voice cold, controlled. "you know that."

he whimpers softly, a sound that sends a jolt of power straight through you. "i know. i'll do anything. please. just… tell me how to make it right. how to earn your forgiveness."

you walk closer, stopping right in front of him. you nudge his shoulder with the toe of your boot. "beg," you command softly.

he doesn't hesitate. "please," he rushes out, his voice thick with emotion. "please, let me worship you. let me taste you. it's all i'm good for. let me prove how sorry i am." he shifts, leaning back slightly, his face turned up towards you, an offering. "please sit on my face. let me earn it."

the raw, desperate plea is exactly what you wanted to hear. "fine," you say, your voice dripping in disdain. "but you better make it good."

you unbutton your jeans, shoving them down your legs, and position yourself directly over his waiting face. he looks up at you with pure devotion, his eyes tracking your every move. slowly, deliberately, you lower yourself, settling your weight onto him, pressing your heat against his mouth.

a muffled, desperate groan vibrates against your skin. his tongue darts out immediately, frantically, lapping at you like a man starved. he tastes your anger, your power, your arousal, all mingled together. his hands come up to grip your thighs, calloused fingers digging in, holding you firmly in place as he devours you. he works with a frenzied, desperate energy, his tongue flicking and swirling, his lips sucking gently. each whimper that escapes your lips seems to spur him on, making him work harder, more frantically, begging for your forgiveness with nothing but his mouth.

he starts making noises now, low guttural whimpers muffled against your slick flesh. they're sounds of pure submission and overwhelming pleasure. "pleaseee," he mumbles against your clit, the word distorted. "so good… tastes so good, mommy…"

you grind down against him, revelling in the control, in the way his strong body trembles beneath you. his hands, no longer just holding you in place, start to shake, his grip on your thighs tightening and releasing sporadically. you can feel the pleasure building inside you, a hot, coiling knot that his desperate tongue is expertly nurturing, pushing closer and closer to the edge.

"rafe," you command, your voice sharp, cutting through his haze. "look at me."

his eyes, glazed over with lust and submission, struggle to focus on your face. they're wet, shiny, filled with a pathetic, beautiful desperation. "yeah?" he gasps out, his tongue never ceasing its relentless ministrations.

"you're going to take all of it for me, aren't you?" you ask, your hips starting to rock in time with the building orgasm. "you're going to swallow every drop and thank me for the privilege."

"yes… fuck, yes, please," he whimpers, his entire body shuddering in anticipation. "give it to me… please…"

that's all it takes. the combination of his begging, his pathetic whimpering, and the intense physical stimulation shatters your control. with a sharp cry, your body convulses, and your release comes not as a gentle wave, but as a gushing, uncontrollable squirt. you flood his mouth, a hot, salty deluge that makes him choke and gasp, but he doesn't pull away. he tries to swallow, to take it all as commanded, his face drenched, his throat working desperately. he moans into the flood, a messy, overwhelmed sound of pure ecstasy and submission as he's literally drowned in your climax, his punishment and reward delivered all at once.

"so tell me… what did i do wrong, baby?"

taglist ; @mojitrvo @mayanqueenxx @kisses4rafey @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @onxlyemery @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w @kravitzwhore @dollyfiles @kild4re @zzhenyac @sparklyananas @dsfault @rafesprttyprincess @lynst91 @nonbeliever1 @drewsephrry @k4yr14 @babydollll-bunny @leleasalwaysblog @cokewithcameron @mialuvsrafe @urcoolgf @love-ella333 @amelialovesrafe @kaisage45 @goodsoup19 @cicicavill7 @tezzzzzzzz @badnightngo @gsbrielads @p45510n4f4shi0n (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[forthelostones]

𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ➺ 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 #11

anderson construction and landscaping had been parked outside your door since you returned home from university. as if the summer couldn't get any hotter, the business owner works overtime in your area. anderson is collecting new, loyal clients of your neighbors, cementing her permanence in your life for the next few months. what's to come of your girlish crush when she keeps showing up?

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 18+ (mdni); age-gap, young!reader, older!abby, butch!abby, slow-burn, suggestive language, thoughts of infidelity, ellie ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of parents, nickname: sweetheart, and modern au.

𝚊𝚗. 1,000 of you, this means more than you all realize. my journey with writing has been so complex and you all make me believe in myself - thanks for believing in me. much love!

♫ 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. rather be alone by leon thomas ft. halle ♫

For a moment, it became apparent that my hands were made to hold her by the way our exchange of breath aligned perfectly. I closed my eyes if only for a second to macerate in this moment. I raise my hands to show her it wasn’t intentional. “Sorry, it’s cramped in here now I didn’t realize, should we go?” 

“Only if you would like to.” She said. 

She was toying with me now, seeing if I would take the bait, which I did because I loved it when women entrusted me with the sole responsibility. Before I could reply my phone rang and I had never felt a greater sense of relief. 

An unknown number with the local area code came across the screen. “Hello?” 

“Abby?” I melt at the sound of Nora’s voice, but not in a good way, in a I’m-guilty-way. 

I crook my finger in her direction to leave the club so I can hear Nora clearly. 

“Nora, hi.” I said. 

“Is this a bad time it sounds like you’re out?” 

“No, it’s fine, uh probably can’t talk long. I got tied up in work and wanted to text you, um, yeah.” 

I stood in the parking lot gasping for air letting the clarity cleanse me from the stuffy venue. I lean onto the passenger side door and see my new addition trailing behind. 

“I was thinking about you that’s all.” 

“Good, we still have to plan out our date night.” 

She walks up to me with her hands extended behind her back, strutting like a panther in the darkness covered by a singular lamp, and stops in front of me — not even a foot away. 

“Anything you want me to wear?” 

“Can I think on it?” 

“You absolutely can, chat later.”

I tuck my phone back into my pocket to see her even closer with my back flush to the truck I just stand there unmoved. 

“I’m sorry for touching you in there. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“I know you didn’t mean it.” She closes in. 

My gaze lies down upon her, my arms to my sides, and temptation in my face I was shuttering with inability. I reach for the handle and open it, forcing myself out her way.

Nora’s voice on the other line made a wave of disgust shutter through my body — one that I hadn’t felt in a long time. 

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

My fist gently tapped against the large entryway as the moon settled into the sky and my watch read for 2:45 a.m. After a moment, a glint of warm light illuminates within the curtains of what I assume was the living room. I stood desperately in my checkered boxers and A&C sweatshirt

“Who is it?” She groans. 

“Your stupid neighbor,” I croak full of instant regret. 

“Abigail, is everything okay?” 

She flicked on a porch lamp that shinned on me like a police spotlight, preparing me for the inevitable interrogation. Her arms cover her chest as she stood cozy in a two piece silk set with a matching robe and a patterned scarf tied around her fro. 

“Um, in a poor romantic attempt to apologize, the best thing I could do was knock on your door at the most inconvenient hour because I couldn’t sleep. I can’t wait ’til the morning to tell you how sorry I am for earlier.” 

“Come in,”  

Nora’s home was painted a rosy blush color, which I didn’t expect. I imagined something more exuberant like a creamsicle orange or dusty yellow but this fit her perfectly. Ornate gold frames with family photos were collaged on the walls over a tan sectional with a range of pink throw pillows. The whole space was the epitome of comfort. She directed me to matching loveseat near the window that overlooks the front corner of the lawn. I sink into the seat and she rubbed her eyes awake to adjust to me in her space. 

“Abby, we all have responsibilities and I respect that.” She uncrosses her arms. 

“I feel like I blew you off and that is not a true depiction of me. I—I am more than my work, I don’t just blow off the people I care about because of my career.”

“I don’t doubt that Abigail,” Nora smiles. 

Before I knew it Nora was sat in my lap, smoothing my hairs down as my hands rested on her thighs. She reached under my chin to lift it to her coal eyes slightly.  

“May I kiss you?” 

I could only nod as I calculated how long it had been since my lips were pressed against another woman’s. Her lips were buttery, slipping across mine, awakening out of my mania. I glide my fingers across the seam of her shorts over her thigh letting the fabric slip under them. My clit tingled with a savory anticipation as Nora’s tongue entered my mouth and she feathered the hair at the nape of my neck. As I returned the favor and removes herself from my thighs leaving me with my lip parted and suddenly cold.

I sat breathless at the swift interaction in a daze of the events that just occurred. She stands sweetly with a partially lit smile. I had never had a woman be so forward with me and take the initiative in the way Nora has.

“I know you’re busy, we’re grown, and I don’t take things personally.” 

I stood up adjusted my boxers subtly or so I hoped. “Well, thanks for that reassurance, I feel stupid now so I am going to leave.” 

We both walk back to the door and I linger in the frame. 

“Would it make you feel better if I made the plans for our date?” 

I stammer. “I mean, no, I got that part. Your job is to show up as beautiful as you are now.” 

She opens the door wider and perches on the tips of her toes to kiss me one last time. This was the moment I settled into the most, dragging my hand gently across her jawline, craving even more. The worst part of it thoughwas that I wasn’t craving Nora at all but someone else entirely. 

✧ ━━━━

You were reeling over last night and the close proximity to Ms. Anderson was all you could wish for. The way she gripped you was unfamiliar because the way Ellie put her hands on you wasn’t in the way Ms. Anderson did… it was with intention. Not holding you just because she could but holding you to connect and make you feel safe. You felt heavy in your bed remembering the scent of her, replaying each move she made, her sunken eyes, it was all so intoxicating. For the past forty minutes you had her contact open ready to change the events of tonight possessing a sliver of courage. 

There was high emotional stakes, you knew that, especially after Ellie took the initiative to end things. It wasn’t grand or particularly a shock, it was what it always was, just Ellie. 

“I love you, you know that.” She says through gritted teeth. 

“Love you too. I thought you would be happy to see me,” 

Your stomach dropped at the sobering image of your girlfriend. She pressed her lips together like a boss that was going to fire you. A lump formed in your throat at her stoic nature that you rarely had the pleasure of seeing anymore. 

“Ellie,” You whisper. “What is it?” 

“We need to end this now.” 

“Our relationship?”

“Before I make the move I think it’s best we split now, even if I will still be around town.” 

Sure, you knew this was coming but you thought it would be you, it was simpler now to detach from this wasted partnership and move on. Living in the moment even if it was with your new boss would you had a risky crush on. 

“Fine.” You shrug. 

“That’s it — fine?” 

You scrub your hands over you face and exhale, sick of pretending that you cared anymore, sick of this relationship and trying to understand if it was healthy or not. 

“Ellie what do you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg you to love me differently?” 

“I mean you been wanting this haven’t you? I knew it deep down, I did.” 

“If I say yes would that appease you?” You snapped. 

She shrugged with a disgusting smug look on her face with her hands gripping her hips. 

“What I think is you want me to follow you because I take care of you, make your life better, give you a sense of direction.” 

“Oh there it is, the fucking queen has arrived. Yes, I don’t have a pointless four-year degree, been employed since I was nineteen by the way, and I’m not rich — whatever. The same old regurgitated shit we been over before! You got me one gig, congratulations.” 

Her voice trembled, this was the Ellie you grew to know, unmanaged anger and buried trauma. Her skin bursting with anxious hives and eyes full of helplessness. 

“I hope this attitude is fixed when I see you at work next week.” 

You push the door up into the frame as hard as you can let it to finally allow a warm tear to slip out of the corner of your eye. It had hurt, but what’s going to hurt these next few weeks is your ex and boss you clearly are attracted to in a power struggle. 

The familiar cherry Anderson & Co. truck rattled into your driveway, this morning you were the client, it was your demolition. Since Abigail had never done this before the unusual circumstance left you both with an added layer of awkwardness after last night. Your parents had gone to run errands and Abby was left to continue the demo on the bathroom. Knowing her she brought her own cup of coffee but you pulled out the French press just in case. 

The click of the front door welcomed in a pristine and smiling Abby holding a toolbox in her right hand. You traced the outline of her veins through the spaces of her tattoos marveling at how much her muscle bulged from the weight of the box. “‘Mornin.” 

You smile dryly to which Abby ignores and hurries into your bedroom. It looked better this time, less boxes, your bed was made, clothes were in their respected place. You met her in your bathroom where she already had a blueprint pulled out. You two haven’t chatted about the demo since the consultation really so now was the time to, although you didn’t want to because you didn’t care, you wanted her attention. 

“Made you coffee.” You grin. 

She looks at you through the mirror where you stood in the door frame. 

“Thank you sweetheart, is it okay if I had a cup right now before…” 

“Of course, you want cream or sugar?” 

It wasn’t an inherently a sexually charged question but the way it left your lips it could’ve been. 

“Cream, thank you.” 

Abby explained to you the way this was going to go. “So listen, this maybe inconvenient to you for a while, this bathroom won’t have any water or power for the time being. It will be completely out of order and that’s that. First thing I am going to start by doing is tearing up some of this tiling.” 

“Can I watch?” You ask childishly. 

“Sure but I could give you a lesson instead?” She grins. 

She hands you the coffee mug with 1/4 left in it and you move it to your desk. You both get layered up in protective gear ready to begin gutting the bathroom. With a blade Ms. Anderson begins to trace the caulk lines inside of the shower carefully. The shower was large enough for you to both be standing inside but small enough for you to brush up against one another. You tried to huddle away but her eyes gestured for you to come closer and you had no choice. Shoulder to shoulder she explained the small details and periodically turning to make sure you understood. Like actually understood.

“So, what we’re doing here is preparing to remove the tiling without ruining the wall too much,” 

Her blunt fingers trace along the seams with the knife following shortly behind. You’re both in the shower, sure fully clothed but you thought of that night in her house, imagining you two. 

“Gonna remove this grout. I’ll need a tile drill next.”

You both step outside of the tub as she drills into the wall and it was amazing to see her level of concentration and precision. In all honesty, you never understood how Ellie could be passionate about her work and be good at it. Abby moved with a veteran pace, the tiles dropping at her feet, and body covered in flakey residue. 

Two hours pass and you are suddenly sitting on top of the toilet seat talking with Abby after an overly extended break. 

“When you book Ellie for whatever job you have next, please don’t let it be here.” 

She leaned off the wall. “Okay, why?” 

“She broke up with me.” 

“Damn,” She groans. “I’m sorry.” 

You inhale as if shards of glass we’re entering your lungs. It felt painful despite the fact that you wanted it to be over, it still hurt. 

“We weren’t good for each other.” 

“I can take her off and place up an ad to find someone else it won’t be hard. I don’t want you to be overly stressed at work if she’s around.” Abby’s voice got a bit deeper than usual as she grew stern and authoritative — protective.  

“Ms. Anderson, I promise you it’s fine, the battle is my own. Plus you still owe me.” 

Despite your efforts to lighten the mood she wasn’t swayed. She moved into the doorway and took off her gloves and set them on the toolbox. She rubbed her palms together and crossed her arms, in her favorite stance. 

“I’m serious.” 

You freeze. 

“Abby,” 

“If she disrespects you or says anything outlandish I won’t hesitate to step in. Now what you do outside of me is your business but in this my job is to protect you first. Do you understand me?” 

You straighten up and place your hands in your lap and nod. Fire blazed through you seeing this typically sweet woman transform before you eyes. She composed herself with a deep breath.

"She's professional if anything."

"Don't defend her, I've seen how she speaks to you. Take it from me, you'll be glad in a few years you clipped yourself away from her."

You advert your gaze to the floor. If Ms. Anderson could see it how long were you pretending?

"I'm sorry it's not my business, I've just noticed your change in energy as of late, I felt it immediately."

You choke back a tender sob, refusing to cry in front of your boss over a shitty ex. Abby made it incredibly difficult to not throw yourself into her arms right now. Maybe that's the main piece you and Ellie were missing this whole time, you never felt each other.

Her feet shuffle closer to you and you raise your head with glass eyes. "Oh," she sighs apologetically and yet full of pity.

You poor young thing, you have no clue, you imagine her thinking. You pull yourself up directly in front of her, the lack of space reminiscent of last night. Abby's hand reaches for the door, her left foot stepping back and you follow stepping forward. She softens her eyes and traces the outline of your mouth intently. You step forward this time filling in the gap just as the creaking of the garage erupts.

Neither of you react as you tie into each other an invisible string pulling you closer. The distance of the thread growing shorter. “I’m going to go check on them.” You say, not exactly wanting to leave.

“Perfect. I’ll come down to say hello.”

You both taking a whisper and speaking almost robotically. Shoving away every human urge.

Your left hand brushes by Abby’s waist as you move past her in the doorway. The woman turned quicker than you thought because there she was with her body pressed into the back of yours. Light enough to want more and close enough to feel the rise and fall of her chest.

[goosewriting]

Heyy! Just wanted to thank you for posting such quality work so regularly! Seeing the '' goosewriting posted '' notification genuinely brings me joy lmfao

Could you write about kindergarten teacher!reader x joaquin, who for some exceptional reason has to pick up his nephew/niece from school and meets the reader like that.

Maybe he doesn't mention the fact he works with Captain America or that he is Falcon, not wanting to brag or anything when they start hanging out. But then one day at school his nephew/niece brags about their uncle being Falcon and reader founds out like this

Matchmaker

summary: reader is a kindergarten teacher and gets a bit of a crush on that one handsome uncle.

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: none

word count: 2.1k

A/N: tysm for your words, that really means a lot! i appreciate it 🫂🥰 i’m so sorry it took forever to get to, especially after you started your ask with me posting “work so regularly” 🫠 thank you for your patience and i hope you’ll like it c: 

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

“My parents told me to give you this.”

You turn around to where the voice came from and look down to see one of your kindergarten kids, Carlos, extending his arm towards you with a folded note in his hand. After taking the piece of paper, you unfold to check it; it’s from his mother, saying that her brother, Carlos’ uncle, would be picking him up today.

“Thank you, go ahead,” you say, and the kid takes off to go play with his friends. 

You grab the notebook from the drawer in your desk and write down the name from the note by Carlos’ listed guardians. After putting it away again, you face your class and clap a couple of times to get their attention to start the day. 

The hours go by relatively quickly, and luckily it’s pretty uneventful, except for one little accident where a girl spilled some watercolours all over herself. When the day ends, you bring your class to the entrance of the building, notebook tucked under your arm, as you hand the kids back to their guardians one by one, making sure everyone is accounted for. 

However, nobody is here for Carlos yet, so he waits by the entrance on a little bench, colouring in his book. You’re putting away some toys when someone appears at the door, and when Carlos looks up, a huge smile spreads on his chubby face.

“Tío Joaquín!” he exclaims as he leaves his things on the bench to go greet his uncle.

“Hey, little man!” the man says as he crouches down and opens his arms, letting the kid tackle him into a hug as he laughs.

You approach the two, a polite smile on your lips, opening your book and checking the name again.

“Hello, Mister…?”

“Joaquín Torres,” he says as he stands back up, taking your extended hand to give a shake. Now that you’re looking at him properly, you notice two things: one, he seems strangely familiar, but you can’t place where you’ve seen him before. And two, he’s very attractive: dark hair and eyes, strong build, tan skin, a smile that knocks the breath out of your lungs. There’s a slight prickle of heat on your cheeks, but you will it away, this really not being the moment to start crushing on one of your kids’ guardians. Luckily, your brain remembers to tell him your name as well as you shake his hand.

“Go get your stuff,” Joaquín says to Carlos, who runs back to the bench to pack his bag, and the man looks back up at you with a smile, and you inwardly curse at the beat your heart skips. 

“Mister Torres–”

“Oh please, Joaquín is fine,” he interrupts with raised hands.

You hesitate for a second, waging whether to be friendly or maintain some professional distance, but his name rolls over your lips far too easily.

“Joaquín,” you repeat his name, and he hums in acknowledgement, waiting for you to continue. “I know Carlos recognised you and you introduced yourself, but I still have to ask to see some ID.”

“Oh, of course,” he says, fishing out his wallet from a back pocket of his jeans, and grabs his ID to present it to you. 

“It’s just a formality, really,” you say sheepishly and take the card, comparing his name to the one you wrote in your notebook. Before you can stop yourself, you take a glimpse of his date of birth, corroborating your assumption of him being close in age. Not that it matters, you remind yourself. 

“Thank you,” you say as you hand him back the ID, and your eyes move on their own as you check for a wedding ring; there’s none. Good grief, will you calm down?, you reprimand yourself inwardly. 

“Not at all,” he replies, putting his ID and wallet back into his pocket. “If anything, thank you for taking this seriously and protecting the kids.”

He gives you a genuine smile, which you mirror. You both turn at the sound Carlos makes in frustration as he’s trying to sling his backpack over his jacket, but the side of it got stuck underneath.

“Oh, let me help you with that,” you say and walk the few steps back, crouching down at his side and straightening out the jacket to close the zipper at the front. “There you go.”

Carlos takes off again, but Joaquín holds onto his backpack as he tries to run past him, stopping him in his tracks. 

“What do we say?” he scolds the kid, who turns around to you with a slightly annoyed look, but he quickly corrects it when he sees Joaquín’s warning glare. 

“Thank you for helping me,” Carlos mutters. Then he looks up at his uncle, who lets go of the backpack to take the kid’s little hand in his. “Can we go home now?” 

Joaquín sighs with a slight shake of his head, but a smile spreads on his lips. You follow the exchange in silence, biting back a smile of your own. 

“This kid, I swear,” Joaquín says in your direction with a chuckle. “I know he can be a little rowdy sometimes, but I hope he’s not been too difficult?”

“Not at all,” you assure him. “He’s a good kid.” 

“I’m only rowdy because I come after you,” Carlos interjects with an offended huff. 

Both you and Joaquín look down at the kid with brows raised in surprise.

“That’s what mom said,” Carlos is quick to add when he feels both your looks on him. 

“The audacity of this kid,” Joaquín scoffs playfully. “Ya voy a contarle a tu madre lo que dijiste, así que pórtate bien.” (I’ll tell your mother what you said, so you better behave.)

“Noooo, no le digas! Prometo portarme bien,” Carlos cries out. “Can we go now?” (No, don’t tell her! I promise I’ll be good.)

“Yeah, let’s go,” Joaquín says, about to turn to leave, but he stops to face you one more time. “Sorry about that. And that I was late. Thanks for waiting, I’ll be on time next time, I promise.” 

“No worries,” you say, giving Carlos a little wave, which he mirrors. “Get home safe!” 

“It was nice meeting you,” Joaquín calls over his shoulder as they leave, but you’re not quick enough to say it back before they’re gone.

You stand by the entrance door for a moment longer, your brain still reeling to try and remember where you know him from. 

“Next time, huh,” your coworker, one of the other teachers, appears out of nowhere and playfully pokes her elbow into your side. 

You startle a bit at her sudden appearance, but shove her right back with a chuckle. 

“Don’t even start,” you say with a slight roll of your eyes.

“I didn’t say anything,” she retorts, raising her hands in defeat, but the mischievous glint in her eyes betrays her. 

The next time Joaquín comes to pick up his nephew, he does arrive on time. You two engage in pleasant small talk as Carlos plays with his friend, whose parents haven’t arrived yet. Your coworker keeps sending you knowing looks from the other side of the hall, and it takes a lot of willpower to ignore her and keep listening to what Joaquín is saying. 

By the time all kids are gone, you’re still replaying the conversation in your mind, remembering every little gesture and quirk Joaquín has when talking about something that interests him. Turns out, you actually have a lot in common. 

It takes a little more encouragement from your coworker, but the third time Joaquín comes for pick-up, you ask for his number. There’s no denying now that you’ve developed a bit of a crush on the man. You fumbled the delivery a bit, stuttering as you assured him that you usually don’t ask for any parent’s number. To your pleasant surprise, Joaquín gently interrupted your rambling to reassure you that he’s been wanting to do the same but wasn’t sure if he was crossing a line. So with slightly flushed faces, you ended up exchanging contact information.

Over the next couple of days, you text back and forth, and finally he asks you out for dinner. You’re over the moon, and giddily accept. He’s told you he’s in the Army, so your schedules are very different, but you finally settle on meeting on the weekend for dinner.

On the Friday before the date, Joaquín comes to pick up his nephew once more. You’re both a bit flustered since you haven’t seen each other in person since exchanging numbers.

As Carlos is packing up some things he forgot in the classroom, Joaquín walks closer to you.

“So, how’s your day been?” he asks.

“It’s been good,” you say, taking a quick look around to make sure no other parent or guardian can overhear you as you give him a knowing look. “But it’s certainly better now.” 

Joaquín looks away with a silly smile on his face, the slightest shade of pink on his cheeks.

“Yeah, well, same,” he says. He’s about to add something when Carlos comes back, a drawing in his hand.

“Tío, look, look!” he says as he holds up his masterpiece. Joaquín takes the paper in his hands to inspect it, recognising the two figures to be Captain America midair with his shield held high, and the Falcon, wings splayed out on each side. 

“You drew this? This looks great, kiddo!” Joaquín compliments his nephew with a loving ruffle to his hair. The kid soaks it in and you see him stand a little straighter, chest puffed out. 

“Isn’t my uncle cool!” Carlos exclaims, huge grin on his face. 

You tilt your head ever so slightly, confused. 

“I mean, he is,” you start, looking up at Joaquín, who looks slightly mortified, and then back at the kid. “But I thought we were talking about the drawing?” 

“Yeah, I drew him! That’s my uncle!,” Carlos leans over the drawing to point at the figure coloured in green. 

It takes a second for the information to click in your brain, but when it does, your head whips to Joaquín’s, who averts his gaze like he’s a boy who just got caught getting into the cookie jar in the middle of the night. 

“So that’s why you looked so familiar,” you finally say with a chuckle. Seeing that your reaction isn’t negative like he thought it’d be, Joaquín breathes in relief. Carlos takes his drawing and rushes back to finish packing up upon his uncle’s instruction.

“I can’t believe I’m going on a date with the Falcon,” you say in a low voice, more to yourself than anything else. Joaquín looks around to see if anyone else caught that, but all other parents are focused on their own conversations. 

“It’s not like I was trying to keep it a secret,” he says, and when his gaze finally finds yours again, your heart does a leap in your chest. “This isn’t how I meant for you to find out, though. I hope this doesn’t change anything…?” 

“Of course not,” you reassure him. “I hope you’re ready for a lot of questions, though. The moment the other kids get wind that I’m friends with the Falcon, they’ll want to interview you for sure.” 

“That’s fine by me,” he says with a chuckle. His phone pings and he takes it out of his pocket, looking at the message. “Well, time to go. My sister wants us to pick up some groceries on the way home.” 

“Right, Carlos should be done packing,” you say, turning around to check on the kid, but he’s out of sight from where you stand. When you turn your head back to Joaquín, you let out a low gasp as he’s suddenly standing very close to you, and he very quickly places a kiss on your cheek. 

“See you tomorrow, then?” he asks in a low voice, a slight fear in his eyes that you’ll say no after his bold move. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you reply just as softly, and your hands come up to fix the collar of his shirt, brushing your fingers over his jaw. 

“Are you two about to kiss?” a voice startles you both, and you quickly take a step back to put some distance between yourself and the man. Looking down to the side, you find Carlos looking up at you with slight disgust. 

“Okay, let’s go,” Joaquín is quick to say with a nervous chuckle to drown out Carlos’ onslaught of questions, among which you think you hear ‘Are you going to marry my teacher?’ and ‘Does that mean I don’t have to come to school anymore?’. 

A wave of heat erupts on your cheeks as they leave, and when you turn around to go back to the classroom, you find your coworker standing there, giving you an ‘I told you so’ look, a smug grin plastered on her face.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!] @f1-tennisgirlie, @magikdarkholme, @tsunchani, @Chuchu8293, @bitchy-bi-trash, @guynamedaurel, @crumbledcastle28, @sarahskywalker-amidala, @crazy4lyricb, @hiireadstuff

[multiversetravelingjournalist]

Nox, The Ferrymen, and The Noxial cant

Nox's design drew me in. Nox's backstory kept me there. In the end, she became one of my favorite characters for both prior points alone. Which is why she received a lot of attention in the Cults, Cultures, and Cants Alternate universe project.

Not much to say right now, other than I have an idea of what her cult and language would be like. So, let's get into it.

Part 1: The Ferrymen

Beyond having each member's motivation be them just being obsessed with and immersed in death, there is not much I can say for the Ferrymen besides the fact that they each are vessels themselves for the remnants that Nox could have born all her own if she was still in canon. However, their presence provides a lightening of that load by taking a fraction of the souls from Nox into themselves. Through a process comparable to pouring a full cup of water into another glass until both are half full and both glasses being poured into a third one until each one is one third full and so on, the burden of the souls becomes easier to bear with each new member that joins the Ferrymen cult.

But that is just a perk of membership. The Boons (additional abilities found by joining a cult) of the Ferrymen include being able to summon a puddle of black viscous liquid that the Ferryman can sink into and rise from at almost any location allows them to be very mobile and hard to pin down. Which begs the question of why Nox herself didn't use this ability when she got captured still by the MBCC. The Rite (an ability performed by the entire cult, especially with the patron present) of this cult is still up in the air. But it may be that it has something to do with conjuring a black miasma that will drain the lifeforce of any pour soul within and forcefully absorb them into the ferryman soul collective.

As for aesthetics, the Ferrymen dress like they are constantly attending a funeral with their all-black clothing. They very much act like they are at one as well. However, the color scheme is the only common denominator among them as the cut and style of each member's clothing can vary wildly. Ranging from Sunday's best to raggedy strips to straight utilitarian. There are suits and ties, Lab coats, vestments, and a variety of chains, tokens, sigils, and even a top hat.

Weapons also vary among each member as well. There are the usual suspects like swords and spears. Others that need little imagination like hammers and scalpels. Some raise eyebrows like anchors, syringes, and even a book. All of them seem to reflect on that member's background before joining a cult. Such as a coffin maker wielding a hammer and some nails with brutal accuracy and a mortician with his various scalpels and a syringe filled with a black liquid that suspiciously resembles the liquid of their teleportation puddles.

And that is the gist of what I have in mind. Now, onto the Cant.

Part 2: Noxial.

Not much to say here, as I have recently gotten into making this. But I was initially stumped with what sort of feel I wanted the language to have. I knew for sure at the beginning that I wanted it to be a "language of the dead" but that could literally mean anything. Without a source of inspiration, I went to my conlanger Idol, Agma Schwa, and his cursed conlang, Hallowed Ween,

Granted, there were some interesting details in this language that I will definitely steal for Noxial. Namely, the naming system that tells when, why, and where a soul died, pronominal morphology that turns a pronoun into a personal modifier. Other than that, I didn't like the phonoaesthetic of Hallowed Ween, or I didn't really think that it would fit in with what I had in mind for Noxial. So, I was still stumped on that front. That was, until it hit me.

One language that inspired me in terms of phonoaesthetic was Babelingua's Lower East Wall,

The way the language is always whispered and gives the feeling of voices constantly muttering outside one's range of hearing. It was exactly what I wanted for Noxial. Another conlang was Kayinth's 'sksäx,

The clusters, voicelessness, and occasional vowel did nothing but reinforce the idea that this is what I want for the Ferrymen's cant.

Thus, Noxial will have little, if any, vowels and all consonants will be voiceless and breathy voiced at most.

Other than that, the rest of the conlang is still, very much, a work in progress.

Conclussion

There is still a lot to work on with the Ferrymen cult and the Noxial Cant. To be honest, I got inspired by this YouTube video,

To share my WIPs with you all on this site and the internet in general. From this point forward, I will be giving updates when I can on breakthroughs and developments as I continue to work on this faction and the other ones in the future.

For those of you who read this far, thanks.

With all that said, till next time... ;).

[whencyclopedia]

The Indus Valley Civilization was a cultural and political entity which flourished in the northern region of the Indian subcontinent between c. 7000 - c. 600 BCE. Its modern name derives from its location in the valley of the Indus River, but it is also commonly referred to as the Indus-Sarasvati Civilization and the Harrapan Civilization. These latter designations come from the Sarasvati River mentioned in Vedic sources, which flowed adjacent to the Indus River, and the ancient city of Harappa in the region, the first one found in the modern era. None of these names derive from any ancient texts because, although scholars generally believe the people of this civilization developed a writing system (known as Indus Script or Harappan Script) it has not yet been deciphered. All three designations are modern constructs, and nothing is definitively known of the origin, development, decline, and fall of the civilization. Even so, modern archaeology has established a probable chronology and periodization: Pre-Harappan – c. 7000 - c. 5500 BCE Early Harappan – c. 5500 - 2800 BCE Mature Harappan – c. 2800 - c. 1900 BCE Late Harappan – c. 1900 - c. 1500 BCE Post Harappan – c. 1500 - c. 600 BCE The Indus Valley Civilization is now often compared with the far more famous cultures of Egypt and Mesopotamia, but this is a fairly recent development. The discovery of Harappa in 1829 CE was the first indication that any such civilization existed in India, and by that time, Egyptian hieroglyphics had been deciphered, Egyptian and Mesopotamian sites excavated, and cuneiform would soon be translated by the scholar George Smith (l. 1840-1876 CE). Archaeological excavations of the Indus Valley Civilization, therefore, had a significantly late start comparatively, and it is now thought that many of the accomplishments and “firsts” attributed to Egypt and Mesopotamia may actually belong to the people of the Indus Valley Civilization. The two best-known excavated cities of this culture are Harappa and Mohenjo-daro (located in modern-day Pakistan), both of which are thought to have once had populations of between 40,000-50,000 people, which is stunning when one realizes that most ancient cities had on average 10,000 people living in them. The total population of the civilization is thought to have been upward of 5 million, and its territory stretched over 900 miles (1,500 km) along the banks of the Indus River and then in all directions outward. Indus Valley Civilization sites have been found near the border of Nepal, in Afghanistan, on the coasts of India, and around Delhi, to name only a few locations. Between c. 1900 - c. 1500 BCE, the civilization began to decline for unknown reasons. In the early 20th century CE, this was thought to have been caused by an invasion of light-skinned peoples from the north known as Aryans who conquered a dark-skinned people defined by Western scholars as Dravidians. This claim, known as the Aryan Invasion Theory, has been discredited. The Aryans – whose ethnicity is associated with the Iranian Persians – are now believed to have migrated to the region peacefully and blended their culture with that of the indigenous people while the term Dravidian is understood now to refer to anyone, of any ethnicity, who speaks one of the Dravidian languages. Why the Indus Valley Civilization declined and fell is unknown, but scholars believe it may have had to do with climate change, the drying up of the Sarasvati River, an alteration in the path of the monsoon which watered crops, overpopulation of the cities, a decline in trade with Egypt and Mesopotamia, or a combination of any of the above. In the present day, excavations continue at many of the sites found thus far and some future find may provide more information on the history and decline of the culture.

[waterlilyvioletfog]

So I like kind of mentioned this in a previous post but like. It’s weird?? Right?? That when Harrow re-constructs the bubble over and over again at the start of HtN Act V she does 1) role-reversal AU 2) Arranged marriage AU 3) Coffee shop AU. Because those are FANFIC TROPES. (The arranged marriage AU being especially unhinged to me because she doesn’t even know John is Gideon’s dad at that point!! Her brain had to come up with “what if Gideon were royalty omg??” ON ITS OWN.) And like the fanfic-ness always was insane bc of course yeah that makes sense from a Doylist perspective, ie, Taz Muir’s an author notable for her inclusion of internet humor and culture, and she has personal experience with fanfic. But it didn’t make sense on a Watsonian level because sure, Harrow’s clearly a Romantic, but this isn’t a genre language that I think Harrow naturally speaks. Harrow doesn’t read smutty romance novels!!! She’s a repressed little nunlet obsessed with bones, her only options of sexual interest in her adolescence being 1) GIDEON 2) a corpse she views as holy and sacred— no really safe options for exploratory crushes or sexual experimentation here. So how is she thinking in fic/romance tropes? Either A) Harrow is significantly less repressed than everything I’ve ever read about her would lead me to understand, B) fic tropes are so transcendental that the agonized, wounded, thrice-haunted mind of Harrowhark Nonagesimus could, in its death throes, find itself in this specific genre of text she has no personal reference for, or C) according to the Sex Pal Theory of Permeability, Harrow has gained an understanding of romance tropes via soul osmosis, from Gideon/Alecto/Wake/Palamedes during the bubble visit???, and that explains why she dreams in fanfiction. I’m going with option C. Thank you Unwanted Guest for solving this little mystery for me 🙏🙏🙏

[vivsinkpot]

Languages Shape Worlds — And the People in Them

“Language is a road map of a culture.” – Rita Mae Brown

When creating fictional worlds, don’t stop at borders—let language do the heavy lifting. Dialects, vocabulary, accents, and even how characters switch between tongues can reveal class, power, intimacy, and conflict.

Here’s how to use language as a storytelling tool:

1. Create Language Layers: Dialect ≠ Language

Different regions or social classes in your world should speak differently, even if it’s the same “official” language.

Example:

In your fantasy kingdom:

Nobles say: “I shall accompany you to the citadel.”

Soldiers say: “I’ll head with you to the keep.”

Farmers say: “Reckon I’ll come with, if yer goin’ to the tower.”

Same meaning, entirely different texture. Ask:

• Who has access to formal education?

• Who clings to older versions of the language?

• Who uses borrowed words from other cultures?

2. Portray Multilingual Conversations Without Confusing the Reader

You don’t need to write entire dialogue in your constructed language. Instead:

Option A: Tag and Translate

“Aqele asaar,” she whispered. Peace upon your house.

This works well when you want to signal cultural depth without overwhelming the reader. Use sparingly for ritual phrases, swears, or proverbs.

Option B: Inferred Meaning via Context

He said something in Old Avelan—sharp and soft like a blade drawn from silk. Whatever it meant, it made her flinch.

The vibe matters more than the word-for-word meaning. Use body language, tone, and character reactions to fill in the blanks.

Option C: In-World Translation

Let the characters do the work:

“He just called me a—what, a cabbage?”

“Not quite. ‘Rot-bellied cabbage-eater.’ It’s an insult where he’s from.”

This adds humor, personality, and builds cultural tension or camaraderie.

3. Think About Code-Switching

When do your characters switch languages? It can signal:

Power: A queen who speaks the enemy’s tongue in negotiations to unsettle them.

Intimacy: Two lovers whispering in their mother tongue.

Alienation: A scholar stuck using broken trade-speech with villagers.

Defiance: A rebel refusing to speak the colonizer’s language.

Let language switching mean something.

4. Explore Attitudes Toward Language

What do people in your world believe about languages?

Is one language considered sacred?

Is another viewed as “dirty,” “low,” or “dangerous”?

Are certain dialects banned?

Is writing restricted to elites?

Is there an ancient, dead language used only in prophecy or magic?

Example:

In your desert empire, magic spells are written in a language only the dead can pronounce. Living mages simulate it with song, but it’s imperfect—hence, unstable magic.

Bonus Exercise: The Babel Scene

Write a scene where two characters must communicate without a shared language. Let them gesture, draw, struggle, misunderstand, and slowly begin to trust. You’ll find tension, comedy, and emotional payoff.

Language is never neutral. It’s memory, identity, and control. Use it like a sword—or a love letter.

[baudouinette]

my masterlist (under construction)

Reading sources of interest (Baldwin IV)

Letter from Baudouin and Sibylle

Letter from Baldwin to Constance of France (1177)

(more letters)

Letter of condolences from Saladin to Baldwin IV after his father, King Amaury’s passing. (1174)

A History of deeds done beyond the sea by William of Tyre

The Leper King and his heirs

I also recommend taking a look at his genealogy/family tree!

You can find it and other pertinent trees in the Leper King and his heirs as well.

ONE OF THE FIRST OR THE FIRST FIC OF BALDWIN

I saw in comments and messages, both here and on TikTok, that there’s been some new people joining the community, and asking me for pointers on a variety of related subjects, so I wanted to offer a few of my fav starting places for reading real documents of the time. And others to gain a little perspective of the real side of things.

Add your own sources and resources! I would add more myself, but I don’t have time to look through my 400+ open tabs and remember it all lmaooo but I will update this into a masterlist along the way if u wish :3 (and if you know of better quality alternatives to the ones I’ve linked lmk)

Edit: give me some time and I will sporadically update with my resources. They’re just super scattered and some I just forget about because they’re from ages ago. So I might have to dig.

Seguramente traduciré al español algunos de estos documentos, si están interesados 🤍

In [ ] are some of the things that still need to be linked or redacted (many others are still not even mentioned)

Crusades/Kingdom of Jerusalem resources

•The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem C. R. Conder

•The feudal nobility and the kingdom of Jerusalem, 1174-1277

•Feudal monarchy in the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, 1100 to 1291

•Frankish rural settlement in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem

Crusader Bible

1st, 2nd, 3rd crusades (YT)

Crusader orders (YT)

Order of Saint Lazarus (would like to add my own. Give me time lol)

Templar ≠ Crusader (YT)

Templar armor and weapons (YT)

General medieval resources (gear + clothing, weaponry, etc)

[one-handed knightly swords (later called arming swords)]

Ewart Oakeshott: Western Sword Typology info: links [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] (a brief consideration of interpreting and rationalizing typology, the logic and common sense of applying them within a historical context—in this video)

The sword in the age of chivalry

A knight and his weapons

A knight and his armor

A Knight and his horse

[Scimitar typology]

Modern History TV (YT)

Scholagladiatoria

Shadiversity (YT)

Helmets (give Baldwin a helmet, for the Lord’s sake)

Chainmail & gambesons (YT)

Common garments (YT)

12th century women's fashion (YT)

Medieval clothing terms

Medieval medicine (YT)

Hygene (YT) (can't find the video rn)

Old French language resources

Dictionnaire de l’ancien français

Petite syntaxe de l’ancien français

A breakdown of Yvain le chevalier

La chanson de Roland (YT)

The sound of Old French (YT)

Old French playlist

To make my phrases and translations quickly, I use wiktionary :)

Facts to take into consideration:

Castles: Typically, get used to forgetting that bare stone look. This could be true for new/hastily constructed castles and fortifications. But established infrastructure would be lime-washed/plastered. Many times painted. Many times colorful. On the inside, too—n they would be decorated, and full of tapestries. The more important a lordship (and where more often the King would pass through (royal castles)) and the more wealthy an area, the more true this would be. Churches would be colorful too. Painted with many motifs and icons. Mosaics can be included in your descriptions in many places too. Some Roman—or Greek, some Byzantine, some local.

Church of the Holy Sepulcher

"Catapults" & trebuchets

[Water supply/distribution/availability] / diseases associated

[General supply of goods to the Kingdom] —ports like Jaffa, Akka, Ascalon, Beirut, Tyr.

[The city of Jerusalem in contrast to the movie]

Royal Court:

Officers of the Kingdom of Jerusalem:

Constable: (second) in command of the army, judged military legal cases, paid mercenaries. On coronations, he held the King’s horse.

(1152-1179) Onfroi II de Toron

(1179-1194) Aimery de Lusignan

Marshal: next-in-command to constable. In charge of the military horses and mercenaries. He assisted the constable in coronations.

(c. 1179) “John”

(c. 1179) Gérard de Ridefort

Seneschal: managed the finances and royal castles, presided the haute cour in king’s absence. He administered the coronation ceremony.

(c. 1176) “Ralph”

(1176-1190) Josselin III d’Edesse

Chamberlain: in charge of the royal household and chambers, and servants. Had many other honorary or unofficial duties. Had to be of the utmost discretion. He would robe the king on coronation day.

(1175-1178) Amaury de Lusignan

(c. 1179) “John”

(c. 1184) “Raymond”

(1183-1185) Balian d’Ibelin

Butler: In charge of the royal table and vineyards.

(1185-1196) “Miles”

Chancellor: drew up deeds and charters and managed the diplomatic service. Usually clergymen.

(1174-1183) Guillaume de Tyr

(c. 1177) “Lambert”

Bailiff: regent in case of absence or minority of the legitimate ruler.

(1173-1177) Raymond III de Tripoli

(1177) Renaud de Châtillon

(1183-1185) Guy de Lusignan

Viscount and Castellan: Keeping criminality in check and administering justice. Not of high importance. Sometimes both offices were occupied by one person.

Castellan:

Rohard de Jaffa (1165-1177)

Balian de Jaffa (1178)

Peter of Creseto (1178)

Royal physician(s)

My stories:

Heaven Can’t Wait (Baldwin x OC)

Vide Cor Meum (Baldwin x time traveler OC) (assassin’s creed inspired)

REPEL (Baldwin x leper OC) (Greek tragedy style)

Sidi Mansour (Saladin x OC)

To be published:

Dragons of Outremer/d’Outremer: a dragon fantasy AU inspired by ASOIAF and HTTYD in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. OC is a Zoroastrian Kurd with ties to Iran & Armenia.

He cries tears of silver: ‘Modern’ AU one-shot. Baldwin x blind OC

[Sultan AU]

ART/Find me on:

My DeviantArt

My Pinterest

My instagram

My Youtube

[xoxocher]

𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

SUMMARY -  chris hartley shows up every time you call—no matter how late it is or how flimsy your excuse. he still thinks he’s just helping you pass chemistry. tonight, you’re more than willing to show him just how much you appreciate his dedication.

PAIRING/SETTING - fem!reader x tutor!chris hartley. no prank au. college au. no use of y/n. 

WARNINGS - graphic sexual material (love a good bj), strong language, and chemistry (literal).

W/C - 1,758

A/N - sorry this took for-fucking-ever! anyhoo, here's another love letter to my chris girlies ♥︎ (p.s. to my lovelies sending me requests, i pinky swear that i will get around to answering them, so please hang in there!) btdubs, my taglist and general writing masterlist are up and running!! check my navigation for more info :)

it’s nearing midnight. your room is dim, lit only by the soft yellow cast of a desk lamp and the muted glow from the streetlight outside your window. the remnants of a burnt out candle linger in the air. everything feels hushed. suspended.  

the silence is broken by a gentle knock at the door. you shuffle across the carpet, your pulse thrumming with excitement as you reach for the handle. 

chris stands with his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, nose warmed with a subtle blush from the crisp fall air, greeting you with a tender, tight-lipped smile. one that melts the quiet chill of your apartment. 

“hey,” he mutters softly, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. there’s a tiredness in his eyes–a testament to the unreasonable hour–but he’s here, because you called. 

“hi” you echo, stepping aside to let him in. “didn’t wanna bother you this late, but i just…i can’t seem to wrap my head around this shit.”

his expression softens. “you’re never a bother.” 

you pad back to your bedroom. he drops his bag at the foot of the bed, toeing off his scuffed sneakers before settling beside you. he shrugs off his jacket and bends down to rummage through his belongings.

“you know,” he starts, “you don’t have to make up excuses. if you wanted to see me, you could’ve just said so.”

his forwardness catches you off guard.

he chuckles under his breath. “i’m kidding. mostly.”

but the truth was there, unspoken. 

and he had come running, like always.

“here,” he says, leaning closer, the faint scent of cedar and detergent clinging to his skin. “let’s see if we can make some sense of this.”

chris shuffles through his notes, the soft scratch of pen on paper filling the room. you pretend to study the scrawled diagrams and equations on the page, but in truth, you’ve been too busy studying him: the way his bottom lip pulls between his teeth as he considers his words, the flex of his forearms as he steadies the notebook against his thigh. 

“so, when you’re dealing with molecular orbital theory, you have to remember the principles of constructive and destructive interference-” he rambles on, tracing over each wave and shape to emphasize his point. 

he glances up at you to check for understanding. “so if…um, do you…you’re following this?”

you shake your head, forcing your gaze to meet his. “uh yeah, totally. all good.” you bite at the inside of your cheek, your tone more hopeful than convincing.

he squints at you, “sure you’re okay? you’ve been kinda…spacey.”

you perk up at his accusation, “sorry, just…processing.”

his thumb rolls at the paper’s edge. “i can go over it again if you want…or we could just take a break? i mean, if you’re done for the night i wouldn’t blame-” 

you wave him off, “no, no–continue. talk nerdy to me.” 

he clears his throat, cheeks coloring slightly. “o-okay, just slow me down if it’s too much.”

the sincerity in his voice tugs at your heartstrings.

“so, if we’re calculating the energy levels, you use the secular determinant to find the eigenvalues—those correspond to the molecular orbital energies-”

you nod along, but his words continue to blur together–each one melting into the next until they’re background noise against the louder pull of your wandering thoughts.

you have to cut in.  

“you’re really patient with me, you know that?”

he pauses, pen hovering over the paper to shoot you a curious look. 

“wh-what?”

you lean back on your hands, head tilting slightly as you study him in the low, warm light of your bedroom. his brow is furrowed, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, hair falling forward like it always does when he’s too focused to fix it.

“you’ve been sitting here for an hour. no complaints. not even when i give you that stupid, blank look.”

he ducks his head a little, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck. “you asked for help. just doing my job.”

“i ask for help a lot,” you point out, lips quirking. “and it’s not exactly ‘a job’ if you aren’t being compensated.”

you think back to the handful of times you’d offered–cash, coffee, dinner, anything. but he’d always refuse with that same boyish smile, that same small shake of the head like the idea of taking anything from you felt wrong. like your time was worth more than his. and he never let you push the issue. 

too kind. too stubborn. too chris.

“just saying,” you shrug, “kiiinda feels like i’m using you.”

“i don’t mind,” he interjects. “seriously. it’s not a big deal–i want you to pass. and–uh–it’s kinda nice. being needed, i guess.” his voice trails off at the end, sheepish.

you cock your head at him, unconvinced.

“yeah? you do this for your other clients?” 

he begins rapidly tapping his pen against his notebook, eyes darting to the page like it might offer him an escape route. “well no, i don’t really have time for anyone else, but that’s not-”

you roll your eyes with a loud, almost theatrical scoff.

“god, you’re too good to me,” you reach across the space between you and place your hand gently atop his, stilling the frantic motion of his pen.“ and i don’t think i’ve properly thanked you.”

he opens his mouth—probably to deflect, to assure you that it’s nothing, or you don’t owe him anything—but the words die on his tongue when your hand comes up to cup his jaw.

“come on chrissy,” you coax, playfully pinching his chin between your fingers. “let me take care of you.”

the anxious little scrunch between his brows lingers for a beat longer, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t protest. he stays still–watching you, trusting you–even as you rise to your knees and shift into his lap, your thighs straddling his. your fingers find their way in the mess of his hair, threading through the tousled strands. then, you carefully adjust his glasses, fingers coming down to cradle his face, before pressing your lips to his. 

a moment of sweet fragility. 

 his fingers drift like leaves on an autumn breeze, too afraid to settle. but every drag of his mouth over yours, a slow burn that leaves you both aching for more, draws him further out of his own head and into the moment, into you.

what starts as soft and uncertain quickly melts into something far less innocent–hunger born where hesitation once lingered. his breath shudders against your lips as he holds you tighter, the world falling away in the delicious, heady rhythm of tongue and teeth. 

you part from his mouth with a sigh, but you don’t stray far–trailing your lips down the pale stretch of his throat to lightly nip at the delicate skin. a low, needy whimper slips past his lips as you roll your hips over the swell in his jeans. 

“jesus,” he pants, voice frayed with disbelief and arousal. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you giggle at his flustration. “not yet,” you tease.

you sink to the floor, fingers deft on the button of his jeans. you ease the denim down along with his boxers, savoring the hitch in his breath as you peel everything away. his cock springs free, tapping softly against his stomach–thick, flushed, and glistening at the tip. you can’t help but stare. 

no one’s dick should be this pretty. 

you wrap your fingers around him, featherlight at first. he twitches in your grasp, and you watch, transfixed, as your thumb swipes over his head, smearing the small beads of precum. you stroke him once, then again, slow and sure, relishing in his reaction—his thighs tensing, a sharp exhale cutting through the thick silence of your bedroom. 

“are you–ah~s-sure? you don’t have t–” 

you answer not with words but action, leaning in to lick a single, deliberate stripe up the underside of his cock. he jolts forward, head tipping back as your lips part around him. 

when you lift your gaze to meet his–eyes wide and glassy–his mouth falls open in a silent gasp, undone by the sight of you on your knees for him. his hands fist the sheets at his sides, knuckles white, chest rising in uneven breaths. 

“h-holy shit. o-okay yeah, you’re sure. i get it.” 

your mouth works him steadily, cheeks hollowing as your tongue traces along each pulse with flat, firm strokes. you can’t take all of him–the stretch making your jaw ache–but you give what you can. your hand–slick with the drool that drips down your chin and pools at his base–pumps what you can’t quite fit. 

you take his hand, guiding it to your hair, anchoring him there. his fingers curl in the strands, tugging ever so slightly as his hips instinctively buck upward. you hum around him in approval, the vibration pulling a ragged moan from his chest. and when your free hand drifts between your legs, you don’t bother hiding it–dipping down into your panties to soothe your own ache–but chris certainly doesn’t mind.

“fu-uuck you’re unreal.” 

sweat begins to collect in a thin sheen across his forehead, lashes fluttering as his eyes roll back into his skull. 

oh what a beautiful mess you’ve made of this man. 

even now, he’s gentle—or trying to be, at least–slowing his thrusts to mutter sweet little apologies every now and then. but when he inevitably hits the back of your throat, you feel a sting at the corners of your eyes. you blink through it, tears trailing down your cheeks as you take him deeper, sinking into the pain. his soft, broken whines–like music to your ears–are all the motivation you need.

“ungh~gonna–mph–cum.”

his release is sudden and overwhelming. warm ropes of cum shoot down your throat in thick waves that leave him shaking and slack-jawed. you swallow him down, milking every last drop, before coming up to place a few kisses and kitten licks to his sensitive tip. he hisses at the overstimulation, already shuddering in the aftershock. 

you carefully tuck him back into his boxers and crawl up into his lap, licking over your lips before planting a lazy kiss on his. it’s slow and sticky, his taste still lingering on your tongue as you part his lips and let him share it. he groans low and warm against your mouth, breath gradually slowing as his high fades.

“think you broke my brain.” he huffs with a dopey grin.  “good,” you beam, gently patting his cheek. “you’ve been using it too hard.”

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