#if i do read it it needs to be something i'm not required to do

[thealchemistbae]

Signs as Unpopular Opinions 💭

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thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

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💭: ARIES thinks everyone's too soft. Like sorry you need 12 business days and a TED talk to make a decision. Aries would simply just do it and cause mild chaos but at least something HAPPENED.

💭: TAURUS will literally fight you over the idea that brunch is elite. They want steak at 5pm, in sweats, no social interaction required.

💭: GEMINI believes liking attention doesn't make you fake; it makes you self-aware and marketable. If you can't flirt, gossip, and network all at once, wyd????

💭: CANCER will unironically tell you that cutting people off is an act of radical self-love. You were a bad vibe, Goodbye forever.

💭: LEO is fully convinced that "main character syndrome" was created by side characters who are jealous. If you're not living delusionally like a Leo, wyd.

💭: VIRGO believes being organized is a love language and if you can't alphabetize your own trauma, they literally don't trust you.

💭: LIBRA honestly feels closure is optional. If they leave you on read, consider that the closure.

💭: SCORPIO is like "If I lurk, that's MY hobby. You post your life; I'm just tuning in like it's Netflix."

💭: SAGITTARIUS will scream about how commitment isn't scary. being bored is. They'd rather ghost you than sit through one dry convo.

💭: CAPRICORN will die on the hill that hustle culture is only toxic if you're losing. Winners just call it Tuesday.

💭: AQUARIUS feels deep in their soul that being different is not a personality trait unless you're actually interesting, which they obviously are.

💭: PISCES genuinely believes that staying delulu protects their peace and honestly, they might be onto something.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

[shadow--writer]

And I'm Ashamed of Running Away

Title

Strained relationships coming to a head with the Magnae Accessio around the corner. 3.8k

Aka Heinrix "I am way too horny to be talking to this woman right now" van Calox

He marched through the halls of the palace, the whole damn planet was abuzz with talk of the Rogue Trader’s coming Magnae Accessio, Maeve’s Magnae Accessio. In his hand he clutched a piece of parchment, the most pristine summons she had ever sent to him. Normally they got to him half burnt and falling apart. 

He had no time to be part of her circus, his summons from Calcazar burning a hole in his pocket. It was a smaller parchment, a crumpled up note tucked into his palm by a servant in the palace. Regardless of his prior arrangements there was one thing on his mind as he made his way to her chambers. 

Why? 

Why would she have him of all people be beside her during the most important ceremony of her life? It was astounding the idea didn’t need to be shot into her. Every time he was near her it looked like she would rather burn alive than talk to him, yet here she was placing him at her hand freely. Summoning him to be part of the ceremony required them to be by one another for a whole day. They would have to survive a whole day of nobles, parties and people watching them without trying to kill one another. It was easier said than done. 

His footsteps were the only sound in the halls, save for the slight hum of machinery of the servitors and the quiet whispers of nosy maids. She was the strangest thing, and whenever he thought he had a read on her she went and did something stupid. 

This, having him part of her ceremony, was foolish. And he needed to know why, and what was going on in that head of hers. She knew how he would react, that’s why she dropped the notice on him not even twelve hours before the event was to start. She was counting on the late notice to keep him from doing something equally as foolish. 

The summons came as he was undressing for bed, and in his haste he left behind his cloak and pauldrons, making him feel oddly vulnerable as he approached the door to her chambers. It was like she was going to be able to see right through him now. The thought made him sweat a bit under the collar. Their relationship had…changed a bit since their time on the Jungle Planet. Her words had less bite to them, and he found himself less willing to engage in trading barbs with her. Maybe that shift changed something in her, making her more…open to him. Maybe that was the reason she wanted him to be part of this. 

Or maybe she just wanted him to play sacrificial lamb in the case of an assassination. 

He knocked on her chamber’s door, backing down a step, wondering if he should just tolerate the orders and leave her to sleep. She was likely winding down for bed now, he wondered if she had done anything to prepare for the ceremony. Would she have devices in her hair to give it shape? The thought was so outrageous he almost laughed. 

On the other side of the door there was the sound of paper rustling, a pause before soft footsteps made their way closer. He masked his surprise of her being awake at this hour, trying to keep his expression neutral. He was doing exactly what she had feared he would do, and was being foolish. 

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he knew he just wanted to see her once, just once, before it all began and she had a role to play. 

The door swung open inward, and there the Lord Captain stood, with the familiar annoyed look on her face. Her nose wrinkled more at the sight of him, cocking her head to the side, and she had her hands on her hips as she jutted her chin up at him. She had no devices in her hair, nothing on her skin to make it shiny besides sweat, but there was a flush to her cheeks that told him she had been drinking. 

And Emperor above she was clad in nothing but a thin silk robe that barely came down to her thighs. The way the silk was sliding down her shoulder revealing more ghostly skin, he knew she was just in the robe. She was tying the belt around her waist still, keeping the knot loose. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a cascade of wet curls, her bangs stuck to her forehead with the bathwater. The silver streak shone like silver coins, nearly glowing in the candle light that illuminated her hair like a halo. 

He averted his gaze to preserve her modesty, hands clasped behind his back as he straightened. “Lord Captain.”

At his gesture she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “If I had come out naked would you have melted? You’re lucky I put the damn thing on before I answered the door.” She tilted her head to the side, more of her hair falling over her bare shoulder, expression remaining sour. “What do you want?”

He wanted a multitude of things and the line between them was her. 

He said none of those things, keeping his eyes on the wall above her head. “I got your summons for the morning. You want me to be part of your Magnae Accessio. I want to know why.” The words came out of his mouth in a jumbled mess. He looked back down at her, trying to relax his shoulders a bit. 

She sighed. “Here I thought they got that to you while you were sleeping.”

“I had things to finish before the morning.”

She let out another little sigh, brushing some of her hair behind her ear before she opened the door wider. “Come in then, we can discuss it over a drink.” She looked down at his feet and wrinkled her nose a little. “You will be taking those off before you enter, however.”

He looked down to where she was, and then back at her. “My boots?”

She looked unamused, shifting her weight to one leg with a hand on that hip. The robe slid further down her shoulder. “No. Your pants,” she said dryly, raising a brow. “Of course your boots. I will not have anyone muck up my floors with their shoes.”

There was a short pause before he slowly bent down to unlace his boots. She watched him and from this angle when she blinked he could see where her lashes brushed her cheeks. 

He looked away from her, pulling one boot off and then its twin. 

“I have a place you can put those,” she said, moving further into her chamber. He grabbed his shoes, getting to his feet and following her inside. He felt more vulnerable without his shoes, the plush carpet soft under his feet. 

He set his boots aside as she shut the door behind them, cursing about nosy servants. 

He took a moment to look around. The office as a whole was rather untouched, no traces of Maeve other than the painting of her predecessor being taken off the wall and turned around to lean against a bookcase. Like she didn’t want Theodora watching her. He was pulled out of his musings as to the answer by her swaying in front of him, leading him to the desk in the center of the room. 

She knocked papers onto the floor, sliding backwards to sit on the desk with her legs crossed in front of her, showing more skin than he was used to seeing from anyone. The robe had slipped just enough to show the curve of her breast and a smattering of freckles and that’s when he knew he was in much too deep. It had hiked up to show more of her thighs, the muscles flexing as she shifted around, now holding a glass with a small amount of amber liquid. 

“That doesn’t look like amasec,” he said, trying to offer some sort of pleasantry, trying to find some sort of distraction from the way she looked like she was almost glowing and how if it pleased her all she had to do to be his undoing was untie her belt, standing in front of her a few steps from her knees. His collar felt like it was getting smaller, nearly choking him.

She took a swig from the glass, draining what was left inside. The glass landed against wood seemed to echo in the silence as she swallowed. She smiled at him, and there was nothing sweet about it. “That’s because it’s not. I do not drink amasec. If I wanted to drink something and not get drunk I would just drink tea.”

The statement drew his eyebrow up. “Do you have a high tolerance for liquor, Lord Captain?” He could smell the drink from here, it was a foul thing, all sharp notes and nothing of comfort in it. It was a madman’s drink, he assumed. Something someone only drank to not feel anything at all. He wondered what brought her to be drinking it. 

She poured more of that amber looking drink, and produced a second glass for him. She didn’t look exactly…thrilled about giving him a small cut of her supply, but he took the glass before she rethought it. It smelled even worse up close, but out of politeness he accepted. 

“You could say that,” she began, swishing the liquor around for a moment. “Where I come from there are competitions to drink the most and the fastest without falling on your face.” A sip. He couldn’t help but watch her mouth. She was smiling. “I bet I could drink your ass under the table, if you don’t cheat.”

He chuckled, there was a tinge of humour to the sound. “I’d be surprised if you could.” He knocked back the drink she gave him, draining the glass and fighting to keep his composure from how…foul it tasted. It made his nose burn and it set his stomach on fire. It tasted exactly how it smelled.

He coughed into his hand, trying to ignore the smug look on her face. 

“Still feel that way?”

He swallowed, letting out a tiny wheeze. “It…takes some getting used to, but I’m confident I could beat you.”

She laughed and it was the damndest thing. It was the first laugh directed at him that wasn’t entirely mocking. It didn’t sound like sweet bells, no it sounded more like a dying hog with feminine tones, but it was rather…human of her. 

His ears warmed and he turned away from her. 

“I will have to take you up on that challenge, van Calox.” She held out the bottle, a stout thing with clear glass. She tilted her head and raised a brow at his hesitation. “It’s not often I allow someone to drink from my personal collection, take the peace offering before I blow your head off.” Her gun was on the desk behind her, beside a plate with something half eaten. 

He held out his glass, brows furrowing as he watched her. She was moving more fluidly than someone who had been drinking this heavily would be. Let alone drinking something like…this. 

“How long have you been awake? You should be asleep.”

“And if I was?”

“If you were, I doubt you would have answered the door.”

She blew a piece of her hair out of her face. “I also have things to finish before the morning…festivities.” Her nails were tapping lightly on her glass almost rhythmically. Letting her nerves slip for just a moment, and only a moment. As quickly as she let it happen, it was gone. 

“Why do you want me to be part of your Magnae Accessio?” he asked softly, her arm pausing from where it was pouring him another glass. She had filled it a tad more full this time, just under halfway. It would be more than enough for him and he was dreading the headache he was going to have to fix in the morning. 

She pulled her arm back, setting the bottle down and staring into her glass. “It’s a good look to have someone from the inquisition by my side, and Abelard will be with his family, as they were who I picked to represent my line.” She looked at him, her gaze hard. “And don’t flatter yourself too much now, Cassia will also be with me.”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of it.” He didn’t know if her lie was more so for his sake or her own. He drank from his glass, trying not to wrinkle his nose. 

He must’ve not been very successful because there was a smile on her face. “You are a stubborn fool, you know that?”

He coughed. “It’s part of what makes me a good soldier to the God Emperor.”

“Is that all you are?” she asked, drinking again and draining the glass in a swallow. It was almost impressive, like she was trying to get through the bottle in one night. She didn’t move to refill her glass, just peering at him. “I think being a good soldier is a rather boring look for you. And being an interrogator is an ugly one.” He knew how their meeting looked, but she never would understand why he did the work he did, clouded with her own predisposed judgments. He knew with the scars of an interrogation looked like, and what something akin to torture looked like. The line was blurred quite often for him. 

She rubbed the metal plating on her cheek for a moment before setting her glass back down on the desk, making no moves to refill it. 

He stiffened at her words. “It may bore you but I am quite happy with my role in this world, Rogue Trader.”

She sighed. “Of course you are. You have all these talents and you waste them spouting about our Emperor, and your lord Inquisitor.” The mention nearly made him flinch, the note in his pocket seeming to weigh him down further. “Does it ever bore you? To be a dog for your master, waiting at his heels in the wings?” She slid off the desk, the robe rising for a moment before falling back to her mid-thigh. He was trying not to stare, truly, he was. 

She walked over to him, her hips swaying in the ever familiar way, a fire burning in her eyes. The air grew warmer around them, stifling. “I did not ask for my part to play in this world,” she said after a moment, standing close to him, peering upwards through her lashes and her damp hair. “And neither did you.”

She had the most beautiful face, and her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol. He found himself staring into her eyes, so dark blue they almost looked black. One moment of softness and clarity did very little to soften her feelings for him, it seemed. 

“Yet I accept my role, and I play it well,” he responded. 

Her eyes flicked up and down his form. He took a drink. 

“Yes,” she hissed through her lips. “You do.” There was no respect in her words. “Surprising no one has thanked you for it yet.”

His lip curled upwards, just a tad. Every time he thought they would come to an agreement she had to remind him of her distaste for him. “Watch your words, Lord Captain. I will not stand for your mocking tone.”

Another head tilt, a bored expression. “How can you stand when you’re always on your knees for your master?”

He visibly stiffened, the air getting noticeably colder around them. Goosebumps rose on her exposed skin but she didn’t back down from her stance. Her warmth and his ice were fighting, making the air around them muggy. His hair was starting to stick to his skin. 

“You and I are no different from each other,” he said to her, voice lowering to almost a whisper. “Remember that when you mock my work.”

She rose more on her toes to be more nose to nose with him. Her breath smelled like liquor and something sweet. A citrus pastry, he realized. That was the thing sitting half eaten on her desk, she must’ve been eating before something interrupted her. 

Someone. 

“The difference between you and I is that I kill my prey outright and you have no mercy in your heart for someone you deem lesser.” The words were so soft, much softer than the blow they had inflicted. 

“If you detest me so much, why have me for your Magnae Accessio? You have more…likeable people to choose from.”

“Because it’s a good look for me to have you by my side.”

“That’s not it.” He leaned closer to her, the tips of their noses brushing. “You don’t care about appearances.”

“This is my entrance into the world as the heir to the von Valancius dynasty, I care about that appearance.” Her words came out much smoother than they usually did. 

Others didn’t notice the twitch to her lips when she barked out orders, the shakiness to her breathing as something was put into action. 

But he noticed. He saw. He was always right by her, reading her every emotion. 

Right now he found none of those tells, just a stubborn jut to her chin, narrowed eyes and an awful distracting choice of attire for this conversation. 

He liked to think of himself as a gentleman but it was taking everything in him to not look down.

“I thought you would be overjoyed with my choice,” she said, each word biting. “Keep an eye on the heretical Rogue Trader? That would keep your company happy and your leash loose, wouldn’t it?”

“You are very close to testing my patience, Lord Captain.”

Her expression was the same as it was in battle, it made him a little, admittedly, nervous. “What? Am I causing you trouble?” she spat. “I am not going to roll over and let you do whatever you want. You are part of my crew, on my ship, and you are going to like being part of my Magnae Accessio. You will smile and wave, and do as your captain tells you.”

He grit his teeth. “You do not have authority over me.”

She smiled, like a fox would at a rabbit, eyes moving across his face, enjoying how far she had dug herself under his skin. 

“On board my ship and in my city on my planet? Yes. I do. You are going to heel when I tell you to heel, bark when I tell you to bark, and you are going to like it.”

There was an odd feeling growing in his gut, he didn’t know what it was but he knew he shouldn’t be having this feeling. 

It was almost arousal. He should find the feeling disgusting and banish it to the recesses of his psyche. But he didn’t.

So it grew. 

“I have no interest in exchanging barbed words with you,” he murmured. She pursed her lips for a moment, letting her expression soften. “But know this. I will follow you but I am doing it to keep you out of trouble. One wrong move and I will be on you like a hound on the hunt, is that understood, Rogue Trader?”

She sank back down onto her heels, narrowing her eyes and inspecting him for a moment. She smoothed her hands down the front of her robe, doing nothing for his growing problem, in fact, the action made it worse, drawing his eyes downward. 

Then to his surprise she was pulling on his rosette, pulling him back close, her eyes steely. This was the most confident in herself and her power he’d ever seen her and he knew he should be furious about it but she just left him speechless. 

“And if you slip up and do something to sully the reputation I have built for myself I will throw you out into my hunting grounds and hunt you for sport for real, is that clear?”

He swallowed, staring at her without hiding his surprise. Somewhere he wondered what it would be like to close the gap and kiss her. He knew she would likely get angry, slap him, scream at him, or just plain kill him. Yet…it didn’t stop him from wondering what it would be like if she kissed him back.

She had caught Calcazar’s attention, and he couldn’t help but be concerned for her. If she was as brazen with Calcazar as she was with him…Throne the cleanup would be a headache. 

And yet…she still wanted him to be part of the ceremony. What she was feeding him was groxshit, but he wasn’t going to get the real answer out of her without breaking a few fragile barriers of trust.

“Yes. Lord Captain.” 

She let go of his rosette, stepping back enough for him to straighten. Her hair was still damp, the curls looking unmanageable already. Her face softened from the look into something more neutral. Pleasant. 

“I’m glad we have come to an agreement. Was that all?” She pulled her hair over one shoulder to comb through it with her fingers. She was infuriating, incorrigible, yet he could no longer find any anger in his heart that would be directed at her. He was fostering a forbidden affection for her, and had been since they stumbled upon those rodents on the Jungle Planet, when she let her guard down just enough for him to see her for what she truly was. 

He bowed his head, then his shoulders. His next words were chosen carefully, picked specifically to get under her skin in a way that was different from their verbal sparring. “That is all, trouble.”

She let out a little choked noise and it made him feel obscene. 

“Y…you may go then,” she sputtered out, clearing her throat. “You are dismissed.” There was a pause as they stared at one another, he handed her his glass. She cupped her hand around it. “Make sure you are quick with your biomancy. I cannot imagine the headache you are going to have when you wake.”

She turned to move away from him, and it was as if his body acted on its own, desperate to touch her. He made a grab for her free hand, making her startle as she turned around to look at him with wide eyes, hand clasped in his. She made no moves to remove it, allowing him to raise her arm to press a soft kiss against her knuckles. The hand holding the cup was pressed to her nearly-bare chest, her breathing coming out softly through her nose. 

“I will see you in the morning, Lord Captain,” he murmured against her skin before letting her hand drop. 

[librarycards]

I like your point about something being "pretentious," because I also think the term is used only to silence people who are bringing around important ideas.

I've seen you defend the complexity of academic writing in disability studies, which I also love and advocate for. I'm curious, however, about how you make space for people with intellectual disabilities, reading disorders, and other disabilities that make it a lot more difficult to parse overly academic writing. I remember this came up for me specifically when I was reading Jaspir Puar's "The Right to Maim." It's complex, necessarily so, but I found it deeply inaccessible.

I wonder, can disability studies truly be inclusive if it conforms to norms of academic complexity while sacrificing readability and engagement directed towards individuals with intellectual disabilities? I don't know if there's an answer, and I'd love to hear of any recommended reading you have on making space for people who exist outside of traditional modes of academic knowledge and research in a field as diverse as disability justice and Mad studies.

this is a common question, and i'll try my best to do it justice here -

first and foremost, it's important to remember that disability studies is not an activist project, nor is it one primarily concerned with providing social/academic support to individual disabled people per se. it's an academic discipline with roots in critical theory, queer theory, and literary/cultural studies, with its own intellectual genealogy, roster of normative terms, and citational background. when people -- puar, for instance -- write books like 'right to maim,' they're not writing for a general audience, disabled or non-. they're writing for colleagues and students interested in a particular set of arguments, drawing on a particular set of sources, and operating under the assumption that one has already done the (disability studies, ethnic studies, (post)colonial studies) readings - and, if you haven't, that you'll avail yourself of the lit review portion before engaging deeply with the book.

in short, part of the issue many people have when it comes to disability studies and their frustrations with it is that they do not take it seriously as an academic discipline among other academic disciplines. being disabled doesn't make me a disability studies expert any more than being a human makes me an anthropologist. the inaccessibility, as it were, of disability studies is a result of its specialization. this specialization isn't a bad thing - it's what happens when a field has been built over generations, on the shoulders of earlier fields, and requires extensive background knowledge to engage with. there's really no way around that when it comes to niche scholarly disciplines about things deliberately obfuscated in "normal life." this doesn't mean that nothing can be done to support wider uptake of CDS ideas among activists beyond the academy, but it does mean that our collective liberation as disabled people cannot and should not rest on universal understanding of or agreement x y or z element of a specific scholarly text.

that brings me to the next question, which is mostly about bringing disability studies scholarship to disabled people outside the academy, especially those whose disabilities make it difficult to access higher education. i don't think there's a way around reading the difficult texts if you want to be well-read and familiar with disability studies - or any other field - simply because people don't use complex language and syntax for no reason. we need to make up words for things that never had words before. fortunately, however, there are ways to introduce difficult concepts stepwise and in community, namely, through coursework - because as much as these texts weren't meant to be read by non-experts, they were also not meant to be read alone.

in my own experience teaching disability studies to classes wherein many, if not most students, are disabled, the best way of introducing these concepts is with regular old pedagogical tools like scaffolding, introducing background reading, approaching topics socratically, and encouraging group discussion informed by outside reading and personal experience. it is often helpful to go sentence-by-sentence and break down a particularly salient paragraph, or return to a particular citation to understand where one author's points link up with another's. one might go from puar back to saïd, for example, and also forward/sideways to mel chen or nirmala erevelles. put simply, i think reading these works together - in classrooms, in groups, in pairs, or even alongside others who have analyzed them before you (there are tons of analytical essays about most of these books on academia.edu/google scholar for example!) is one of the most reliable ways to improve your comprehension, and is certainly the method i use to help students better understand what they're working with.

lastly, and i think most importantly, i want to stress that the way many undergrads are taught to engage with any theoretical discourse is really, really damaging. it's damaging to expect an eighteen-year-old to consume and instantly "get" ideas that take multiple lifetimes' of debate to get worked out, if ever. being confused, not-knowing, asking questions, getting frustrated, taking a break and coming back -- these are approaches which many disabled students in particular have been pathologized for, but are actually the best (and certainly most predictable) responses one can have to a challenging text. i did not understand a lot of puar the first time i read her. i have read right to maim several times now, and am still puzzling over new things. a great deal could be done to support inclusion in all of our fields if abled/sane/NT people would stop bluffing and admit that they get confused, too; what an opportunity for scholarly interdependence that would be.

anyways....that's a long answer about something i'm very passionate about, so thanks for reading if you did! my main advice is to keep chipping away at challenging texts, because the process of reading and comprehending, especially done in community, is worth it, and helps lay the groundwork / build the muscle for engaging more difficult texts in the future.

as far as more disabled/Mad scholars thinking about academic literacies/classroom accessibility, there's Mel Chen, whose recent monograph, Intoxicated, deals with research, brain fog, and cognitive disability; Margaret Price, OG Mad Studies powerhouse, has also written at length about both pedagogical and personal approaches to mental disability in the classroom, and recently published a book called "Crip Spacetime" that is functionally an exposé on academic inaccessibility of all sorts.

I would also like to strongly recommend my beloved friend and colleague Helen Rottier, who does disability studies scholarship and works at a university disability cultural center, typically with IDD students. We co-authored a paper on Mad pedagogy that should be coming out...someday? Publishing is slow. But definitely check her work and I'm sure she'd welcome questions from you if you wanted to reach out!

[idillycrose]

"You're too sweet for me, dear, oh how I am undeserving of you"

GN!reader x Mydeimos

Genre and information:Fluff || Mydei is addressed as Mydeimos. Mydeimos is a sweetheart (whoever thinks the opposite please read about his lore before reading) || This was a small thought I had at school, decided to write it now || I don't know what I'm doing, forgive me for this

You were sitting peacefully on a large, plush sofa, surrounded by a few books and delicacies you picked out for your current rest, a history book in your hand while you ate some [your preferred flavour] crème cake. Your husband, Mydeimos, was out dealing with some royal business and some work, as required from him, being a Chrysos heir and a Crown prince. You looked out the window near you for a bit, sighing. You missed Mydeimos, he made you feel more comfortable in this silence, and he certainly made your time more enjoyable. As you thought of that, he in the meanwhile, was preparing things for you. He finished his meeting early, and currently was in the market, picking out your favourite treats and items, he was planning a whole surprise for you.

After an hour or so, you fell asleep, considering that you haven't slept well during the past week. He took that to his advantage, had the servants make sure you stayed asleep without disturbance, and did his job. He knew how much you craved a homemade meal made by him, but since he was busy lately, you never got to try it, so what did he do? Bring the ingredients for one of the many Kremnoan gourmet meals; Melas Zomos (An ancient greek meal originating from Sparta, it's a black soup made with the purpose of providing the needed nutrients for warriors). He wore his apron, stood near the counter, and began preparing the meal, cutting up the vegetables, preparing the meal, making sure the servants drew away your consciousness from the aroma of the food.

"Well, Hope you're proud, Mother, because Holy Kephale, this is my first time making this. I hope [Name] likes it.."

Mydeimos would mumble to himself while stirring the soup, tasting it to make sure it's to your liking. He was determined, focused, devotion and affection driving his motivation. He even made your favourite treat; Golden Honeycakes. Every detail was taken into consideration, perfected, just for you, by the Mydeimos

He soon came into your shared bedroom, holding a tray full of your anticipated meal and your favourite treats, a smile on his lips, reserved for you. You'd shift at the smell from the food and he sound of his heavy footsteps entering the room, eyes fluttering open and books falling from your chest.

"Good evening, my beloved [Name]. Slept well?" Mydeimos would softly inquire, going over and sitting by your side, his bare hand holding yours, warmth against the chill of your skin. You'd nod, taking a while to fully wake up, which had him chuckle. You were adorable in his eyes, his adorable warrior. "I made you something. I took the time to make sure you'd like this, it's a meal from Kremnos, as you desired days ago"

At that, your eyes shot open, sparkling with anticipation and wonder, a smile growing on your lips. Now that woke you up, a good meal, and in bed? You're not complaining, the opposite, actually "Really? You made it for me?" You'd ask excitedly, which had the Kremnoan nod, placing down the tray. Did you die? Or did you get blessed? The food looked mouthwatering, and boy, you could not wait to devour it, the honeycakes, the soup, the chocolates and sweets, and in bed, you didn't have to lift a finger, not when he did this for you. You almost jumped from how happy you were, a melted smile on your lips. "What did I do to get an amazing husband like you, my dear Mydeimos? I feel so undeserving of you, this is a heaven" you'd drawl out affectionately, picking up your utensils and eating, too immersed in the meal to notice the faint shade of red over his ears. He leaned in and wrapped an arm around your torso, planting a kiss on your forehead, earning a hum of surprise from you.

"you deserve this, the gods only bless those who are worthy of their blessings, my love"

"There isn't a word for "love" in Kremnoan though?"

"for you, I'll add it, because my beloved deserves it"

You went red at his words, flustered. He really held you this high, so dear to him, more than anyone else (of course not over his mother). How you loved him, you were the luckiest person ever

All rights reserved.© Do not copy or steal. If inspired, then credit me with my user @idillycrose

Enjoy!˖⁠⑅

"Strawberries and chocolates, blossoms and winters!"

Also, should I write more or nah?

[pomrania]

Now, under the premise that "horror is comedy from a different perspective"... would what @squishyputty suggested still hold for that?

I need to make two VERY strong disclaimers here, to show how much of a position of ignorance I'm speaking from. First, I've never played anything with an exploding dice system; I've barely even READ stuff that includes it, I'm only 90% sure that I actually understand what it is. Second, I do not enjoy horror. It's an intensely unpleasant sensation for me, thus a) I do my best to avoid engaging with it when played straight, so I don't have much experience with it, and b) I have no first-hand knowledge of what makes "horror" enjoyable to the people who like it. There is thus a very strong chance that whatever I say here will not actually be applicable.

From what I've gathered, an important aspect of "horror" is the uncertainty. You don't know what's going on, or what to do about it, or if something will work. And that also needs to include "hope", because if you KNOW that there's no chance, then there's no point in trying, which gives a sort of peace of its own.

With that, I think that system would work here too. If you know there's ALWAYS a CHANCE, then your character is more likely to take risks; and the more risks you take, the greater the chance you doom yourself, or otherwise do something Very Unfortunate.

I think... aside from lore and tone expectations, the biggest change you'd have to make is recalibrating what "good" or "bad" outcomes look like. Where you can only get the heights of "this problem is solved" with the extremes of "we now have a worse problem". You might or might not want to shift all outcomes towards "bad for the character/s", but "miracle" results should either be minor, or create a real question of if it's a frying-pan/fire situation.

I think that for horror, it'd work better to have the focus on "skills" instead of "stats". Depending on how things are set up, that might result in characters whose skills aren't ideally suited to deal with the problem at hand; I consider that a benefit, as it's one way to make them feel "powerless" without making them ACTUALLY powerless, plus "when all you have is a hammer" tends to result in either Creativity or Causing Yourself Problems. However, this approach would definitely require something being explicitly stated about it, so the PLAYERS don't end up frustrated; and it might just plain be a bad idea overall, I'll defer to anyone with experience in the matter.

Full Nuance Saturday: Explain what system of checks (something like d20 roll over, Xd6 keep highest, d100 roll under) would fit best for a genre of your choice

Your answer should be 500-1000 words long

[fictionadventurer]

Potential September Reading

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien (ideally in audio)

An English Squire by Christabel R. Coleridge

A Sherlock Holmes story (and/or a screen adaptation)

C.S. Lewis nonfiction

A sensation or mystery novel

A piece of one of the Psmith stories

Some kind of nonfiction book

[fondfamilies]

love final season(s?) therapised-reid talking about who he is or could be outside of his job - the farm with cows, the fungi talk about how he grows, going out to meet someone unrelated to his work :') GOOD he needed that

[madtomedgar]

I know this is probably ~problematic ~ of me or whatever but I do really hate it when someone who is usually disabled in some other way starts talking about a disability that I have as if it precludes one from doing [things I am very much capable of doing or expectations I am held to] and then when I point out that I actually have this disability and am able to do x, because this disability does not in fact necessarily prevent one from doing x, I either get A Look (the Wow I Can't Believe I Thought You Were A Safe Person, Yikes look) or I get some fuckass argument about how I'm not a representative sample, or just because I can do it doesn't mean everyone else can, or well it's different/harder for them, or, my favorite, am I really sure I actually have that disability because as far as they can tell I don't really seem like I do... (evidence being that I can like. Read or hold a conversation or something else they assumed everyone with my diagnosis was incapable of). And like. Idk what happened to respecting lived experience and listening to the people who have that diagnosis and not assuming people are incapable based on disability?

[glimblshanks]

It's so difficult, because I genuinely do want to understand what the whole deal with Christianity is, but Christians are so apposed to any line of questioning about their belief system (in a way that no other religion is) that if you say anything they don't like they shut down and accuse you of being a sinner.

And it's like bro, I'm not trying to be insulting, I'm trying to understand why this religion is even appealing to you. How do you manage to get so many converts when you're not even willing to answer basic questions about your theology?

Everyone I've found who's actually willing to discuss Christian theology with me is an ex-Christian which is super unhelpful, because ex-Christians are people who have deconstructed Christian belief and come to the conclusion that it doesn't work for them. They're always very cynical about the whole situation. That's not what I'm looking for.

I want to talk to someone who's still into it. I want to understand what actually draws people to this religion ( I do not want to be trauma dumped at - I don't know what aspect of Christian belief confuses y'all into thinking that trauma dumping is an appropriate substitute for theological discussion, but it absolutely isn't).

Like you would really think for one of the most popular religions in the world finding answers to this stuff would be easier. Why can't you guys just talk about your beliefs?

[bereft-of-frogs]

‘write the fic you want to see in the fandom’ becomes somewhat of a problem when the fic you want to see in the fandom is long, plot-heavy gen!fic because it takes FOREVER TO WRITE

I can’t believe I’ve done this to myself.

[ebitenpura]

maplestory is such a dumb (brilliant) game because the unironic furry classes are top bossing meta

[quantomeno]

I'm actually rather excited for the upcoming election because of the speculation going around that we might end up with a minority government.

People will make a big fuss of minority governments being chaotic or at the whims of the crossbench, but the Gillard government (our last hung parliament) was actually incredibly productive when judged by the amount of legislation it passed, having the highest of any government in our history (obviously one can question the quality of the legislation, but it at least puts paid to the idea minority governments never get anything done).

A Labor-led minority government might actually make some progress in this country, but even a Liberal-Led one might not be as terrible as the stagnant Abbott-Turnbull-Morrison years. It depends on the numbers (if they're only 1 seat short, its impact will be notable smaller), but having to deal with the crossbench (which is currently made up of a lot of environmentally-conscious MPs) should at least make things a little more interesting, regardless of who's in power.

There are a few main reasons why a minority government is expected:

Previous election results:

The previous election had the lowest percentage of first preference votes going to Labor and the Coalition. Labor is in government after only winning ~33% of the national 1st preference vote, and the Coalition ~32%. That is, about 1/3 Australians voted 1 for someone who wasn't Labor or Coalition. This suggests there's a sense of disenchantment with the major parties and people are willing to vote in minor parties or independents. The 2022 election resulted in the largest crossbench in recent history.

2. Low support for Albanese/Labor:

It's been reported that Albos' preferred PM ratings are slipping, making it increasingly likely he'll lose seats and he is already on a wafer-thin majority of only two seats. There's been a large turn against incumbent parties in elections world-wide, which has largely been attributed to high inflation and high interest rates etc, among other things. Labor is in an awkward position: voters will blame them for the cost of living crisis and they will need to convince them that more of the same will fix things. There's also Albanese's perceived lack of action and many progressive voters are rather unimpressed with his middle-of-the-road-don't-rock-the-boat way of running things.

3. The high bar for the Liberals:

While things look bad for the government, it's not all sunshine for Peter Dutton. The Coalition suffered historic losses in some of its prized electorates to the Teal independents and Dutton is not the sort of leader that could ever really win them back. Electoral boundaries have changed, however, for a lot of seats since 2022 and this muddles things a bit, partly due to those low major party preferences I mentioned earlier. For example, Kylea Tink, a 'Teal' (her colour is really pink to rhyme with her name, but she's often grouped with the Teals) has had her electorate divided amongst three others. There are a lot of seats that could change hands and it is quite possible the Coalition will take some seats off Labor, but while Labor only needs to lose two seats to lose majority, the Coalition needs to gain 18 (we lose a seat in parliament due to redistributions, but the minimum majority would still be 76/150). While those aforementioned polls are showing increases in Dutton's favourability, it is still not particularly high (39%, compared to 34% for Albo in one recent poll for preferred PM).

But yeah, a Labor-led minority government would likely be a lot more ambitious in its reform goals and I am quietly optimistic about that being the results of this election. So if there was ever a time to not put a major party first, it's now.

[louisianna]

tis the season for resolutions and new beginnings so my humble advice to you all is that if there's something you want to spend more time doing this year (reading or painting or hiking or partying or watching czech new wave cinema or whatever) then there are probably things you are going to have to intentionally spend less time doing in order to make room in your life for this new thing

[thelesbododo]

I have so many fics I need to read and I'm gonna keep adding to that list without reading a single one

[ghostsprincess]

I can't stop thinking about Ghost being a better boyfriend than your ex, even without establishing that title....

This is a continuation of part one.

warning: mention domestic abuse

💀

Simon was there every night you worked. You never gave him your schedule, but he'd show up and settle onto one of the stools like clockwork. Soap often joined him, and while they carried on like always, you knew Simon's gaze lingered on your body. You could practically feel the weight as you took drink orders and pulled pints. It wasn't unwelcome. In fact, it made everything easier knowing you weren't alone if your ex dared show his face.

When your shifts ended, Simon would walk you back to your new place. The one time you insisted he didn't need to do that, he grunted and said, "What if I want to?"

You didn't mention it again. Instead you got into a routine of giving him a fifteen minute warning when your shift was going to end, and you'd head out into the cold night with him at your side. He was mostly quiet while you chatted about whatever was on your mind. When you'd ask him about himself, he'd reroute the conversation back to you. Then he would wait while you unlocked your door and stepped inside.

You always had the urge to invite him in, but you were taking up so much of his time already. And what would you do with him anyway? This hulking military man with kind eyes? 

You thanked him and gave him a little wave before ducking inside, and you knew he always waited until he heard the sound of your door locking before he left. 

"Y' alright, love?" he asked one night when you were starting to feel particularly good about yourself again. Your split lip had healed which required less makeup. You felt stronger for having left your ex in the dust. You were wearing a new top that made you feel sexy.

"Yeah. I'm alright, Simon. I feel really good, actually."

You served him a drink and refused to let him pay. You really ought to make him stop tipping you at this rate. He was doing so much for you and getting nothing in return. He was doing all of the boyfriend duties just as he had promised, but he never so much as touched you other than the occasional hand hold.

What if you wanted more?

He broke into your thoughts as he said, "I can tell. Ya' been smiling more. Almost ready to go?"

Tonight you felt like you were floating along the dirty sidewalk with your hand tucked in Simon's massive paw. He was keeping you warm without doing anything, and he listened to your nervous rambling as you tried your best to work up your courage. But the two of you reached your front door all too quickly.

"Get inside," he said, voice deep and tender in spite of the command. "An' lock up."

When he started to pull his hand away, you didn't let him. And you didn't budge when one of his eyebrows inched higher. "Not quite yet," you whispered, toe tapping the cement step you were standing on which put you slightly closer to him in height. "I have to tell you something."

Simon's lips pressed together in a tight line, and his chin dipped in a slight nod. "I need to tell ya' something, too. Just don't want to."

"What?" you asked immediately, the lightness you'd been feeling instantly replaced with a lead brick inside you.

"I'm leaving. Late tomorrow night. Not until after I make sure ya' get home from the pub."

"Leaving?" you whispered, heart pounding faster. He was in the military. Some sort of special mission involvement. You knew that much. And you could read between the lines to know that someone who looked and behaved like he did was probably about to risk his life, not for the first time. "Simon, where are you going?" you asked with tears in your eyes even though you figured he wouldn't be able to tell you.

Simon shook his head, his lips curling into a soft smile. It was a rare sight, and it made you dizzy. "Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be worried 'bout me." You wanted to tell him you would be. You'd worry nonstop until you saw him again. You'd come to rely on him, but mostly you liked how you felt when he was around. "There'll be someone to walk ya' home from work every night. I can promise that."

You wanted to lean in and kiss him, but instead you threw your arms around his neck. He was so solid and warm, and the scrape of his facial hair on your cheek was somehow comforting. "But I'll see you tomorrow, right?" you asked, voice breaking on a sob.

"I'll see ya' tomorrow, love."

He didn't move an inch as you extracted yourself, and the sound of his receding footsteps could only be heard once you'd locked yourself inside.

💀

Part three

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 4th. mattheo - virginity loss / corruption kink.

PART TWO | kinktober masterlist. | 2024.

summary: pls read part one first for a lil buildup. also. im laughing at myself bc there was a perfectly good bed…right there…

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, virginity loss, PIV, so much dirty talk, so much patience from mattheo, (more of a realistic virginity loss bc it’s not always easy), praise!!!!, slight degradation, fingering, multiorgasm, handjob, best friends lil sister trope.

Mattheo Riddle was so accustomed to this. The pulse of adrenaline in the dead of night, the quiet hum of anticipation stretching every second longer than it needed to be. You weren't naive to that, not to him, nor the danger he carried so effortlessly in his stride. He wore it like a second skin.

But you—you were not accustomed to it. Not to any of this.

So when you pushed open the door to the room of requirement a little over ten-minutes later, you hadn't been sure what you were expecting to find. Something darker, maybe. More foreboding. But when the room revealed itself before you—silent, draped in soft moonlight that pooled over the bed with a window wide and open, spilling that pale silver fog across the floor—you almost laughed.

Too perfect. Too on the nose, like the castle itself had been watching you both for months and had decided this was the moment it would indulge you.

"You're late." Mattheo's voice cut through the quiet.

His back was to you, suit jacket discarded on an old oak desk against the wall, dark curls falling just above his collar as he stood by the window, eyes fixed on the lake. The moonlight made the ripples dance, just like the tension in the room.

You took a step toward him, silent.

He turned, finally. His eyes met yours and you saw it—the hesitation, the way his gaze moved over you, slow, cautious. He took in the way the light draped itself over your shoulders, moving lower—and it was as if for the first time, he allowed himself to see you fully, all the details he had so tried to ignore, now right in front of him. He drank them in.

You gave him a small, nervous smile, hoping it would ease the weight of his stare. "I didn't realize you were the type to keep track of time."

He moved closer, but not close enough. Not yet. His breath was tight, chest rising and falling too fast. The space between you felt like a chasm, though it was barely there at all.

"You've a lot to learn, little girl," he teased, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it did nothing to mask the conflict in his eyes. It was meant to disarm you, but it only made the air heavier. His jaw tightened. "You're sure about this?"

"Quite sure," you breathed, stepping closer, close enough to admire the sharp line of his jaw, the soft stubble. "You're the one who's hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating," he muttered, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this with you. His best friend's little sister. He wanted to give you every chance to stop this, to walk away. "Just trying not to rush this—rush you."

You let out a small huff, your hand moving up to find his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Mattheo Riddle was nervous.

"You've been making me wait for months," you whispered. "I don't think a little rushing would hurt."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on your hand as it trailed over his chest, lower, teasing. Every touch was a flame against his skin, every breath between you a match struck in the dark. He wanted you, more than anything, but the weight of it—the wrongness, the danger—clawed at his conscience.

His hand caught your wrist, intending to stop you, but his fingers lingered against your skin. Frozen.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, the words thick in his throat. "Your first time should be—"

"My choice," you interrupted, pressing closer, your body flush against his, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. "My virginity is mine to give, Mattheo. And I want to give it to you."

He shuddered, your words settling, sinking into the dark space that held you both captive. His hand found your hip, the other threading through your hair, gently tugging your head back to expose the soft skin of your neck.

"You’re not thinking straight," he rasped. "You'll regret this..."

But even as he said it, his hands tightened, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I'll regret nothing." Your fingers slipped lower, grazing his crotch, moving with nothing but instinct and need. Biting your lip, you felt the outline of him, hard and aching under your palm, and squeezed—he grunted, snapping his hips, and you throbbed. "Shit, Mattheo..."

"You are—fuck..." Mattheo's voice was a ragged breath, the words drawn out like he'd been holding them back for months. "...such a little tease."

You let go as quickly as you'd squeezed, and he growled against your skin, fingers tightening in your hair. Your hands found his face, pulling him in, crushing your lips to his. You moved with intent, pushing him back until his thighs hit the edge of the desk, and he groaned again—this low, guttural sound that sent a thrill through you.

You smirked into the kiss, tasting his frustration, savouring the way his defences cracked open. When you pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen, eyes dark with want.

"I learned from the best," you whispered, teasing as your fingers slid down, finding the buckle of his belt. He watched you, every breath uneven, as you worked at the latch, pulling the leather free. "You've had months of fun tormenting me," you continued, moving to the button, the zipper. "Kissing me, only to say it was a mistake. Grabbing my ass every chance you could. Talking sweet when my brother wasn't looking..." your smirk deepened, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "...it's my turn now."

His pants sagged around his hips as you undid them and he cursed under his breath—his brain was struggling to catch up, like he couldn't believe the sudden shift, couldn't quite fathom the boldness with which you undid him.

Until—his hands were on you, spinning you around, your back hitting the desk with a thud.

"You think you're in control here?" His fingers slid up your hips, dragging your dress along with them, baring your skin to the cool air. "You think you have any goddamn idea what you're doing?"

You shuddered—you'd never seen him like this before—there was something feral in the way he moved, now, something sharp in the way his hands worked. His thumbs hooked around your panties and in one swift motion, they were gone—torn down your thighs before he urged you back onto the desk, parting your legs with his torso.

You were breathless, chest heaving, pulse thrumming wildly. His presence consumed the room, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on—the intensity of him, the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes.

You stared up at him, mind empty, until—

Smack.

His palm came down on your inner thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of sensation straight to your cunt. Your skin stung from the contact, but that wasn't the part that made you gasp. It was the heat, the way it surged through your veins, flooding your abdomen in a slow, aching pulse. You liked that.

"I asked you a question." His lips brushed against your ear, breath warm as he leaned in. "Two, actually."

You couldn't think, mind swimming—the press of his body, the rough timber of his voice, the weight of his hands as his fingers teased, climbing higher, brushing closer to the ache between your thighs. You sucked in a breath, trying to recall what he'd asked, trying to focus anything but the fire he was lighting in you—

But then, his fingers slipped further, closer, just barely brushing your slit, and your hips jerked involuntarily, chasing that touch.

"No—I don’t—“ the shame in the answer barely mattered. His fingers were so close, so close. "Gods—I just know I want you—"

"That's all you think about, isn't it?" He smirked, lips falling to your neck, tongue tracing the places he knew would wreck you, each soft, wet press making you whimper despite yourself. "You don't care about anything else..." his fingers slipped lower, dipping between your folds—and you cried out, shameless, the sensation unlike any other you'd ever felt. "…not the consequences, not the risk...you just want me…”

Your nails dug into his back and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, wetting his fingers in your arousal before gliding back up to your clit and tracing over it.

"Oh—Gods—" you whinged, moaning into his shoulder.

Mattheo’s hands were experienced—that much was certain. Those fingers knew exactly how to move, precisely how to trace light, delicate circles over your clit that made you twitch, squirm— nerves stripped as you took in the new sensation. It wracked every inch of you, and you could feel him savouring your helplessness, drawing out every ounce of tension that had been building between you for months.

“You’re soaked.” You could hear the disbelief in his voice. “...filthy little thing for me, aren't you?"

"Gods, Mattheo, yes—" your eyes rolled, thighs twitching against his hand. "I am—ohh—"

"Yeah?" His tongue traced a slow, wet path up the side of your neck, teeth dragging over your pulse. "You like this?"

His words were enough to make you want to scream, but no sound formed—just a low, broken moan that spilled from your throat, raw and shameless.

"Answer me," he murmured. "You ever orgasm from this before? Hm?"

"No—" your voice choked, trembling as you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to look at him, something like shame pooling in your stomach. "Oh, fuck—"

"No, what?" His fingers pressed harder, circles growing faster, more insistent, and his voice—Christ, his voice— "I asked you two questions, little slut. Keep up. You wanted this."

"Yes—mmf—I like it—" you whined, the words a desperate spill from your lips, too flustered to form anything coherent. "And no—Gods—you're the first to...to touch me like this..."

He figured as much but the admission tore through him nonetheless, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a groan—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, a bruise, a reminder. His hand dipped lower, a finger pushing inside you without warning, pressing deep into your slick heat, and you cried out, your body tightening, pulsing around him, vision swimming.

"And this?" His voice was a smirk against your skin. "You let anyone else inside you like this?"

You knew he already knew the answer. You both did. He was reveling in it—the way he had you, trembling, helpless. You'd never heard him like this, never heard him so crass, so unfiltered, and the way he spoke made your whole body flush with heat.

"No." The word was a strangled moan, barely a breath. "Gods—Mattheo—you already knew that—"

He crooked his finger inside you, and your back arched, the stretch unfamiliar yet mindnumbing, his thumb working your clit. You felt teeth nipping at your earlobe, a hum into your eardrum—his body thrumming with the satisfaction of finally, finally letting himself have you where he wanted.

"Perhaps I did." He added another finger, curling them inside you, his teeth scraping along your neck in a smile. The groan that slipped from your lips was desperate, pained in its pleasure, your body reacting to every new inch of him. "Fucking hell—you can barely take two..."

Your head shook, words failing you. "Gods—Mattheo—I...fuck..."

A low grunt rumbled from his chest, his fingers moving quicker, slick with the evidence of your desire. "Feels good?"

"Yes—" you moaned, breath hitching, vision blurring as he pumped his fingers in and out, building something inside you that you couldn't name, something new, something overwhelming. "I feel—oh, gods—something...happening—"

"You feel something?" His voice was mocking, drenched in that innocent, teasing tone that had you falling apart. "Yeah? What's happening, princess?"

You couldn't find breath, couldn't form the words to answer him. The pressure inside you was mounting, intensity unbearable, your body tense and straining toward an edge. You clung to him, breathless, desperate for more, desperate for something, anything—

"I don't—" your voice broke as his fingers curled deeper, wetness flooding between your thighs, his thumb relentless. "Pressure—fuck—so much—"

He nodded. "Yeah? Pressure in that pretty stomach? Feels fucking good, doesn't it?"

"Fuck—yes, yes," your lids fluttered. "S’good—"

"You're so close." He watched you, drunk on your downfall, and smirked as you neared the edge. "You're going to cum for me."

Sanity shattered in your throat—words trapped, swallowed by the tension, leaving only the soft, unbridled whimpers you once might've once found embarrassing. But there was no shame now, not when you were this close, the pressure coiling tighter in your core, ready to burst.

"Ohh—" you managed, lungs sputtering, head tipping back. The sound of your voice, the way you moaned, was foreign, unfamiliar to your own ears. "Gods—oh fuck-"

"I know," he cooed, sweet like sugar. "I know."

You were a mess. Too close, too overwhelmed—everything was him. His scent, the heat of his skin, the feel of his fingers working that magic that had your body convulsing before you could even cry out, before you could process the way your vision blurred with the force of it. The climax hit like a wave crashing over you, and your moans were swallowed by his kiss, his lips on yours the second your body tightened, shaking against his hand.

He was relentless, rough and insistent, kissing you like he wanted to devour you whole—drowning out the world as your body pulsed around his fingers. You’d never felt such an intense sensation, lava coursing, replacing the blood in your veins. His breath stuttered against your mouth, a low groan vibrating through him, the sound making your spine tingle.

"F-fuck," he muttered, pulling his fingers from you, glistening and wet. "Messy little thing."

The words sent a shiver through you, not just from their meaning but from the way he said them, like something perverse, intimate. Your chest tightened with the warmth of them.

"You—" you panted, trying to find your voice. Blinking through the haze of lingering bliss. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" He chuckled your name against your neck, lips brushing a path to your ear. "Because you might fall in love with me?" His teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your lobe, along your jawline. "Oh wait...you already have."

"Shut up," you whispered, stomach flipping at the way he said your name, the way it dripped from his mouth like honey. "Have not."

"I've known for a while, you know," he mused, his voice so low, so quiet. "Don't think I haven't seen it—the way you look at me." He kissed your skin again, working his way up, each press of his lips something sacred, moving closer to your mouth. "The way you can't get enough of me."

You could kill him for it, for the way his words sunk into your bones, making all the feelings you've buried rise to the surface, pulling you under. He just had to go there—had to milk every inch of your composure out of you, because it's not enough for him to have you disarmed physically—sexually—he needed to have you disarmed emotionally, too.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is how right he was. Arrogant bastard.

"Stop talking," your hand drifted down, grazing the bulge in his pants, your fingers slipping under the waistband, rubbing him through the thin fabric of his boxers. It was reckless. You've never done this before, but God, you wanted to. "Stop talking and teach me."

The room tilted—the world off its axis. His breath caught, choked in his lungs as he grabbed your face and pulled your lips to his—his kiss wild, his tongue insistent, running along your gums and wrestling with yours for control.

"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth as you tugged his boxers down, freeing him, your hand wrapping around him. Hot. Hard. "Wrap your fingers around it, princess. Gentle strokes. Just like that."

Your heart stumbled at the sound of his voice, thick, raw and open. You tightened your grip, stroking him slowly, experimentally, and he hissed through his teeth, a groan vibrating through his chest.

"You're so big," you murmured, forehead against his, the words spilling out without thought. "So thick..."

"Fucking minx," he moaned. "Stroking me and telling me how big I am—fuck—you're not as innocent as everyone thinks."

"Only you know this," you whispered, your hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, pulse soaring as he groaned. "Does it feel good, Matty?"

"Fuck—Christ—" his breath was jagged, words ripped from his throat like they barely wanted to come out, hips jerking mindlessly. "Tighter, mm—little tighter—"

Your cunt throbbed—each whispered invocation of a god not his own, of something he didn't believe in, forced a shudder through you. That's how you knew. Knew how lost he was. He’d no mind left at all if he was muttering muggle gods.

"Like that?" Your fingers squeezed around him, your gaze burning into his as you looked up through fluttering lashes.

His face was a storm—flushed, eyes half-shut—but at your voice they opened and flicked down to yours, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockery in that stare. Just raw, primal need, burning so fiercely it made you ache. His hips rocked, desperate for more. Painfully. A hole in his chest torn wide open for you to see, and he didn't care. Couldn't care.

"Yeah—shit—just like that," he gritted out, grip on your hips bruising, but you welcomed it. Needed it. "Fast learner, aren't you?"

"You're a good teacher," you whimpered, a sound that was barely yours as his fingers slipped between your thighs, finding your slit, teasing you open again. "Oh—"

"You've always been a little teacher's pet," he groaned, thrusting into your hand as he slipped a finger inside you. The stretch made you wince, pleasure and pain blurring into something that sent sparks behind your eyes. He watched you, gaze molten. "Fuck—it’s gonna hurt, you know that, right?"

The ache spread through you, but you didn't flinch. "I know," you whispered as his thumb found your clit, making you gasp. "I trust you."

"I know you do." His voice dropped, eyes dark and soft at once as he pushed another finger inside. "You know you’ve always had me wrapped around your fucking finger. You know I care about you—“

His words were too much, pressing on something fragile inside you, and you pulled him into a kiss to shut him up—deep, desperate, drowning. Your hand tightened on his length, the heat between you flaring, and you moaned against his mouth, shaking with the need for more.

"I want you," you breathed, each syllable shivering on your lips as you clenched around his fingers. "I've wanted you for months—"

Months? No, it had been years. Years of wanting, needing, watching from afar, heart in your throat. Years of avoiding anyone else because no one was him. You knew he’d felt the same and it killed him. It wasn't logical, wasn't supposed to be like this—not with you, not now, not his best friend's little sister, not him whispering sweet, dangerous things while knuckle-deep inside your virgin cunt.

It was as if you both shook those thoughts from your minds at once. You’ll think about the implications later.

"You've got me," he rasped, hips grinding involuntarily against your hand. "Just—fuck—don't hate me after this."

Hate him? The very idea was laughable, absurd. You could never hate him. Not even in those moments you tried, not even when he deserved it.

"I could never hate you," you murmured, drawing him closer, lips trembling against his. "Just—please—"

Something shifted in his eyes, and he knew. Knew what you needed. What you both needed. You were vulnerable, trembling, but you trusted him—completely. You’d been in his life for so long. You knew he’d never hurt you. He could see it your eyes, the trust, the in the way your body bent to his touch.

"Alright," he said softly, a hand running up your body to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Alright."

His fingers slid out of you, leaving you bare and breathless, and you swallowed. This was really about to happen.

"Lay back," his voice cut through your haze. "Legs to your chest."

The command wrapped around you like a vice, tightening the anticipation, and you fell back on your elbows, staring up at him as you raised your legs. Vulnerability crept in, making your thighs tense, but Mattheo was there, spreading you open with firm hands, pressing himself against your slick. His eyes were locked onto yours, all that self-assurance gone, melted into something more human—something raw, unguarded.

You could feel it; the vulnerability of this moment stretched between you both—the distance you'd maintained for so long, the careful walls you'd built, were nothing now. He was in too deep, and so were you.

"Stop me at any time," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp, eyes meeting yours. "Just breathe.”

He leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, and you kissed him like the world might collapse if you didn't. He guided himself against you, the press of him at your entrance an unbearable ache. He was hot, hard, huge—and despite the wetness slicking down your thighs, your body resisted, too tight, too unsure of this.

You whimpered, instinctively trying to pull away, but he stayed, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, whispering something that sounded like comfort but burned like fire. It hurt more than you expected, more than any of the fantasies you had dared to entertain.

Doubt curled through your chest, what if you couldn't take him? What if—

"M-Mattheo..." his name broke in your throat as you clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin. He tried to push in again, but your body resisted. "It—you—you can't fit..."

"Shh," his lips ghosted over yours, his hand slipping through your hair, trying again, moving slow, controlled. "You're just—so goddamn tight—"

The way he said it sent a spark through your veins. It was filthy, shameless, and it lit you up from the inside, despite the pain. No one had ever spoken to you like this. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tears pricking as he tried to work you open.

And then—he was in.

"I-it hurts," you hissed—pain lighting up your spine as he worked his cockhead inside you, pushing against the resistance of your walls. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inch a battle. The pressure was unbearable, the sting so sharp it was paralyzing. "Oh, fuck, Mattheo—"

He groaned, a sound from deep within his chest, his head bowing, sweat creeping over his brow.

"Shhh, I know—I know..." he murmured through shredded cords, fighting to maintain control as his hips paused, barely halfway in, just enough to make you feel like you might break. "S'okay...you're doing so good..."

It was overwhelming—the fullness, the ache that felt like it might split you in two. And yet, beneath the pain, something else stirred. His words, soft and rough all at once, made the sensation bearable, turned the hurt into something else. You focused on his voice, on the way he stroked your hair, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Why—mmff—gods..." you could barely speak, the words tangled in your throat. "Why do you have to be so big—"

A strangled laugh escaped him, though his eyes stayed shut tight, his jaw clenched—cock twitching inside you.

"I don't—fuck—know." His fingers brushed your lips, covering your mouth gently. "Don't go talking like that—not right now—"

You might have laughed, too, if your body wasn't so taut, strung tight with tension and pain and something far more profound. He was barely inside you, his words making your insides clench, drawing another groan from his lips at the squeeze.

His hand held your jaw, palm pressing lightly over your mouth, enough to breathe, to speak—

"Why—" you knew what he meant, knew the warning in his eyes, but you couldn't stop yourself. "—not?"

His breath hitched. "Because—" he swallowed hard, words coming through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening around your jaw, a warning in his grip. "Because—fuck—your mouth will get you in trouble."

Oh. That was what he meant.

"But—oh fuck—you're so...big..." the words slipped out before you could catch them, a disgruntled moan falling from your lips as he sank all the way in, filling you so completely it was dizzying. The pressure, the heat, the sensation of being pried open—it was all too much, and you cried out, unable to stop the sound from spilling out. "Ohhh—so big—"

"I said, fuck," he cursed, hand clamping firm over your mouth now as his body shuddered, as he ground his hips gently into yours. "—don't say that."

It was too late. You didn't need to say anything further. He could feel it—he could feel everything in the way you clenched around him, barely letting him move—so goddamn tight it was almost painful—he could feel it in the look in your eyes, in the trembling of your body beneath his.

"I can feel you thinking it," he grunted as you squirmed beneath him, every movement making him twitch inside you, drawing another choked groan from his throat. "Merlin sakes—"

You knew he wasn't used to this. To slowing down, to drawing out the tension like this, to the maddening slowness of every motion. He wanted to lose himself, to break you open hard and fast, to take and give and take again until both of you shattered into something unrecognizable. But he couldn't—not with the way your eyes glistened, not with the way you gasped and whimpered as he filled you.

"No talking," he sucked in a breath against your neck, his hips rolling into yours in slow, unbearable waves. "Only if you need me to stop."

He was breaking. So were you. Every thrust was an exquisite kind of torture—an ache that twisted and stretched, dulled only by the flick of his fingers against your clit. His lips pressed along your neck, kissed along the line of your jaw, groaning with each deep, patient push, carving his way into you as you clung to him, your mind floating through the fog of pain into something different—something overwhelming.

Your head fell back. “Oh—Oh gods—“

Each gasp felt like it might be your last as that something built deep inside you, tight and unfamiliar, an ache that didn't hurt but begged to be released. And he felt it too—Mattheo felt it, the way your body pulsed beneath his, the way you tightened around him like you couldn't bear to let him go.

"Bloody fuck—are you—are you going to—" his words were ragged, broken. He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't hold himself together. "Are you—"

“Mattheo—” your voice trembled, a breathless moan as your back arched, pressing into him, your body seeking more. The pain was null now, replaced by an overwhelming pressure, something tight and aching and good—you felt every inch of him inside you, every pulse of his cock as he moved, slow but relentless. “Mattheo—oh gods—”

"Fuck—" he bit down, teeth sinking into your neck as his fingers swirled your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. "You're gonna make me—"

You choked because there was no space for words, no breath for anything but the raw sound of your bodies—moans, gasps, ragged inhales tangled together as you both hurtled towards something inevitable. The light of the moon radiated the man above you and that was all you could register other than the rising crescendo of your climax—something so intense it scared you, almost broke you apart—your body seizing, trembling, as his fingers pressed harder against your clit, as he thrust deeper.

And then, there was only one more blink until you shattered beneath him, the orgasm tearing through you in oceanic motion, muscles clenching around him so tightly he could barely move—and then he was there, too, his body jerking as he groaned into your skin, his release ripped from him in jagged gasps as you milked him without mercy. He slumped on top of you, fingers digging into your skin, the two of you pulsing together in the aftermath, the room spinning, your bodies still trembling from the force of it.

The world was slow to return, the roar of sensations fading into something quieter, softer. The weight of him on top of you was grounding—his forehead pressed against the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Neither of you moved for a long while, just basked in the silence, kind that settled in after something irrevocable had passed between two people.

And then, Mattheo pushed up, enough to meet your eyes. Your chest ached at the softness inside his own.

“Are you—” he swallowed as he drank you in, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the flushed cheeks. His words hung in the air as if he didn’t know how to finish the question.

“I’m okay,” you nodded, voice hoarse. “I’m good.”

Mattheo nodded too but didn’t move, still buried inside you, just taking you in. Then, gently, he shifted, pulling back with a slow, careful movement that made you wince slightly. The second he’d pulled out, you felt different—more aware of the vulnerability you’d just laid bare, more aware of the line you two had just obliterated into absolute shambles.

“You sure?” he asked, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—

You nodded again, the smallest smile pulling at your lips, though your heart was still racing, the enormity of it all sinking in.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

His jaw tightened, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” His voice was barely audible, like he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

Of course he was thinking it too—how could he not? This was no longer something you could pretend didn’t exist, no longer something you could hide behind banter and stolen glances and secret kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathed, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the heat still radiating from his skin. “It does.”