#sorry for. how long and nonsensical this is

[pedropascallme]

Happy at Home

Pairing: husband!König x wife!Reader

Summary: "But you humored him, because you enjoyed the ritual of it. You enjoyed being tucked away with your husband, loving on him day in and day out until the two of you decided it was time to really go home, letting him have his peace—being his peace."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) p in v sex, shower sex, fingering, softdom!Köning, tiny bit of size kink (obviously), praise, dirty talk (a lot of it is in German), creampie, if I missed anything please let me know!

AN: Having some big feelings about husband!König and how in love with you he is and how needy he would be after coming home from deployment. Per usual, I don't speak German, so sorry in advance for any straight up nonsense my translations might be <3

The slow tick of the clock hand over the twelve marked another full day of waiting for König.

You sat idly in the living room, waiting impatiently for the mug of tea in front of you to cool. As the days wore on, you became more impatient about everything; unable to quell the excitement you felt at the promise of his return, the suspense of when the door might open with him there on the other side to greet you.

Fiddling with the string of the teabag, you turned your attention to the window, watching the sun dip behind the horizon

The setting was pretty, at least; the peaks and dips of the hillsides perfectly paralleled the waves of anticipation that rolled over you.

König always insisted on staying at the house in the hills when he came back from deployment. It was quiet, peaceful, and he preferred it to being immediately thrust back into the bustle of city life in Vienna after spending months at a time being used as a human battering ram.

He liked the tranquility that the rustic, rural parts of Germany offered; he liked isolating after deployment; he liked waking up in the morning and knowing that you would be the only person he would see all day.

You knew he loved it, but it was a pain to travel over the border, and the house was so far north, you felt you might as well be in Copenhagen.

Being in the house alone was no fun, either—the city, at least, was swathed in light and sound at all hours; here, though, the stillness offered little comfort late at night, and you worried about the old, rusted locks on the windows.

But you humored him, because you enjoyed the ritual of it. You enjoyed being tucked away with your husband, loving on him day in and day out until the two of you decided it was time to really go home, letting him have his peace—being his peace.

In the grand scheme of things, you didn't mind. If he was with you, you were already home, no matter the setting.

So you always got there before he did. You busied yourself with grocery shopping and ensured that the house held the necessities you would require over the days, or weeks, you ended up staying; you knew when he got here, you wouldn't have the time to do errands. You took in the sunshine and the landscape, trying to get through the days without focusing too much on counting down the hours that brought him closer to arriving.

You blew on your tea, still admiring the view from the window. You'd done all the shopping, you'd stared at the hills for long enough; now, all you really wanted was him.

When you heard the door click, it pulled you from your thoughts, and you felt a momentary rush of anxiety; it might be him, but it might be a crazed, chainsaw wielding farmer.

The door swung open, and you were giddy to see that it was the former.

"Meine Liebe—?" König called, dropping his bag unceremoniously by his feet as he trudged in.

His eyes fell to you, watching as you jumped from your seat and greeting you with open arms that swept you up. You reciprocated the action, scrambling to wrap yourself around him and hanging off of his body.

When you managed to pull him down enough, standing on your tiptoes and wrapping your arms around his neck, you pressed your lips to his; an eager, passionate welcome for the man you'd missed to desperately. He moaned softly against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound with pleasure.

"Ah...You have missed me?" He teased when you pulled back, petting your hair.

"Yeah," you muttered, not willing to tease him back; not willing to lie by saying that you couldn't care less that he had been gone. "So much."

"And I have missed you, Schatz," he squeezed you tighter. "But I am back."

You laughed quietly against him. He never seemed to grasp the satisfaction, the ease that swept through you when he returned. To him, it was just another day; to you, it was proof that he was still alive.

"You're still in your uniform." You pointed out the obvious as you tilted your head up at him, pressing your cheek into the scratchy fabric of his kit.

"People get out of my way when they see that I am uniformed."

"You're ten feet tall," you cooed, "They'd do that, anyway."

He shook his head, brows knit in vague confusion.

"Ten is too many."

You laughed, and he seemed content to be the source of your amusement.

He'd had the foresight to remove his hood before coming home, at least—he wanted a completely unobstructed view, to be able to see you without the occasional sway of fabric in his peripheral.

And being able to kiss you freely was a plus.

You lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, eager to take all of him in, to openly adore him.

"You're filthy." You pointed out, your admiration of his face forcing you to notice scratches and bruises, the grimy discoloration from mud and blood on his skin.

"Es gefällt dir, Liebling," he chuckled above you, "Or do you lie when I am making you—"

"Different kind of filthy." You pressed a hand to his chest, backing away and smirking up at him.

"Bitte,” he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back in. “You will come bathe with me."

You made a face, now more than willing to tease him.

"You're all bloody..." You trailed a finger over a shallow scratch on his cheek, "And I showered this morning."

"You will need another." He stared down at you, expression tender but eyes hungry, starved for you.

"You think so?” You quirked a brow, reciprocating his obvious need but still taunting him.

König said nothing as he picked you up and slung you over his shoulder. He grabbed at your legs, pressing kisses to your thigh and staining you with the dusty remains of the dirt still on his skin.

"Schmutziges Mädchen," he tsked, as if you had been lying, "You must let me clean you."

"Hey!" You pretended to fight his grip on you, wriggling in his arms.

"Sh," he laughed as he carried you to the bathroom, "You complain for no reason, Kleine."

"You would complain, too, if I picked you up and dragged you to the bathroom." You grumbled, giving in and slumping over his shoulder, smiling as you tugged on the back of his shirt.

"Ich würde nicht," he shook his head, finally setting you down on the edge of the bath and looming over you. "I do not see any reason to complain, if a beautiful woman treated me this way."

"I'll remember that." You rolled your eyes, and he grinned down at you.

You took the position as an opportunity to reach up, dragging your hand over his clothed thigh and letting your fingers brush just beneath the hem of his shirt.

"You have a question to ask me, Liebling?" He sighed, folding his arms as he admired you from above and waited to see if you would submit.

“…Take off your uniform.” You hooked your fingers beneath the waistband of his pants.

“That is not a question,” he smirked down at you, letting your hands roam over his form. “You have forgotten your manners? I was not gone so long…”

“Will you take off your uniform?” You smiled softly up at him, “Please?”

You could hear the quiet, satisfied grunt that rumbled from his chest as he bent forward to take your hand in his, kissing your knuckles before straightening up and stripping himself down.

He paused when he got to his belt buckle.

“You as well, Engel.”

You bit your bottom lip, made more eager by his impatience, thrilled to have gotten the okay from him. You stood, stripping off the thin layer of clothing you’d been wearing, tossing them into the pile he’d begun to make with his uniform.

You were barely out of your shorts when König grabbed you by the waist, hauling you off your feet and bringing your face to his.

“Schöne Frau,” he kissed you slowly before dipping his face down and nipping the exposed skin of your neck and chest. “More perfect every day.”

You wrapped your legs around him, supported by his hands and waist as he left love bites on your neck.

“I missed you,” you breathed, closing your eyes and succumbing to the warmth that bloomed in your abdomen, the heat of his palms and the drag of his lips. “I missed you so much.”

“Do not miss me anymore,” König murmured against your neck, “There is no need, Kleine. I am here now.”

You rested your hand on the nape of his neck, desperate to be close, to seal off any gaps between the two of you.

“Are you gonna hold me here like this all night?” You mused, tilting your head back further when he began to suck on your pulse point.

“What is so wrong with that?”

“You’re covered in blood.”

“It is not my own.” König didn’t miss a beat, still pressing kisses to you, grazing his teeth against the marks he made as he argued.

“Still,” you sighed, “You’re d—dirty.” You lost the proper words momentarily when his hand dipped between the crevice of your thighs from behind, fingers barely ghosting over your slit as he changed his grip on you. “Shower with me.”

Now he paused, leveling his gaze with yours again.

“You are asking for the shower now?” He smirked, and you stopped yourself from rolling your eyes.

“Yes.” You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

“You said you had no need to bathe, Liebling,” he tilted his head forward, brushing your nose with his. “What has made you change your mind?”

He wanted so desperately to hear you say the words, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to deny him that joy—especially not when you were itching to say them, to forfeit your previous teasing and cocky attitude and plead for him to do what you both wanted.

“Will you fuck me?” You pressed your cheek to his, purring into his ear. “Please, will you fuck me? Nice and warm in the shower?”

He let out a satisfied sound, and you could feel the vibrations travel through his body where you were pressed up against him.

“If you are insisting…” He feigned disinterest, though you could see right through it—and he knew that.

You laughed against the crook of his neck when he finally stepped over the edge of the bath, wobbling slightly in his arms when he reached to turn the water on.

“I will put you down now.” He said it with finality, easing you onto your own two feet and staring down at you.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy having you close, carrying you around like a doll, but he was eager to get a proper look at you; drink in your nude form as the water danced over your skin.

“Turn around,” you ordered, “Under the water.”

In the fashion of the obedient husband that he was, he turned, swapping places with you to ensure the faucet was spraying him directly.

“You take orders so well, Colonel.” You taunted, grabbing the soap and lathering it over him.

“Nur von Dir,” he closed his eyes briefly when you began washing him, but he quickly opened them, not wanting to miss a single moment; set on admiring you as much as he possibly could. “I am usually in charge, you know.”

“Are you?” You scrubbed grime from his face with only a bit of pushback from him. “They just give anybody authority, huh?”

“Seien Sie vorsichtig, Kleine.” König grabbed your wrist, halting your washing of his chest. “Or I will remind you of my rank.”

“Can’t pull rank on your wife.” You grinned up at him, knowing he was all bark and no bite when you had your hands on him like this.

“I will try,” he smirked, “Come to me.” He kept his grip on your wrist, pulling you against him and dropping his hands to your hips. You could feel him pressing his steadily hardening length to your stomach, and you swallowed the whine that threatened to escape you.

“At least let me wash off the dirt you smudged on me,” You pulled away from him coyly, turning your back to him. “Fair?”

He grunted briefly in protest but continued to let the water soothe him.

He watched you bathe yourself, a small part of him feeling greedy, desperate to have you return your hands to him so that he could bask in your warmth and your tenderness. In a moment of weakness, he almost allowed himself to feel jealous of the bar of soap in your hands, the object receiving the attention he so craved.

You went slowly, scrubbing lightly at the streaks of ashy brown that his hands had trailed over your legs and torso. It wasn’t meant to be teasing, but you certainly didn’t put any effort into going faster.

König huffed, impatient, and pulled you back to his chest, wrapping his arms around you so that you couldn’t move away again.

You let out a quiet sound from the back of your throat in warning; a completely empty threat.

“Do not walk away from me, Liebling,” his words were meant to be domineering, but his voice came out pleading. “Ich will meine Frau.”

His hands traveled lazily up your sides, and you could feel yourself giving in.

“Need to clean up,” you muttered half-heartedly, “Got me all gross.”

“You may clean,” he chuckled behind you, dropping his face to speak into your ear, “I simply wish to be near you, ja?”

He pulled you closer to him, forcing his erection up against your ass and making you shiver.

You loved this game. You loved that even after marriage, there was excitement; that you could play cat-and-mouse and rile yourselves up before giving into the very real, very intense urges you felt for each other.

Being here with him was unparalleled; you could live and die like this and be completely content.

His hands strayed over your stomach, one keeping you in place while the other dipped lower, running his fingers down to your clit before tracing your slit and teasing your entrance.

“That’s—” A quiet whimper escaped your lips when he pushed a finger to the first knuckle into your cunt.

“Sh,” you could hear the smile on his lips, “I will not get in the way.”

He gripped your hip, keeping you steady so that when he finally pushed his finger deeper into you, he had the leverage to thrust it in and out.

“Oh—” You let your eyes flutter shut, immediately forgetting about your prior insistence that you be able to wash yourself.

“It has been so long, Liebling,” König sighed, bending down to kiss your shoulder as he continued to move his finger in and out of you slowly. “I have been worried—what should I do if you forgot how I feel inside of you?”

“Could never forget.” You sighed, meaning it wholeheartedly—there was absolutely no way your body or your mind could erase the pure bliss of having him touch you; of having him stretch you to his liking over and over again.

“Gut,” he smirked against your shoulder, “I will not let you.”

He drew his hand back briefly to add another finger, pushing into your cunt with a quiet groan as he explored you for the first time in weeks. He could get off like this, if he really wanted to; bucking his hips against you as he worked your cunt open with his fingers, listening to the soft sounds you made over the drip of the water.

König felt breathless, leaving any remaining care behind, focused solely on you and the way you felt around him. He stared down at his hand, watching his fingers disappear into you only to reveal themselves again, covered in your arousal.

He reached up awkwardly, smacking lightly at your cheek to hold your attention before placing his hand back on your hip.

“Watch,” he ordered, though his voice was soft in your ear, “You will look at how I open you.”

You craned your neck, watching him thrust his fingers into your eager cunt, slick dripping down over the digits only to get semi-rinsed by the water that still fell from the shower head.  

“Do you see?” He mused, grinning at the way you admired yourself, “How beautiful you look on my hand? How you paint me?”

You whimpered, nodding. You kept your eyes glued to the spot where your bodies connected.

“Sprich mit mir, Kleine,” he nosed your neck, eager to hear your voice, to have all of you to himself, “Tell me how beautiful.”

“It’s—it’s pretty,” you whined, back arching to chase his fingers as they exited you, “I look so pretty with your fingers in my pussy.”

He groaned, nipping at your throat to express the gratitude that rushed through him upon hearing your words.

The hand he had perched on your hip traveled up to your chest; calloused fingers running over the peaks of your nipples until they stiffened, giving him the ability to pinch them and roll them between his fingers.

You leaned back against him, searching for stability as the coil in your stomach tightened almost uncomfortably. You waited for the final twitch of his fingers inside of you, and the gruff voice behind you to give you the permission you needed.

You could feel yourself squeeze the digits he had buried in you, walls pulsing around him tightly; he felt it too, groaning out deep huffs with every throb, trying to move his hand further between your legs in an attempt to stroke the delicate spot he knew so well.

You took a shuddered breath, eyes threatening to flutter shut as he just barely ghosted his fingers over your g-spot before pressing down more aggressively.

“Jetzt,” his voice came out soft and low, like he was holding his breath, “Bitte—jetzt, Liebling. Cum, and I will give you anything.”

You grabbed at his wrist, grip solid as you encouraged his movements.

“Just want—” you felt the initial trembles, the familiar constriction of your abdominal muscles as you succumbed to your high. “Fuck—I just want you.”

König moaned; dropping his face to your shoulder to stifle the sound, he moaned deep and wantonly at your admission.

It wasn’t as if he was shocked—of course a wife would desire her husband, crave his immediacy and his touch after so much time apart. But it was the way you said it, the adoration in your breath and the bodily responses he pulled from you.

He only ever wanted you, and to know for certain that the care was mutual, no matter how many times you confirmed it, was nothing short of orgasmic for him.

“Ja,” he sighed, arm snaking around your waist to hold you taut against him, “Gut. Gut, Kleine.”

He stroked lazily at your front wall, delighted by the harsh intake of breath it forced you to take and the way your body seized ever so slightly in his grasp as he prolonged the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Christ—” you finally tugged at his forearm—not irritated but realizing your need for even more. “You’re insatiable.”

“I have a pretty wife,” König chuckled, “It is only natural to want more.”

He removed his fingers from your cunt, bringing them to his mouth and groaning softly at the taste of you.

“More where that came from.” You murmured, turning your body to press your face into his chest, reaching up to stroke your fingers over the nape of his neck.

His cock pressed against your stomach, and you didn’t care to fight the way your thighs so obviously squeezed together, made only more desperate by the way the fingers of his free hand stroked idly over your flesh.

“Ich weiß, ja,” he released the fingers from his mouth, both hands moving to grip your waist. “And will you give it to me, Liebe?”

“Yeah,” you sighed into him, his wet skin absorbing the heat of your breath, “I’ll give you everything.”

You looked up at him, admiring the way the water of the shower flowed down his temples and converged to drip down his chin.

“You can take it from me,” you blinked away the stray droplets that threatened your eyes, determined to appreciate the view of him so close to you. “Just take it.”

He reached for your face, stroking his thumb over your cheek in a moment of tenderness.

“Ich werde.”

His tender grasp on your face dropped as he bent slightly, hungry hands slipping just below your ass to lift you up effortlessly. You laughed at his overzealous actions, the pleasant connection of comfort, trust and eager physicality not lost on you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, as you pulled yourself closer to him.

“I wanted to…” you collected yourself, sighing through the last of your giggles, “I was expecting you to let me go down on you, at least.”

König shook his head, brow furrowed.

“Why would I use your mouth when I can have your cunt?” He moved to press your back to the wall, trapping you between his body and the cool tile.

“Thought you loved my mouth.” You responded haughtily, looking up coyly through hooded eyes.

“Ja,” he pressed his forehead to yours, “But I like even more for you to use it to tell me how good I fuck you.”

You felt your cheeks burn, though the blush was due more to the way your heart pumped frantically in your chest rather than any embarrassment.

Your need for him was absolutely shameless.

König adjusted his grip, letting his hands hook beneath your thighs as he lifted you enough that your entrance was easily accessible to him where he had you against the wall.

“Hold on to me.” He commanded, focused on finally being able to thrust into you.

You didn’t need to be told twice, tightening your grip around him so that he could hold you comfortably in one hand and know that you were secure.

He reached between your bodies, tugging at his thick, leaking cock as he pressed his tip to your hole.

In a moment of clarity, his gaze drifted up to you, meeting your eyes with a look that read as pleading, and who were you to deny him his wishes? Doing so would only be denying you of your own, anyway.

You cupped his cheek, pulling him in for a kiss in lieu of a verbal confirmation that you were ready—but he knew, he always knew, and when he pushed his tongue between your lips so, too, did he push his cock into you.

You cried out. Already slick from his previous ministrations, he had little trouble thrusting into you. But his fingers paled in comparison to his cock, and to be stretched so intensely after such a long period of waiting made your fingers dig into his shoulders on their own accord.

But he liked the pain just as much as you did. Leaning forward to bury himself in you, he bottomed out with a grunt.

“You are—” he was at a loss for words, something that happened so consistently when he fucked you, but still something that made you swell with pride. “I have missed your cunt.”

“Use it, then,” you gasped when he bit a mark onto your breast, beginning to grind against him as best you could, “Show me—wanna feel it.”

König moaned, whiney and unrestrained, as he drew his hips back, pressing yours into the wall as he pulled out almost completely before slamming back into you roughly. You let out another cry for him, grasping at his biceps and tilting your head back.

“I will make you feel it, Kleine,” he grunted, repeating the action, “I will make sure.”

He settled on a less frenzied pace, bucking his hips into you while barely pulling back to ensure he stayed close. He craved your warmth; the heat of your body, the press of your chest to his, the vice-like grip you kept on his shoulders to make sure he stayed put, as if letting go meant he’d disappear.

The thought made him frustrated with himself—he never wanted to leave; he just had to. He had no choice but to submit to the whims of KorTac despite his unending want to do nothing but be near you.

But he would never abandon you as long as he lived, and he’d live as long as he could to ensure that you had anything and everything you wanted.

The rush of guilt eased into a shudder of pure devotion. He was here with you now; he had not a care in the world beyond watching you come undone over and over again.

“Ich liebe dich,” he leaned down to murmur the words into your jaw, letting his voice carry the short distance to your ear. “Ich liebe dich, meine Frau—meine Engel, meine Schatz.”

His head dropped to rest against your shoulder. You smiled at his words, tilting your face to press your cheek against his.

“I love you,” you whispered it, words meant only for him. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re home again.”

He whimpered softly, straightening up to capture your lips and lead you in a passionate kiss that only vaguely captured the increasing possessiveness of his thrusts.

It wasn’t out of an avidity to own you; he wanted you to see that you owned him, that he was yours, body and soul, and he’d do anything to provide comfort and pleasure and love for you.

You clawed at his back, rolling your hips in response to every one of his rough thrusts.

“I thought of you every day,” König’s head leaned back as he lost himself fully in the way your cunt felt around him, “You are on my mind always, Kleine—sheiße—I thought of you every moment. I think of you only.”

You mewled at his words and the depth of his strokes, working in tandem to push you quickly towards what would inevitably be a dizzying high.

“I thought about you all the time,” you whined through needy moans, “Always do, when you’re gone—needed you, needed you so badly.”

“You have me, Liebling,” he growled, “You will always have me.”

Again, his pace increased, and you were left clinging to him desperately, whimpering in his ear every time he nudged your cervix to the point of searing pleasure. One of his hands again snaked between your bodies, splaying over your stomach as his thumb stretched down to toy with your clit.

You bucked your hips, grinding against his cock as you eagerly accepted the friction he was providing you.

“Fuck—yeah,” you moaned, dropping your head to watch him play with you. “That’s—yeah, please, just like that.”

He laughed, smirking, as he pressed down harder on your clit.

“You are desperate, Kleine,” he accused you, lovingly, pointing out your frantic need. “Do you wish to finish so soon?”

He was teasing you now, and you could only whine out your reply.

“Said you’d give me anything…”

“Ja,” he mused, “And you, that I could take.”

He leaned into you again, practically flattening you between his body and the wall as he pushed his cock as deep as your body would allow.

“Will you let me take your pleasure, Liebe?” His lips ghosted over yours, “Bitte. Speak.”

“Ye—es,” you whimpered, “Yes. Please.”

He growled almost animalistically at your plea, slamming himself into you repeatedly as you remained at his mercy.

“I want it, Engel,” his voice carried an almost predatory tone, “I want for you to show me what I have missed so much—on my cock like this, you will give me what I want.”

You nodded dumbly at him, eyes closing slightly as your pupils rolled back at the way he matched the strokes of his thumb over your clit to the rhythm of his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, right on the edge of the high you so craved.

When König nuzzled into your neck, juxtaposing the relentlessness of how he fucked you with such a tender display, your back arched, and all bets were off.

“Bitte, Liebling,” his voice was whinier now, tinged only slightly with a dominant edge but almost fully drowned out by desire. “Bitte, bitte—I need it, I need to feel you.”

He pressed down harshly against your clit, angling his body to ensure that his cock nudged the delicate spot at your front wall, and your body responded with shivering enthusiasm.

With a gasp, you could feel yourself cumming for him; tightness met with immediate fluidity, your muscles spasmed comfortably as you clung onto him through your high.

“Verdammt, ja—ja,” König grunted, hips stuttering in response to the way your cunt hugged him, pulling him back into you with every increasingly sloppy movement of his hips. “Gut, Liebe—fühlt sich gut an…”

“Your—you...” you gasped out, letting your words float onto his skin as you leaned into his chest. “Please…want it.”

You didn't have to specify; you both knew what it was you wanted.

“You want it?” König groaned a laugh, “You may have it, Liebling—I will—Gott, perfektes Mädchen—I will give it to you.”

He hugged you to his body, bringing you off the wall enough to slam you down onto his cock as he hurtled towards his own orgasm, rambling in two languages at once about nothing in particular except for how amazing you were; how much he adored you.

“I—I will give it to you, Kleine,” his tone was practically pleading, for no real reason other than to show you the urgency he felt to give you what you wanted and to have you take it from him. “T—take it from me as you would like—bitte, take it all.”

He moaned loudly for you as he came, spend coating your walls; the warmth made you shiver. When he pressed you back against the wall to rest, your shivering was only heightened by the chill that passed through you upon making contact with the tile again.

You took labored breaths, still tilting yourself forward to find comfort nuzzled against him.

After a moment of stillness, his cock still twitching inside of you amidst an atmosphere of pure, endearing intimacy, König spoke up.

“Do you believe we are clean now, Schatz?” He reached for your face, coaxing you to look at him.

He greeted you with a smirk that you returned, blissed out and content.

“Clean enough,” you laughed, “Though I think there’s a spot between my legs that might need a second swipe over with a washcloth.”

“No,” he tsked, purposefully adjusting himself to nestle his softening cock deeper inside of you. “You should not have to clean that yourself.”

You smiled, mewling softly when he readjusted your body in his arms. You pressed a kiss to the crook of his neck before letting your head settle properly on his shoulder.

“Getting all pruney,” you mumbled, “Should probably get out.”

“I will have to put you down, Kleine.” His smirk only widened as he spoke.

“But then you can pick me back up.” You pointed out.

He pretended to think for a moment before finally easing himself out of you with a hiss; you inhaled sharply, as if to protest the loss, but you didn't offer any verbal complaint. He helped you to your feet, an arm wrapped around you for support as you found your footing.

You stepped out of the shower once you stopped wobbling, leaving König to turn the water off. The slick between your thighs now more than obvious as you toweled off the beads of water still stuck to your skin. You had hardly begun investigating the stickiness between your legs, attempting to clean yourself up, when you felt his large hands on your waist again.

“Was machst du?” He had emerged, not stopping to dry off before he grabbed you, picking you up bridal style and looking down at you with wide eyes.

You wrapped your arms around him, unbothered by the notion that his hold on you would make the point of having toweled yourself off in the first place completely moot.

“Messy.” You made a face, legs fidgeting in emphasis of your point.

“I said you should not clean it yourself,” he scoffed, “My wife should not bother with such things.”

He began walking you to the bedroom, trying to shield you from the doorframes he passed through, though his large form ensured he did so rather clumsily.

“You gonna do it for me, then?” You quirked a brow, stifling a laugh when he bumped his elbow on the wall.

“Ja,” he spoke earnestly, “But I will not do it now.”

“No?” You smiled, “Why not?”

“Because it does not make sense to wash what I will only make a mess of again, Kleine.”

Before you could think of a snarky response, he dropped you gently onto the bed, clambering to join you; to give you more until you were properly sated, and then to do it all again.

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[wiselyghost]

💙 When They Realized They Fell in Love With You

⤷ Warnings: none | includes: Kuroo, Bokuto, Hinata, Atsumu, Suna

⤷ long format | soft romance | emotional realizations | fluff with feelings

⤷ Sorry if it's ooc............

🐾 Kuroo tetsurō - He falls for your smile.

You're curled up on the couch with Kuroo, blanket over your laps, the light from the TV flickering against your skin. It's some cheesy sci-fi film he insisted you'd "hate so much you'd love it,' and you're both half-watching, half-narrating every awful line.

You reach for the popcorn at the same time he does, fingers brushing. You laugh softly. He glances over, already smiling, ready with some dumb remark—but the words never come.

You're lit only by the soft light of the screen, your smile worn ear to ear, he's favorite sound echoing in the room. Your laughter. Your hair falls into place. The air in his lungs get knocked right the fuck out. As his eyes widen at you, he brings his hand to his left chest where his heart should be, it aches for you and only you, only now is he really realizing it.

You notice his stare "What?"

He swallows the hollow lump in his throat.

"Nothin'... you just look cute when you're judging bad CGI."

You giggle. "Oh shut up, you're the one who picked it."

But he doesn't respond right away—because all he can think is oh. So this is what falling in love feels like. It's not loud. It's not dramatic. It's just... you, here, close enough to touch, and it's enough to undo him.

🦉 Bokuto Kōtarō - He falls for your laugh.

He's telling you some absurd, made-up joke—something about owls and protein powder—and you're howling. Your laughter is the kind that comes from your belly, the kind that makes your eyes crinkle and your hand smack his arm mid-giggle.

And Bokuto, being Bokuto, gets too excited reenacting the punchline and stumbles backward, tripping over a dumbbell he swore he moved.

You rush over, trying not to laugh more. "Bo! Are you okay?"

He groans dramatically. "I'm fine, but the floor definitely hit back."

You reach out your hand to help him, and as he looks up at you—laughing, flushed with joy, lit up by the warm sunset through the window—he sees everything.

Your smile. The golden lighting kissing your skin. The way your eyes shine when you look at him like he's your favorite part of the day.

And it slips out.

"I think I love you."

You blink. "...What?"

His eyes widen. "Wait—did I say that out loud?"

You laugh even harder, cheeks flushed now too. "Yes, you big dork."

He accepts your help off the floor, wrapping you in a hug so tight you squeak. "Well. I meant it."

🔥 Hinata Shōyō - He falls for the way you feel like home.

The sun's low, casting a soft golden hue into the apartment as your favorite slow song comes on. You're standing in the kitchen, swaying slightly with a glass of juice in your hand, eyes twinkling as you look at him.

"Dance with me?"

Hinata blinks. "Like... now?"

"Yes," you grin, tugging his hand. "C'mon. It's romantic."

He laughs, a little awkward, a little flustered, but follows you anyway. He's clumsy at first, bouncing too much on his toes, but you guide him—hands on his shoulders, moving gently together by the sink.

You ask him about practice, His favorite part of the day, and he talks with that usual spark. But then he looks down at you midsentence—and it hits him all at once.

Your head resting against his chest. Your content little sigh. How peaceful this feels. He wants this every day. He wants you every day.

“Y/N?” he says, softly.

“Hm?”

He smiles so wide it hurts. “This is my new favorite part of the day.”

🩹 Atsumu Miya – He falls for your voice.

He’s on a road trip with his team and calls you from the bus. It's late, and his voice is soft, tired but warm.

“You still awake?” he asks.

You are. You were waiting for him.

You talk about nonsense—the snacks he bought, how cramped the ride is, some weird music Suna put on. But then there’s a quiet pause. He hears you yawn.

“You should sleep, babe,” he says.

“M’kay. But I like hearing your voice.”

He goes quiet.

“What?” you ask.

“…I was gonna wait ‘til I got back, but…” He exhales. “I’m in love with you.”

You freeze. He’s rambling now, nervous. “I mean, I’ve probably been in love with you for a while, but like—now I’m aware of it, and—”

“Atsumu.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too.”

The grin on his face is instant, pure. He tucks himself against the window and whispers, “Can’t wait to come home.”

📱 Suna Rintarō - he falls for your everything.

It's 11pm and you've dragged Suna out because you're craving ice cream. He grumbles about it but still shows up in sweats and a hoodie, car keys dangling from his fingers.

You're half-asleep in the snack aisle, comparing flavors while watches from behind the cart.

You're babbling about your favorite toppings, the weird candy combinations you like, and your bare face is soft and sleepy, hair tied up messily. You look like home.

This? This is it.

Not candlelit dinners or perfect dates. This—you in pajamas under fluorescent lights, waving around a pint of mint chocolate chip—is what love feels like.

He walks up, plucks the ice cream from your hand, and tosses it in the cart.

"You're buying that," he says.

"Why?"

"Cause I'm in love with you and I say so."

You blink.

"Rin."

"What?"

"You can't just drop that in aisle seven."

He shrugs. "You wanted ice cream. I gave you romance."

💌 Reblogs & likes appreciated! 💭 commissions open | do not repost

[olderthannetfic]

I thought this might provide some solidarity and maybe tickle you, and by tickle I mean make you sigh as you contemplate how humans are worldwide.

The minister of education in my country (equivalent to the secretary of education in the US) only finished third preparatory (9th grade). His high school degree, bachelor's degree, and post-graduate degrees have been proven to be fake, including official responses from the US university where he claims to have got his post-graduate degree.

His mom owns a series of expensive schools in the country, and is the daughter of an important name in the military, and she (idiotically? or wisely because she KNOWS no one can touch her? I don't know) threatened the lawyer heading the case against her son that if he doesn't back down she will put the lawyer and everyone on his side "in sacks" (meaning dead bodies in our language).

Isn't it insane? She threatened him via text, which he can PROVE. He is suing her of course (in addition to her son) but man. The sheer... what, audacity?

I mean, yes, I know power breeds corruption, but like... if you're lauded all over the country as Nermeen Ismail the Mother of Generations of Egyptian kids who graduated from your school, shouldn't you be a little smarter than threatening a lawyer via text that he can hang onto and use against you?

The only reason someone like me, a hardworking single mom of two who barely has time to follow the news, knows about this, is because the first thing this minister did as soon as he was appointed was come after the kids studying IGCSEs, the international version of the UK high school degree, which most of us in Egypt can BARELY afford but choose over the corruption in grading Egyptian high school degrees, where it's common for kids from important families to be given the grades other normal folk worked hard for.

So we all signed up with the lawyer who was threatened to file a lawsuit against the unfair changes the minister enforced on our kids, and that's why we're paying so much attention to him and the ridiculous minister appointed by our equally ridiculous ignorant dictator.

Equally hilarious? Egyptians who are lapping up antivax trends as gospel coming from the enlightened Western world, and ridiculing those of us who try to tell them and explain and show with proof that antivaxxers are the scourge NOT the enlightened part of the Western world? Those very same people are NOW deciding to practise some healthy skepticism towards... everything our lawyer says.

Most of the comments are like, "Why is everyone coming for the minister? Must be because he's a good man working hard to reform education."

It seems humans are morons everywhere. They will only believe nonsense and distrust facts. Sigh.

So. Yeah. We have another Trump here I guess. And aren't humans weird? Sorry about the long post! Thank you for the entertaining and often really informative blog. <3

--

[moodr1ng]

like prev post is one example i happen to be talking about for once but ig what i mean is like. every little small inconsequential thing that my mind could turn into "you look suspicious right now", that i could possibly suspect means someone thinks poorly of me (w no evidence of that whatsoever), that i can possibly twist into somehow being about how Everyone Secretly Hates Me And Thinks Im A Liar And A Fraud, i will. the most minor things. every day of my life. i am plagued by a constant fear that everyone thinks im always lying, that everyone is always suspecting me of Something, all the time.

every time i go to the pharmacy to pick up my completely normal mental health medications i think "the pharmacist thinks im a malingerer whos faking mental illness to try and get drugs". when they ask "thats two boxes right?" im terrified of saying "yes", even though yeah, my prescription is for two boxes of these meds, bc if i say "yes, give me two boxes and not one", its gonna be confirmation that im a liar whos just trying to get more meds. even though thats. literally just what im prescribed.

its like that about everything. i have to overperform truthfulness at all times, because just knowing im telling the truth isnt enough, i also have to convince everyone else that im telling the truth, all the time, because Everyone Always Thinks Im A Liar in my mind. if i, like, tell a friend on discord "going to bed now!" and then while getting ready for bed i make one last post on tumblr like 5 minutes later i think "my friend is gonna see this and think i lied about going to bed and that i was trying to avoid them on purpose because im a bad friend". if i tell someone about a condition i have i assume they doubt i actually have it and think im lying for attention. if i tell people im bigender and they react with total acceptance i think "theyre actually thinking im obviously just a binary man who is lying about being bigender so i can intrude upon women in some way, but they cant say it bc they dont want to look transphobic". if i tell people about abuse i suffered as a child and they react with horror and compassion i think "theyre thinking im making it up or exaggerating so i can get pity, theyre just forced to pretend they believe me to not be rude". if im having a mental health episode and someone is concerned about my well being i think "they think im doing this on purpose and putting on a show to force them to take care of me". and if i try to tell my therapist about symptoms im experiencing i think "he thinks literally everything i say about my mental health is a lie i tell so i can get on disability and get meds, so i have to hide part of my symptoms from him because the less i tell the less suspicious i am". i literally cant discuss this very belief w my therapist because i am convinced that if i told him "im constantly terrified that everyone, including you, thinks im lying about everything so i can get attention or some other benefit" he would think "ah, my liar patient is claiming that hes afraid of being seen as a liar to throw me off his scent. this is actually more proof that hes lying, hes laying down the precedent that hes not a liar in order to cover further lies".

all the time. all the time. and i cant make it stop. and i cant talk about it because i think anyone i tell about this is going to think "ah, yes, The Liar is insisting shes not a liar, which only a liar would do". i literally think anyone reading this very post is going to think "youre talking about this too much, youre trying too hard to come off as truthful, obviously youre trying to cover up your lies, in fact this very post proves you do lie about being mentally ill and abused and you lie to your therapist to get drugs and you probably stole that girls bonnet too, everything you say you didnt do is just a preemptive cover for having done it".

but well. if i keep refusing to talk about it im only feeding it. because the more i avoid talking about it to not trigger it, the more i reinforce the idea that "if i talk about it, everyone will turn against me" as legitimate. so, whatever, i guess. im just very tired, you know. i wish it would stop sometimes. i wish i could trust that anyone regards me in good faith. i think it also sucks of me to assume the worst out of everyone like this - to just think everyone is out to get me or always regarding me in the worst possible light. idk. i just wish i could make it stop. ill make an effort to finally tell my therapist tomorrow. but idk if ill have the guts yet.

[notbecauseofvictories]

it's so interesting talking to and around my father, because personality-wise we are extremely similar (so much so that sometimes I'll say things, then my mother will go quiet and respond...you know, you sounded just like your father) but I grew up as a woman, and he grew up as a man, and that does that make an appreciable difference.

[thelassoway]

Jason Sudeikis as Ted Lasso Season 3 » Casual Sweaters/Jumpers

[spookythesillyfella]

"This crying voice of mine is so annoying // I suppress the emotion // Break the egg, make it a mess // Fry it, roll it // Look, I've stopped crying"

★ alt verzionz under cut :

★ song : "For you An Empty Shell" – Dobu no Awa

[clownhonkbonk]

something something... vampires.

zaya uthman, vampire hunter, nim thunderstruck, the polite vampire.

characters belong to @apleye from their awesome sauce comic!! go read. super good.

[bittersweetresilience]

adrien often being referred to in fanon as “sunshine” and the sun and something about Felix having Moon symbolism. is this anything sunny?

sentitwin sun moon symbolism is absolutely ridiculous. i have thought about it before but never gotten anywhere. this time i consulted @ninadove about it and rotated it in my mind for many hours and i am still not sure about my verdict. therefore i'm just going to ramble a bit and then pass it over to nina. birthday teamwork!

i started out agreeing with the assignment of adrien as the sun and félix as the moon.

their personalities seem to fit the vibes. moreover, it ties into yin and yang.

adrien's miraculous is placed on the yang half of the miracle box, and ladybug's on the yin. his hair is parted to the right, which is the direction of yang, while félix's and ladybug's are parted to the left, yin.

a brief tangent here: even though the placement in the miracle box and adrien and marinette's civilian selves with their white and black outer garments respectively seem to indicate yang and yin, when they become heroes, they swap entirely. ladybug wears red, yang, and chat noir wears black, yin. their powers of creation and destruction are also yang and yin. my theory is that not only are adrien and marinette meant to be halves of a whole as partners, but their hero selves are also meant to halves of a whole with their civilian selves. yin and yang symbolism all around.

back to adrien as sunshine. before félix was introduced, adrien was established as the character in the show with the disney princess golden hair and golden smile, so it's easy to see where this fanon came from.

marinette describes her love for him as three suns in her heart.

then if we want to pair the sentitwins, and we think adrien is the sun, it makes sense for félix to be the moon.

some final evidence in support of this is mirror imagery. the same way the moon reflects the light of the sun, félix reflects adrien. both in his creation as a reflection of adrien's and in his behavior in the show. félix dresses as adrien in over half of his episodes.

but this picture is complicated by several factors. there's a fair amount of evidence that the twins are actually associated the other way around, with adrien as the moon and félix as the sun.

gold and silver color symbolism. one could easily think of gold as the sun and silver as the moon, but in the show, félix and the graham de vanilys are associated with gold and adrien and the agrestes are associated with silver. the wedding rings, the colors of their homes, their camouflaged miraculous, the lighting... anarchist gang talked about this a few months ago and i think nina may want to expand on what we discovered, so i will leave this to her.

another brief tangent here: white and black color symbolism. i have not fleshed out my thoughts on it but i am leaving notes here for future reference. adrien's civilian outfit features white, but this likely reflects gabriel's influence on him. his hero selves wear black. meanwhile, félix is introduced dressed in black and haloed in white as he enters gabriel's sphere. in the play, it's the opposite. at the diamonds' dance, he and marinette wear white and kagami, like lune rouge, wears red. obfuscation? femininity? yin and yang again?

and a third brief tangent here: when chat noir is unhealthy, he becomes chat blanc, who is white, and patte de velours, who is accented with gold. colors of entanglement? of influence? of inauthenticity? are félix's best parts adrien's idea of a perfect self? i am contemplating.

there are more significant reasons for moon adrien and sun félix. in important moments of the show, adrien is frequently associated with the moon. glaciator, chat blanc, kuro neko, new york special... and on the other hand, where does the sun play an important part of the story? in réplique, with félix.

narratively, sentitwins seem to have moon and sun roles. adrien is the one from whom things are hidden, while félix is the one who shines light on the truth. adrien spends most of his time as support, while félix is an active agent. adrien reacts to things, while félix makes them happen, for better or for worse.

nina has an entire essay on félix and the development of his sun associations from lune rouge to the sunrise in représentation, so i'll leave that to her to discuss.

all right. sentitwins are either sun and moon or moon and sun. what does this mean for them?

it intrigues me that adrien is viewed by fanon as the sun when he could be better described as the moon. adrien agreste enjoyers, please get on this.

here is a starting point for your thoughts. if adrien is the moon, it makes sense why he destroyed the moon in chat blanc when he was trying to destroy himself.

and if félix is the sun, it further puts into perspective why he felt guilty about réplique's fate. they were a sacrifice for his goals. he may has well have literally killed them.

role reversal and false impressions are prominent in sentitwins and this complicated picture adds to that.

frequently bought together. do not separate.

in conclusion, yes, autumn, this is most certainly something. fuck if i know what it is, but i love losing my mind about it.

[limonjarritos]

VINCE IS SO DOWN BAD FOR RODY OH MY GOD??? LITERALLY KILLS HIS EX GIRLFRIEND TO MAKE HIM HAPPY???? THEYVE KNOWN EACH OTHER LESS THAN A WEEK??????

LITERALLY LIKE- MY MAN FELL HARD AND INSANELY. LIKE WHO DOES THAT? I wouldn't have it any other way. Just the way that as soon as Rody came into his life he was like 'I need this man to be so whole-y mine.'

When I was playing the game my pet theory was that he fell for Rody's brand of love, for how he loved Manon (he did say that he spoke of Manon when they first met) and Rody's personality.

(read more because I am so annoying about this game vv)

Something something, how Rody loves so intensely to the detriment of himself (Manon told him to stop giving, to for once in his life realise that he needed to take care of him self and be stable. He can't just account for the other person's needs <- barely know her but I get why Rody was head over heels). How Rody's love is similar to his cooking, burning, burning himself, burning and oh so overwhelming. And I do think Vince wanted the feel of that burn for himself, wanted to feel the warmth and devotion of which he had been so devoid of. To understand what it was he was lacking. How love and cooking go hand in hand in the story, how Vince's dishes were devoid of love, how he can't taste. How Rody's love surely would be strong enough, would be the missing ingredient to allow him to finally taste something. (Also lack of taste going hand in hand with what looks like depression of some sort, or perhaps just apathy for life. How bland his own life may be. How such a love, such a person could perhaps bring some taste to his life.) Vince seems to have killed Manon as a form of trying to show Rody a similar type of love. Giving him something, giving him a meal made out of Rody's own love. A gift since he couldn't give his own brand of love in a way that matters, couldn't give it without showing his own brand of devotion. I do think he 100% had an underlying jealousy and hatred of Manon, how Rody was still stuck up on her. How she never once mentioned Rody when her and Vince dated (though outside of Vince's pov I'm pretty sure Manon was just doing the healthy normal thing by not mentioning an ex?? but Vince is soooo gone) which is obviously a sin (he doesn't seem to take kindly to people who are mean to Rody. Such as the article and Rody's old college classmate) and proof she wasn't deserving enough of Rody's love. But alas she was still a gift and show of love to Rody.

On the personality topic (thought I forgot about that did you?), Rody is such a brash and kind person. A perfect foil for Vincent's more stoic nature. Rody willing to try and befriend Vincent, running into the kitchen to talk to him. He showed a bit of said love to Vince by trying to befriend him and how could Vince not want more? (why wouldn't Vince try to reciprocate in his own way. Make him happy) I mean he seems pretty feared by his cooks, and the people at the party have mentioned that Vince is pretty ruthless, not at all a person many wish to get to know. But Rody is willing to, yet Vince wants his undivided attention...

Okay wow this has gone on way too long uhh I'm 100% open to further discussion especially if I forgot something! And I haven't really looked too much into the game past playing it, so any reveals the creator may have given I'm mostly unaware of and would love to be informed of more!

Anyways tiny Vincent attack!

[canisalbus]

wait ive been reading some of these asks. do machete & vasco have a written out story? or comic? i havent seen any links on your page for something like that (unless I'm looking over em :"D) but I'd love to read/hear more if so!

Hh sorry, they have lots of story stuff planned out but it's all just rattling around in my head, there's no comic, written fiction, lore depository or anything substantial that I could direct you to. I mostly just design characters for my own enjoyment and then put them in little imaginary situations because it's a fun and inspiring thing to do.

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

The backlash against Frozen, which, from my observation, has cooled down (that isn't a joke, I swear-) quite a bit over the past few years, was less based on the quality of the movie itself and more on the fact that its massive success and reach really overshadowed a lot of other movies that came out prior to it and after it and was getting credited for stuff that had already been done before plenty of times, and in many cases, in those exact movies. This is why, to this day, many fans STILL refuse to give Tangled its props without trying to put Frozen down in some way. In their eyes, Tangled should have gotten the glory and accolades Frozen received, but did not, and that made them quite jealous. Overall, Frozen is far from a bad movie. It's a great movie with a great message, characters, music and does actually deserve the success and recognition it got, and some fans need to stop being so salty about it and uplift their fav movies without putting Frozen down so they get the proper appreciation they deserve as well. Although, yes, the credit this movie got for allegedly introducing themes, archetypes and tropes that had already been seen before in Disney, including movies set in a fairytale world with heroines as the protags, was undoubtedly the most annoying part about its success and is part of the reason why many tried to drag this movie and its main leads.

[karamazovposting]

On Ivan and bipolar disorder (part three)

This is my favorite part of this whole thing. I haven't written it yet, that's literally the opening line, but here I'll be talking about one of the most interesting (to me) aspects of Ivan's character: how the other characters perceive him; I already know I'll be having a blast writing this. Internal vs external perception is probably my favorite topic when it comes to character study, so I was thinking of doing something similar for Dmitri as well in the future because I noticed some things that I want to talk about. I'll think about it.

For once I don't have to make an introduction where I explain what I'll be going over in this because there's none to be made, so let's start from the beginning. The first time we see Ivan is when they're all waiting for Dmitri at the beginning of the book, and what does he do? He takes the piss out of everyone, of course. And I think that in everything that happens there and in the following passages (I was particularly struck by Father Zosima's words about him, which I've already mentioned in here) we pretty much have the key to Ivan's character, and he doesn't even give it to us himself (very fitting indeed). The first thing we find out is that Alyosha is afraid Ivan will be condescending towards the monks and while Ivan technically isn't, he still adopts a subtly mocking tone with them, which checks out considering that Miusov says Ivan feigns arrogance to mask his own insecurity. Also it's very telling that Ivan's demeanor changes when it comes to Zosima, I feel like he actually does respect him and to some extent appreciates his words. Funnily enough I've found myself in a similar situation in the past (atheist surrounded by nuns, my family was there, they told me some things I appreciated; I wasn't making fun of anyone though I swear) so I get it.

Speaking of words, there are many used for him in those chapters, and there are even more as the novel goes on, brushstroke after brushstroke painting a rather confusing and contradictory picture of this young man: he's bright yet insecure and "a tomb", he's weird and a misunderstood outcast in his own family yet he's charming (said by multiple characters in multiple occasions, I think it's the word that's used the most to describe him) and refined, yet again eccentric. He's paradoxical and a riddle (another word used multiple times), and his own father fears him more than he fears the son who almost beat him to death and at first I couldn't understand why, considering everyone else's opinion of Ivan and the fact that Ivan actually helped get Dmitri off of their father when he was beating him, but then I went back to Book Two and stumbled upon a line that managed to completely go over my head in the past (how could that happen? God, the horror!) that does explain a lot and looking back now, to me feels like one of the most important lines (about Ivan) of the whole novel:

What seemed to [Aleksej] strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, [...] who alone had such influence on his father that he could have stopped him [...]

I don't think I need to explain why I think this line (that you can find in The old buffoon for context) is crucial so I won't say much about it, but it also explains why Ivan's presence in the Karamazov household is seen as a guarantee for quiet and order (as stated during Dmitri's trial, and we also see it in the fact that both Dmitri and Pavel had in mind to murder Fyodor only if Ivan had been out of the picture, though for different reasons), and honestly it surprised me: I mean, Ivan's influence over other people plays a very important role in the story, but him having influence over his father? Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov? Wow. Also I have something else to say about the quiet and order thing but it belongs in part four.

The rest of that line is also interesting in my opinion:

[...] [Ivan] sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had nothing to do with it.

This, maybe trivial, line never really left my head, which means it must mean something to me. Maybe because that behaviour fits Ivan's character so well and I always like when he gets to act like a normal, unbothered, and even childish at times, twenty-three year old (he's not even angry there, what a rare occurrence) and because according to how the other characters speak of him, it feels unexpected (and turned out to be useful for this post).

Back to how others speak of him, someone (Fyodor I think) goes as far as saying that maybe Ivan deliberately seeks torment, which honestly feels a little too familiar to me and that's why that's another line I can't seem to get out of my head; when people have such a high opinion of you they do tend to blame your own struggle on you, at least in my experience, as it's their only way of rationalizing it. You should be better than that, you should be smarter than that. But you're not, so maybe you actually want it; why would such a brilliant person be like that otherwise? You're not allowed to be "weak" and I think Ivan is a perfect example of this as he has internalized this concept, but I'll go over it in part four.

But what does all this have to do with bipolar disorder? I'm getting there, but you'll have to bear with me because this whole thing gets quite intricated at this point and I have to be as clear as I can (and I can't, ever), so let's take a seemingly nonsensical step back to see the bigger picture.

None of the brothers are stupid: Dmitri is naive, impulsive and uneducated, sure, but the narrator does describe him as a fairly intelligent man in spite of it, Pavel was basically a child prodigy and a very smart young adult (and maybe I should talk about it sometime because everyone in the novel considers him to be capable but stupid and there's only one person who explicitly recognizes his intelligence in a genuine way apart from the narrator, guess who), and Aleksej, while also uneducated, isn't stupid either. But there is a particular emphasis put on Ivan's intelligence and it's hard to find a paragraph where he is present or where someone else is talking about him that doesn't mention it. Ivan is bright, Ivan is educated, Ivan is an academic. It's pretty much the first thing the other characters think of when thinking about him, it's almost some sort of morbid fixation. And it's not a positive thing either as it does nothing but feed into his insecurities and Pavel even uses it against him by telling him how intelligent he is over and over until he officially loses it. Ivan is smart to the point of being charming and admired, but that turns out to be a double-edged sword (of course) because everyone puts him on a pedestral and higher the pedestral, deadlier the fall, as we see in the second half of the novel. In my opinion the only one who seems to view him as a human being and not as some sort of ghost or higher, detached entity (apart from Zosima) is Alyosha; Dmitri considers Ivan to be better than everyone else including himself, Smerdyakov is...well, Smerdyakov, his father's attitude towards him is basically I don't understand what's up with him and I don't really care (in addition to what I said a few paragraphs ago) and even Katya is charmed by him more than she loves him, at least at first. Everyone else doesn't even really know him and that's partially his own fault, but I can't blame him.

Why do I consider this bipolar coding? To make it short, intelligent people are often considered charismatic and many psychiatric studies suggest that there's a link between bipolar disorder and high intelligence (which to me personally kind of feels like a consolation prize, like nature saying hey, you'll hate being alive but at least you're not an idiot!, thanks a lot I guess) and it's also worth mentioning that bipolar disorder is linked to creativity as well since Ivan has come up with multiple poems over the years, which means he must be a creative person to a certain degree. I haven't been citing my sources because this is not an academic paper and I'm just some guy on Tumblr who doesn't even study psychiatry and just happens to be basically cursed, but there's a book about this topic that I want to mention: Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament by American psychiatrist Kay Redfield Jamison; I've also read her (very relatable) autobiography and I'm a big fan of hers since she knows what she's talking about even more than the average psychiatrist because she has bipolar disorder herself. For anecdotal evidence, I keep a mental list of historical figures and artists (including contemporaries/celebrities who are still alive) diagnosed with bipolar disorder (so if you ever want to know if someone has/had it hit me up I guess) that I won't include here for obvious reasons, but let me just say that the doctors who did the aforementioned studies do seem to have a point (and I'm an artist myself). I want to make clear that I'm not trying to play into the overused, boring, inaccurate, and generally uncomfortable (for me at least) mentally ill tormented genius trope/stereotype and that it's obviously not what Dostoevsky was going for either; it's just that I've personally had people fixate on my intellect my whole life (not to mention the general weird fascination the average person has for mental illness and mentally ill people as well) and seeing Ivan go through that same experience combined with the studies I just mentioned made this association inevitable for me. Also people seem to find you more fun and charming when you're manic/hypomanic (only when you're the "right" kind of manic/hypomanic of course, when you're experiencing dysphoric mania/hypomania people just become ableist because that's the "wrong" kind of mania/hypomania, duh) which is...uhm...I don't really know how to feel about it honestly, but it's a fact so I'm mentioning it.

But what came first, Ivan's self-isolation or people's misunderstanding of him as a person? Is it the former that caused the latter or the other way around? To me this feels like having to talk about the good old chicken and egg dilemma and I still haven't figured it out in relation to myself, so I guess this will remain unanswered for now (or forever). But what I do know is that bipolar disorder is a lonely experience, no matter how hard someone tries to not make it lonely; people just don't get it even if you explain yourself a thousand times over and over. It doesn't mean you don't have relationships with others, it just means you know you have to keep some things to yourself sometimes and you get used to it, which seems to be Ivan's case too; to me the best example of it is when he's just about to tell Alyosha about the devil but stops himself from doing so and decides to push him away instead. In my opinion it's also connected to his inability to show "weakness" that I already mentioned and that is often one of the core experiences of living with bipolar disorder, but I won't go over that now. I'll just say the problem when it comes to Ivan is that everyone (the readers, the other characters, even himself) gets tangled in a net of performance; living with bipolar disorder feels like having to constantly keep up a certain kind of act (that I wouldn't even know how to explain) in front of others due to the stigma, and I'm pretty sure that's the case with every neurodivergence and invisible disability (bipolar disorder is in fact a disability and I'm legally disabled, that's why I mentioned ableism earlier). Ivan knows what people think and expect of him (we've seen it in his first real interaction with Alyosha and I've already talked about it in part two) and we see few moments when he goes mask off, and apart from those moments his facial expressions are always described as being forced or "off" in some other way. One thing that struck me is the significant contrast between what Mrs. Khokhlakova in particular says about him and how we actually see him behave when he doesn't bother with his forced coldness and collectedness (usually by himself or around his family): she talks about how refined and chivalrious he is multiple times because that's the side of him she sees (and almost everyone else sees), yet he's the character who swears the most (I don't know if "swearing" is the right term as in the novel there are no actual curse words in the modern sense but he doesn't really speak kindly does he); his language is even worse than Dmitri's. I'm not saying that being polite in public/formal settings and swearing like a sailor in private/informal settings is something unusual because I'm also like that (as I'm afraid you might have noticed, sorry for all the swearing!), I just wanted to point that out because to me it seems important in general and relevant for this post.

This doesn't mean I think of Ivan as a fake person because I would have to have that same opinion of myself and I don't, it's quite hard to explain if you haven't lived the bipolar experience first-hand or don't really know what masking is and I hope you'll understand what I'm trying to say here; it's just that he hides and polishes some parts of himself due to a combination of childhood emotional neglect, mental illness, and a personality that's difficult on its own (but really, when you have a disorder like this one it's quite hard to tell what's personality and what's mental illness, especially because at times they're one and the same; it shapes you and sometimes you can't even do anything about it and to me it's no surprise Ivan's sense of self is as warped as it is), all factors that contribute to his partially self-inflicted isolation. I mean, he does say himself to Alyosha that at first he kept him at a distance on purpose and you can also find a glimpse of that in his own philosophy: he openly says that he loves humanity but dislikes humans. He can only show affection from afar and I think that also reflects in the situation with Pavel and in Ivan's own guilt: I don't think Ivan lacks empathy (quite the opposite), he just doesn't have the tools to do anything with it. Could he really have done something? He says he would have if Pavel had explicitly told him to stay in their father's house (here the conversation shifts on the physical aspect of things as Ivan now feels guilty for also being physically distant from his family and not only emotionally), but Ivan's words are never really reliable. How can we expect someone who's incapable of getting close to people to help them? Even when trying to help Dmitri escape prison he's still rough with him. There's a reason why his thing with Katya is a mess as well and he refuses to admit that he loves her (he even says to Alyosha that he doesn't like her and he's with her only to prevent a catastrophe at Mitya's trial, which are later stated to be lies by the narrator): he always tries to convert his feelings into reason, otherwise his whole façade crumbles.

I also want to mention Ippolit Kirillovič's words about him at the trial because they seem very important to me, but only very briefly because first, many things he says have already been talked about in my other posts and second, it seems a little unfair to leave the other members of the family out because Ippolit Kirillovič says many interesting things about all of them; maybe I'll make a post about that in the future. Basically, Ippolit Kirillovič doesn't particularly like Ivan because he got the better of him in a couple public arguments they had in the past (very funny to me by the way), but he still prefaces his criticism of him by talking about his positive qualities (once again, his vigorous intellect and brilliant education) and saying he was welcome in their community (but not in the same way Dmitri was). This is yet another case of me not knowing where I'm going with this, but this particular instance stood out to me so it was worth mentioning; I think it summarizes the other characters' attitude towards Ivan quite well, but I can't really explain it.

Another thing that I noticed is that no one ever calls him by a nickname, not even Alyosha. I wrote a post about the use of names and nicknames in The Brothers Karamazov months ago but I hated the way it turned out because I felt like I wasn't making any sense so I decided to throw the whole thing away and I don't even know if I should try writing it again. Anyway, it's very interesting to me that pretty much everyone is referred to by a nickname (even Rakitin of all people) except for Ivan; not even Alyosha calls him anything other than his name (and if I remember correctly not even Katya, who talks to Ivan using the informal you, does). Actually, there are a couple instances where this does happen and that drives me even more insane because the first one happens at the beginning of the novel, when his father calls him Vanya a few times only to never do it again (and honestly Ivan didn't seem to like that either), and the second one is Rakitin mockingly referring to him as Vanechka when talking about him to Aleksej (because of course he'd never call Ivan that to his face and I also have a feeling he'd get decked if he tried). I don't really know where I'm going with this (again) but I wanted to throw it in anyway because it always stood out to me considering the only main characters that are never referred to like that are Fyodor, Ivan, and Smerdyakov and well, there seem to be implications here. In the aforementioned deleted post I wrote about this topic I mentioned sense of belonging (Mitya belongs there after all) and affection/connection (everyone loves Alyosha) in opposition to being excluded (Smerdyakov is not a legitimate son) and being unable to connect with others (Ivan is an outcast due to the multiple reasons I went over in the previous paragraphs). Maybe I really should try writing it again.

Well, I think I'm done for now. I found it a little hard to separate the themes of part three from the ones of part four, because the latter will focus on Ivan's self-perception (among what happens from Book Eleven to the epilogue and other, more "medical", things) but we see how he perceives himself through the devil but the devil is not an actual real person in the book so I couldn't really include that here and in my mind the themes of these two parts kind of blended together so I had to to figure out where to break them apart.

This took longer than usual (which bothers me but oh well) because I had to take a break from pretty much everything (which is why lately many posts have been queued) for a while due to the February-March period always being whacky for me bipolar-wise, mostly because of the seasonal change (something that plays a huge role in this shitshow of a disorder and something I'll go over in part four because surprise surprise) that always makes me mentally and physically tired. All of this, which can be summarized with bipolar disorder bipolar disordering, to say that I hope this part isn't as messy as it seems to me and that I hope you can't tell I wrote it during a time I wasn't getting enough sleep (I swear I did my best given the circumstances), and if I "disappear" or interact less from time to time it's usually because of this kind of stuff. I'm still not getting enough sleep by the way so I might take a break from serious posts again, I love that daylight savings time happens during one of the worst seasonal changes of the whole year for me every year and it doesn't mess with my disorder at all.

It sure didn't help that I chose to make part three more complicated than the others thinking it wouldn't go in a completely different direction than I had originally planned and wouldn't therefore have to reorganize my thoughts during a period I simply couldn't do so; I will obviously be punished for my hubris. But until then I'll be working on part four (and some other unfinished stuff I have in my drafts and have no idea when I'll post), which will be the last part of my bipolar Ivan Karamazov essay.

[mikhailoism]

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[l-llavellans]

OC Vibe Game: Asher and Isla Trevelyan

thank you for tagging me again @tevivinter (how did you know i got addicted to making these and needed an excuse to share them…) !!!! i couldn’t decide if i wanted to do another wayhaven one or a dragon age one so i just did both 😅 this was originally just for my inquisitor but as i was making it i thought it would be cool to make one for the dynamic between him and his sister !

so this one is for my inquisitor, asher trevelyan, and his older sister isla. they were doomed from the start :)

i know a lot of you have done this multiple times and i don't want to keep you in an endless loop of tags but if you're reading this id love to see more of your ocs !! asap!!! 🫵

[palajae]

hi :3! not sure if you've ever gotten this type of ask before but, how do you make your long fics well ... long? i've been trying to get myself to write more full length fics but i can never seem to make good enough scenes that aren't too short if that makes sense 😭 if you could give me some tips on how to make scenes longer and make fics more interesting i would greatly appreciate it! :))

aaaa i never get this type of ask so im excited- ofc i’m super happy to answer!!

hmmm for me specifically, i like to think of the purpose behind each scene (i.e. characters meeting for the first time, establishing a conflict of the mc) because that’s how a story is made and how the plot moves along right?

then i use the setting and characters in the scene to incorporate the plot leading up to the true “purpose” of the scene + after the purpose is fulfilled AKA—transitions. that way, the scene is not super short and straight to the point (if that makes sense?)

here’s an example bc idk if i made any sense at all lol: let’s say the purpose of your first scene is to get the mcs to meet at a cafe. well, based off what i’ve watched and read, i could write ab how the characters get ready to go there/why they wanted to go to the cafe in the first place/even just their thoughts going to the desired location. that adds more lines or dialogue immediately. then after the two mcs meet, you can lengthen more by adding their reactions or thoughts after their meeting!

and for making things interesting, as long as you stay true to the story and characters actions/personalities while keeping the plot flowing smoothly—you don’t have to worry about it being interesting—it naturally will be! i feel readers mainly stop reading if the story doesn’t make sense anymore (the actions of the characters suddenly don’t align with their original values and the plot is just moving on with no purpose).? honestly it’s hard for me too to know what people find interesting these days lol.

another thing that can help make scenes longer is maybe reading other people’s works/watching movies or dramas to get inspiration ykwim? especially like kdramas that are made up of many parts, i think they’re good examples of longer scenes that fulfill their duty to the plot while still keeping it entertaining for the reader!