#there's also some kind of. there's a lot of feelings around it

[vivimura]

how riki sounds during sex

i think in the first couple times of doing it, he'd be a bit hesitant to make sounds unless he hears you make some first. but, i think he'd open up a bit more eventually and be more confident in making sounds.

i doubt he's the kind to explicitly dirty talk, but i think he would praise you and tell you how good you're making him feel. he'd probably say things like, "god, you feel so good.." or along the lines of "keep doing that.." every time you'd clench around him.

he likes cursing a lot, and might even mutter some in japanese when the sex gets mind blowingly good.

i don't think he's completely mute, but he wouldn't straight up moan or whine either. i think he'd make sounds like groaning, grunting and subtle gasps ever so often.

whenever he'd get you to squirt, he'd groan appreciatively and say, "fuck, that was so hot... think you can do that again f'me, pretty?"

i do think he'd speak up whenever he feels himself getting close, because he wants the both of you to finish together. he finds it intimate, but also the sight of both your mixed cums dripping down your pussy is just really hot to him. "fuck-, tell me you're close, baby.."

afterwards, i think he would try his best to express how good you'd just made him feel and of course, that he loves you! "that was so good.. i love you s'much, baby.." he's sweet like that, okay?

mlist comment and reblog!

(i got this as an ask in my anons and accidentally deleted it but here you go ecskhfbsejhfsje)

[solarbiomechanist]

adding experiences from my life, content warning for descriptions of abuse; if you grew up in a hostile, controlling, or dysfunctional family environment, like I did, then you likely have a lot of social skills that *only* work in that environment. Some of those skills may *create* that environment.

So, about Trust versus Control.

In a dysfunctional family system, people with power use control to maintain their boundaries and fulfill their desires from the people with less power. This is true for everything from "would you get a soda for me" up to "I know you won't cheat on me." In the first, they know you'll get them a soda because they have set up the environment such that saying no would be dangerous and saying yes will be neutral or possibly pleasant. Getting them a soda is the path of least resistance. In the second, they know you won't cheat because for example they might know how long you're supposed to be at work, how long it takes to get home, and when you go to sleep/wake up. They know where you spend your time, so there's no room for extracurricular activities, so to speak, but they might loath your coworkers and any friends you manage to keep. This also applies to parental relationships, replace cheating with "being out of the house when I want you at home and/or hanging out with people I didn't select for you to hang out with."

None of this is at all based on the security of knowing another person does not want to hurt you, that in fact they want to help you. Control-Based trust breaks the second it becomes clear that a subordinate is no longer able to be threatened back into line, by mind or by body. The second that happens, the superior in the relationship is likely to become paranoid and distrustful of the subordinate.

If you grew up like this or have been in a relationship like this, then you may be tempted to use control to get your way. You may be tempted to back up your words with a threat or a consequence because you have not been taught how to build trust with people or you have had that rrust broken so many times its unrecognizable. You may also be tempted to set up the environment so that what you want just so happens to be easier than anything else, without ever actually asking for what you want or need.

Both of these will likely be completely subconscious processes until you make the effort to notice when they have happened and start working against them. You will also, like seen above, need to learn to recognize when trust-based communication is happening, because control-based communication is the only kind you know or the only kind that worked for quite some time and at a base level, you're probably going to feel like other people don't really *mean* it unless they're willing to hurt you for it. You might be used to taking all the space you can get away with, and you might be used to that being a very very small range of actions, so when the pool broadens out you might still be acting like you're in a really small pool and not act as though you have agency even as you're accidentally bulldozing other people because you're used to getting immediate harsh feedback. It's like you've had the volume turned all the way down to compensate for living with someone who would blow your eardrums out if you had them any higher. You gotta learn to turn the volume back up even as you're learning how to voice your own boundaries, and then voice them without backing them up with a knife.

It is learnable, though. I have done it, am doing it, and i am seeing the people around me do the same. You can learn to love other people and actually trust them without hurting or controlling them or giving them all control and letting them hurt you (regardless of if they know you have done that or not)

the seed of violence is violence. The seed of love is love. You can plant the seeds of love within yourself and they will push out the violence as long as you help them.

thank you for reading.

If you're a teenage boy and you're trying to learn how to interact with girls the right way, one of the most important rules is that you can't treat your interactions with the women you meet in the same way that you treat your interactions with your mother.

If you were raised by authoritarian parents, it's very likely that you walked on eggshells to prevent setting them off. One wrong move and they became violent. You may expect that your interactions with your mother will model your interactions with other women.

But around other women, the roles are pretty much reversed. When you're around your authoritarian mother, you have to watch how you act around her in order to prevent setting her off and making her violent, while the worst she has to deal with is not getting her way. But when you interact with women who are your peers, they're the ones who are watching how they act in order to prevent setting you off and making you violent, and you're the one whose worst case scenario is failing to get your way.

When a woman is uncomfortable around you and feels like you're disrespecting her, she's not going to unleash her anger on you in the same way your mother does. She's going to be afraid of you. If a woman says that something you're doing is bothering her but she "doesn't sound serious", it's because she doesn't have the luxury of being able to safely sound serious in the same way your mother does. When your mother is serious, she can strike fear into you by just giving you a threatening look. But you could easily go your entire life without any other woman ever being able to strike fear into you the same way. It's important for you to learn how to take someone seriously without them being able to make you afraid of them.

[bluebells-and-dragonflies]

viktor (arcane) nsfw alphabet <3

-> hello viktor nation. haven't been able to get this guy out of my mind for the past four weeks, so! here you go! also consider this your formal invitation to scream about him in my inbox i would LOVEEEE to write more about him............

alphabet template is from the.coldest.goodbye!

-> content warnings: sex, edging, blowjobs, pussy eating, dom/sub dynamics, discussion of kink, reader has a vagina, viktor loves you like a lot, 18+ MDNI MDNI MDNI I MEAN IT

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Viktor gets very soft after sex. He'll curl up into your side and bury his face in the side of your neck, pressing his lips into your skin.

You'll help each other to the bath (and you do have a bath- it's one of the few luxuries Viktor indulges in) and soak together, sometimes for hours, you leaning against his chest or him leaning against yours depending on the night. He'll tell you how good you were, how good you are, how much he cares about you, and you'll call him a sap and wash his hair for him. Before long, though, he'll drag you back to bed, ready to fall asleep with your limbs tangled together.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

If you have tits he's obsessed with them to the point that it's kind of a joke between you. After some of your rougher encounters you'll look at yourself and realize there are bite marks and bruises all over them and that it's very visible unless you wear a shirt with a super high cut.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

One of his biggest turn-ons is coming inside of you. He'll lean down with his face between your thighs and watch as his come leaks out of your hole. And then he'll push it back inside of you with two slender fingers.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

If he had fewer morals he would definitely steal your underwear. As it is he just fantasizes about it constantly. Inhaling the scent of them while he gets himself off, maybe even wrapping them around his dick and coming into them. If you ever get this fantasy out of him definitely hide a pair in his jacket pocket or something, he'll basically explode.

Also he has a recurring fantasy about watching Jayce fuck you...

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He's sort of in the middle. He's had enough sex to be good in bed without you having to guide him much, but he's never been promiscuous: for him, sex is a means to an end more than anything else. He goes out and gets his needs met when he has the urge every once in a while and doesn't do anything more involved than that. It's more of a maintenance thing and less of a habit. He's never been in a serious relationship before (or really had strong feelings for anyone) either, so sex is casual to him. Then, of course, he meets you, and sex starts to mean much more than just getting off when he needs.

Side note but I've got a personal hc that the culture in Zaun is super cavalier about sex and doesn't treat it as particularly taboo. Which means that Viktor doesn't try to hide his sex life, even before you're sleeping together, and it probably drives you insane thinking about what he must be doing.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Anything that puts him physically above you he's going to be a fan of. He loves seeing you underneath him, getting to watch every single expression on your face and every involuntary shudder. That said, there are going to be times where he's in too much pain to hold himself up for very long. Then he loves for you to either ride him or just lay between his legs and suck him off, running your hands up the sides of his body and toying with his nipples.

If you held a gun to his head and made him pick just one position, though, it wouldn't be any of those- he would want you to sit on his face. He absolutely fucking LOVES everything about it. He loves the weight of you on his shoulders and chest, he loves when you grind against his chin and mouth and nose, helplessly chasing your release. He loves feeling your come cover his face. He loves your hands in his hair, gripping tight and holding his head still so you can use him. He's obsessed.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Viktor can get giggly during sex, which surprises him as much as it does you. There are plenty of times where the vibe is less serious, where you're grinning at each other like idiots and high-fiving in the afterglow. If you're at the point where you're having sex regularly he's already thrown caution to the wind with you. You make him feel comfortable and his willingness to laugh and be vulnerable together is a direct result.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He trims every now and then but doesn't do anything more than that- no shaving or waxing or anything.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

In serious moments Viktor worships you. He wants to take his time. He fucks you slow and deep and kisses you during, gasping into your mouth at the peak of every thrust. What he feels for you is so large and devotional that it scares him. He wants to bury himself in you, would crawl inside your chest and live there if he could. He's desperate for you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He gets off to the thought of you and doesn't feel bad about it at all lol. Some people have a bit of a hangup about masturbating to people they know, but not him! He's got entire scripts in his mind and he follows them religiously: playing with the tip of himself when he's imagining you lapping at the head of his cock like a kitten, holding the base of his cock with two fingers when the version of you in his head decides to make him wait to come. This is happening before you ever get together and before you even know he's interested, and he'll look you in the eyes like he didn't lick his come off his own palm that morning, picturing your tongue instead.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Oh he's a freak LMAO. Kink isn't necessary to him at all and he'd be okay with a vanilla sex life, but if you're down he has a whole laundry list of things he knows he likes and an even longer one of things he wants to explore. He's into bondage, edging, overstimulation, and minor painplay (stuff like spanking, gentle choking, and giving, not receiving). He will sub, especially if that's your inclination, although he slightly prefers domming. Edging is his absolute favorite and he can spend entire nights on it, watching you slowly unravel until you're begging for him with tears in your eyes.

He doesn't quite know it yet, but if you ever bring up the idea of fucking him he would be VERY into it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He vastly prefers the bed over anywhere else. It's by far the most comfortable for him. That doesn't stop him from wanting to fuck you elsewhere, though. It goes without saying that he'd daydream about bending you over the lab desk.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He's just as into the basics as the next person- of course he gets turned on when you lean past him and he can see down your shirt, or when you're at a party together and you run your hand down his arm so slowly he can't mistake the look you're giving him for anything but want. What surprises him is how turned on he gets by you simply existing in his space. Something about having you in his apartment, the domesticity of it all, really gets to him. Once, in the early days of your relationship, he comes home late from the lab and finds you in his bed, dressed in soft pajamas and already asleep, and the rush of affection and desire that hits him is so strong he has to go to the bathroom and jack off in the shower.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

As much as he likes the dom/sub dynamic he never wants to seriously hurt you or be seriously hurt. He's also not a fan of degradation beyond teasing condescension- he's never going to pretend he doesn't want you or call you stupid or threaten to find someone else, even as a kink thing. Also, spit and come are the only two bodily fluids he's really interested in.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He's obsessed with eating you out, but as much as he loves pleasuring you with his mouth, he loves seeing you with his cock down your throat more. He'll restrain himself as much as he can, but he won't be able to stop his hips from making shallow little aborted thrusts once you've bottomed out on him. Your mouth takes him completely out of his head.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Generally on the slower, deeper side. He's a scientist first: he's going to be methodical with you, carefully measuring his actions and watching how you react, especially in the first few months of having you. He maps you out like you're a country he's just discovered, learns you with the same attention and devotion he gives his most serious work, and never forgets a single one of the things that make you moan.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He's down, but it's not his favorite thing. If one or both of you gets desperate in the middle of the day (if you go out of your way to tease him), he's certainly not above bending you over the nearest flat surface. In ideal circumstances, though, he wants to get you in bed and spend a little longer with you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Viktor is one of the most risk-tolerant people in the world. He'll try almost anything once. You never have to worry about suggesting something too outlandish for him because basically nothing is lol. No promises that he'll be super into it after, but he figures he won't know until he tries.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

It depends on what sort of lasting you mean. Viktor appears immune to attempts to turn him on throughout the day and can stay completely composed while taking you apart over and over again- he has immense self-control and won't snap easily. However. If you're playing a more dominant role, he melts under your hands once you've got him in subspace (it takes some time to put him there, but once he's in it he's in it). Suddenly everything you do- every touch, every word of praise you give him- has him straining against whatever rules you've set for him. He will beg if you make him.

In terms of how long it takes him to come, he's not especially slow or especially fast. He does find it harder to last when you're having sweet, slow sex, though. At the end of the day what really undoes him is the fact that you love him.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Yeah, he's definitely engineered a few of his own sex toys. He also definitely engineers them with you in mind. He would love to watch you squirm with a vibrator buried deep in your cunt, or come clenched around a fucking machine.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He is the world's biggest tease, before and during sex. He'll flirt with you throughout the day- a hand on the small of your back, fingers trailing down your spine, a foot dragging up the side of your calf when you're seated across from each other- only to divert his eyes and pretend you're losing your mind when you react.

As mentioned above, edging is one of his favorite kinks. He'll wait until you need to come so badly you're almost incoherent and then make it even harder for you: Speak up, my love. Use your words. I'm finding it difficult to understand what you want.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

More of a groaner than a moaner and not super loud in general. If you want to hear him really break, tie his hands to the headboard and bring him to the edge with your hands and mouth until he starts to beg. Then keep going. (Alternatively, tell him you love him- he'll say it back and won't be able to stop.)

Also he's incapable of shutting the fuck up during sex lol. He's going to keep up an entire conversation with you (and smirk when you start stuttering over your responses). He's going to tell you how long he's wanted you. He's going to tell you how good you look. He's going to tease you incessantly. Annoying as hell!!!

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Viktor almost never curses in general. It's just not the way he talks. Usually. During sex he gets absolutely filthy- the first time you ever hear him say the word fuck is the first time you ever wrap your hand around his cock, and he doesn't stop after that.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

His cock is canonically huge LMFAO I agree with the show here. Hard he's somewhere between seven and eight inches. It'll be a bit of a stretch the first time he slides inside you.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Viktor's sex drive is fairly high but before he meets you he tries his best to pretend it's not. He thinks of sex a lot like he does food: they're both necessary to his continuing function as a human, but they're also deeply annoying distractions from the work he really wants to be doing. He'll ignore his desire until it's actively interfering with whatever he's trying to do, and only then will he spend a few precious hours going out and picking someone up (or hitting up one of the people he occasionally has one-night-stands with).

Once he meets you his desire becomes impossible to ignore. He wants you so badly it keeps him from focusing, from sleeping, and no number of nights out or meaningless hookups banish you from his mind. When he has you, you'll be on the receiving end of all that built-up need.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Sex between you usually happens at night, and Viktor will fall asleep right after unless he has a very good reason not to. He'll accompany you to the bathroom, you'll wash off together, and then he'll be dragging you back to bed with both hands. He won't want either of you to get dressed, and once you're under the covers he tangles himself up in you like he's trying to get as much of his body to touch yours as possible, which is exactly what he's doing. You might talk for a while about nothing much in particular, faces close, before drifting off together.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

OMFGGGGGGG, MY BOIIIIIISSSS😭😭😭

the 26 y/o versions of the first years warmed my heart. do you have any thoughts about the second years, miss raven🥹🥹🥹?

[10 years later headcanons for the first years here!]

What comes after Ever After?

Like Mrs. Rosehearts wished, Riddle has gone on to become a medical mage, just like his parents. More specifically he is a pediatrician (so he works closely with children) and even leads community classes to promote health literacy and independence among the youth. His temper has mellowed out with time, and most patients report that Dr. Rosehearts is stern and by-the-books, but very patient and caring.

As it so happens, he also has a paralegal certification--something he earned in his free time just because there's still a part of him that's so fascinated with the law. Riddle uses that certification to help the hospital he works at navigate complicated cases such as medical malpractice, malfeasance, and negligence--he'll ensure that the perpetrators get their just desserts!

Though unintentional, Riddle ends up being the kind of adult that his young patients can genuinely look up to and confide in. They tell him all kinds of things, like bullying that happens at school, self-esteem issues, uncertainties about the future, or their parents not getting along. He listens and reassures them with a smile, a sticker, and the advice they need--some of these things, he is quite familiar with, and he speaks earnestly and from his own heart.

He has gone low contact with his mother. She threw a hissy fit about it (which scared Riddle and almost made him walk back on his decision), but he was able to move forward with the decision thanks to backing from Trey and Chenya. Riddle still a lot of complex feelings to unpack, and he feels he can better achieve that by living on his own, without his mother looming over him.

Riddle's slowly learning every day, from little things that every adult does to look after themselves (cooking, cleaning his apartment, etc.) to recapturing lost bits of his childhood (gaming more often, having the freedom to meet up with his friends when he wants to). He feels like... with each passing day, he is discovering new sides to himself--and there's something nice about that.

With glowing references from the second prince of the Sunset Savanna himself, Ruggie has the ability to go practically anywhere. He ultimately settled for hospitality--cuz hey, it's a blend of many of the talents he has accrued over the years, and he's got plenty of expertise in looking after others. Ruggie's not just any general manager either, but the general manager of the Sunset Villa, the luxury resort in Dawn City that hosts royals and important guests from all over Twisted Wonderland.

He has this running joke where he pretends to be meeting Leona for the first time ever if he happens to be staying at the Sunset Villa for an event. Ruggie will address him as "stranger" all while shooting him a very knowing look. It mildly annoys Leona, but he lets it slide because, well... it's his old pal Ruggie.

He's the kind of boss that his employees love. Having been at the bottom of the social rung before, Ruggie's known to treat his workers well (free food at the holiday parties!) and is understanding when an issue comes up. If the season is particularly busy, he'll even roll up his sleeves and join them in doing the dirty work himself!

With the fat paycheck he earns, Ruggie is able to reinvest that money into his family. Granny Bucchi has been moved into a nicer house, has a car and walker to help her around, and never has to worry about the fridge being empty ever again. They even hire a housekeeper to do the chores, so Granny Bucchi can happily retire.

Ruggie pours his money back into the community too. The slum children are frequently over for meals or enjoying the new amenities provided for in part by his donations. A new park, a library, a soup kitchen... He's lauded as a local hero, and he deserves every bit of that praise.

Azul has basically double majored in business and law. He now works part time as a partner at his stepfather's firm, but focuses his efforts serving as the CEO to the ever-expanding Mostro Lounge chain. It started off as one location on NRC campus, but there are Mostro Lounges all over Twisted Wonderland now.

Azul likes to humble brag about how he's "self-made", all while not-so-subtly adjusting the expensive watch he wears on his wrist. His insistence on maintaining his appearance and polite person carries over to adulthood. Azul has strict rules about how his hair should be worn, how his clothes should be tailored, and even what kind of cologne he should wear when greeting clients. That meticulousness has played a large part in his booming success.

He's frequently away on business trips to speak with investors, check up on individual locations that may not be performing so well, and to do market research. Azul's always looking for nice cutlery or fancy furniture to furbish his restaurants. Sampling food abroad also grants him the chance to be inspired to introduce new dishes to the menu.

... Still a mama's boy. Behind his tough businessman attitude, Azul's still a family man. He cherishes the precious time he spends with his mom, stepdad, and grandma and is more than happy to share the fruits of his labor with them. His mom will tend to retaliate with piles of his favorite dishes, which Azul finds difficult to refuse.

Azul has Jade and Floyd's contact information in his phone, but he'll deny it if you ask. He only views them as business partners, you understand? Business partners! They only ever talk for important matters. (That's an obvious lie. You can tell from his sudden defensiveness, how he stutters when he speaks his words--and how his eyes light up when he received the notification of a text message from one of the twins.)

Jade tells you he is an “informant” for the Leech family business (which, to this day, remains unspecified). He describes the job to you like that of a private eye—he snoops around, collects information, and solves harmless little mysteries. You see? Nothing suspicious here :))

If NRC Jade was a knife, then older Jade is that same knife but sharpened to a fine point. He seems to be slicker somehow, polite and poised as he was before, but having perfected the art of deceit and able to chameleon his way into any situation as needed. You don’t know if you can fully trust him, not with that smile.

Jade has turned his interest in flora into something… practical. Are you aware that this fungus can be manufactured into a deadly poison? A single drop of it can stop an elephant’s heart. He knows how it is done—would you care for a demonstration?

His wardrobe is a lot of... black? Jade laughs it off and explains that black is simply easier to maintain, as "the stains" don't show as easily. "What stains?" you ask him, but all he says is that "cleaning up" can be such a mess sometimes, especially if Floyd is feels like he doesn't want to help. Is he talking about laundry...?

He keeps a busy schedule (so many clients to meet and greet, you know), but he reserves the same slot of time every few weeks for him and Floyd to reunite with Azul a “special” acquaintance for an octopus dinner. Jade makes it sound so ominous, but it’s also perhaps the most sincere you’ve ever heard him.

Floyd calls himself the “muscle” of the Leech family business. Again, what they specifically do is never quite defined. He says it’s like being a bodyguard; he’s paid to be beat up people that threaten their operations. Just don’t ask what those operations are and he won’t have to squeeze you too! :))

He retains the same flippant attitude he had in his student era. Floyd never quite settles or plants his roots, he just hops from place to place, partakes in whatever interests him, then peaces out to the next exciting thing. And if anyone gets in his way?? Well, I hope they’re prepared to deal with one angry eel. It’s like he hasn’t matured much from his school days 💦

Some days Floyd doesn’t even bother showing up for work, meaning that Jade (whom Floyd works with) has to dirty his own hands. He gets a scolding for it later, but it doesn’t really bother Floyd. It’s not like his job is in danger, no matter how many times he flakes. (Perks of working for his dad, lol)

There’s a strange rack of shoes in Floyd’s room. None of them match, and they’re of varying sizes too. Surely they’re not his? Floyd claims it’s a miscellaneous collection, kind of like a trophy case to keep a record of all your wins. He doesn’t elaborate further when pressed about the matter.

For his special dinners with Azul and Jade, Floyd likes to make them play Russian roulette with him! He’ll prepare takoyaki with mystery fillings and then bring them in, daring the other two to take turns eating them until they come upon the one with the ghost pepper center. These nights are frequently filled with thrills, chills, and borderline kills—he looks forward to them!

In the past several years, Kalim has been working hard to help with the daily operations of the Asim trading company. Through this, Kalim has wizened up and developed various skills: negotiation, hosting, general business acumen, etc. Now he has succeeded his father as the president of the trading company.

Getting out into the real world exposes Kalim to many harsh realities. Poverty, illness, death. It unnerved him at first, made him want to pull away—but he forces himself to stand his ground and look. These experiences have shaped him to be less extravagant and more mindful. Parades just to share wealth, sneaking out in a worn shawl to buy bread for the local children, etc. He’s never really come to terms with the wealth disparity that exists between him and others, and all of that is just now hitting him. (Quarter life crisis?) Kalim teaches his siblings about this too, hoping that they'll show the same kindness to the world when they're his age.

Life somehow has still not managed to squeeze the cheer out of Kalim. He's still as sunny and as trusting as ever, but now that upbeat disposition and slight airheadedness belies such a sharp mind. Kalim knows how to wield his empathy well, using it to easily worm his way into people's hearts and capture them. Soon you'll find yourself laughing with him, cup of tea in hand, and nodding along to his proposals.

He tries his very best to be more independent! In his free time, he's heading out to try new things or to hone skills to take better care of himself. One day, Kalim would like to be self-sufficient! Cooking, cleaning, shopping, budgeting... These are all things he wants to be able to do for himself!

Kalim’s not so foolish as to believe he can free the Vipers as soon as he steps into power. A generations-long relationship like theirs can’t be dissolved overnight, and certainly not without facing opposition from both sides. Instead, he and Jamil reach an agreement to work together and gradually sever the ties between their families. Little by little, they'll drift apart... until, at long last, that bond snaps. If I really care about him, I'll let him go, Kalim tells himself.

For now, Jamil continues to serve as Kalim's personal attendant and aide. (And taste tester... and chef... and bodyguard... and...) Of course, if he had the choice, he would have ditched the Asims as soon as possible--but he's not so stupid as to do such a thing. He has a plan, but it's steady like poison slowly releasing in his veins. Tough it out now, enjoy the freedom later.

He's even more protective of Najma than ever. She'll remind him that she's not a little kid anymore, but Jamil can't help but still "mom" her... especially now that she, too, has joined the family trade of looking after the Asims. When Jamil looks at all, all he thinks of is their parents and all the Vipers before them. It reignites that fierce fire within him to not allow himself and his sister to fall to the same fate. (He communicates none of this to Najma.)

With Kalim gradually becoming more independent and throwing more restrained banquets (they're more elegant, formal affairs, not wild), there's less work for Jamil to do. These days, he mainly manages the main Asim household and accompanies Kalim on outings (since he can't be left alone). It's a quaint, domestic life--except, you know, those continued attempts on Kalim's life.

In his down time, Jamil finds himself admiring the patterns in the clothing and tapestries around the Asim manor. He sometimes daydreams about being a merchant that curates fine fabrics, or perhaps a stylist who tends to hair outside of his own. There's many what-ifs to fill in that space between this day and the next.

Jamil has the opportunity to travel abroad on several occasions due to Kalim's business trips. Kalim tends to bring others with him in his entourage (including the Viper parents), then dismiss Jamil early claiming he "doesn't need his services" at the moment. Really, that's just Kalim excuse to grant him free time to explore the local area. Jamil at first insisted he didn't need this "charity", but eventually he decided to just take advantage of it. It's time away from Kalim, time to clear his mind, time to do all the things he wishes he could.

Like Sebek, Silver has been sworn in as a knight of Briar Valley and serves as the other half of Malleus's personal retinue. Silver is also a foreign emissary. He works wonderfully as a peacekeeper between fae and humans.

There was outcry from the senators when Silver was recommended for such important positions. Sebek at least has fae heritage, but Silver? Silver is 100% human, and the adopted son of that accursed Lilia Vanrouge!! It took a heartfelt speech from Silver, shouting from Sebek, a stoic defense from Lilia, and the icy insistence of Malleus to get Silver pushed through. He doesn't hold any ill will toward the senators--Silver just looked them all in the face and swore that he would do his best to earn their approval.

He puts his natural affinity with animals to good use, establishing Briar Valley's first ever animal battalion. Silver trains woodland critters that are willing and able to aid their efforts: avians that transmit letters over long distances, horses for riding into battle, deer, rabbits, mice, bears, and more to chomp and bash their way to victory in a fight.

Silver has formally taken on Lilia's surname as his own. They signed off on the official documents and everything. (Please call him Silver Vanrouge from now on!) At this point, Lilia has retired and lives far from him, but Silver makes it a point to speak with him as often as he can, whether it's via call or text. He has to remind his father how much he loves him. Once a year, Silver embarks on a trip to the abandoned Castle Wildrose to pay respects to where his biological father fell. He brings flowers with him and stories of how fae and human relations are progressing. He’s sure the Dawn Knight would be pleased.

The magic-induced narcolepsy that plagued him in his youth seems to have worn away with time. True love broke the spell... Now it only ever really hits him when he's already feeling tired to begin with or under some intense stress. Silver's able to go about his daily life and patrol without a problem!

[euniexenoblade]

A thing about the "transandrophobia is real" "transmascs don't hold any power over trans women ever" "trans women saying transandrophobia isn't real are terfs" lot is they are so attached to biological sex and assigned sex and the gender binary while trying to claim they're the group against that stuff.

like, i was trying to hold off whining about this again but so many of them keep popping up on my posts so like. look at their blogs. just read. in one post they'll be like "I'M NOT AFAB IM NONBINARYYYY" or "SEX? I HAD SEX WITH YOUR MOM LAST NIGHT" or "AMAB TRANS WOMEN SAYING I CANT BE A TRANS WOMAN CUZ IM AFAB ARE ENFORCING THE GENDER BINARY" or "TME/TMA IS A NEW BINARY" keep scrolling. You'll eventually come across a post that keeps insisting on afab and amab and male and female and if they're really old school you'll start getting mtf and ftm.

And, I hear you, "not everyone knows modern terminology," these are not uneducated ignorant people, these are people who spend all day, every day, arguing with trans women about transmisogyny. Their entire presence on this web site is calling trans women they don't like "scum." They know male/female and mtf/ftm are old and done, they know tme/tma exist and specifically hate it cuz it's language that empowers trans women to talk about their oppression, and their over dependence on afab/amab is 100% because they know male/female on it's own is frowned on.

At one moment they're talking about how they're gender punk, be anything you want forever, the next moment they want you to remember, you're amab. that trans woman? also amab. Amab, amab, male, amab. But you mention they're afab and whoa, a bomb just got set off. You're misgendering them. You're literally committing bigotry against them. Yet, scroll down their blog, you'll find that they refer to themselves as such all the time. Like....

This is just terf ideology dressed up in afabs and amabs. If not terf ideology, it's just one small step from it. But, almost all of them say this kind of thing. But, they turn around and call trans women who are familiar with feminism, and transphobia, and theory "terf" for saying misandry doesn't exist. Or they say "terfs" hate men and that's why they hate trans women cuz they see us as men and it's like. If you are familiar with feminism or misogyny you'd know that, no, terfs don't treat us as men, they treat us as oppressed women. But they aren't well read, they don't understand nuance or deep understandings of bigotry and oppression, so they just take the terf misgendering a trans woman as like. Literal. And they build their entire idea of what a terf is around this, but not the ideology that actually defines what a terf is.

"Transandrophobia is real" people are absolutely upholding biological sex. That's why they get the trans women that ID as male and the trans men that ID as female to join them, "my gender is just complicated don't be mean to me" - you're constantly implying trans women are male and denying our oppression and supporting people that misgender us, your attachment to "male" through all this is not beyond critique, your bigotries absolutely can cause that "complicated" feeling you have.

Every day is some new transandrodork dropping the act. Whether they're saying they want to hunt and kill trans women, or that they think it's ok to stalk and lolcow trans women, or that it's ok to pedojacket trans women, or that it's ok to misgender trans women, or that "sex based oppression is real and trans women are male," or "tma/tme are specifically meant so trans women can groom young trans people," or "dont say men suck :( trans women will see that and think you mean THEM," or whatever. Just watch what they say about "baeddels." Remember, baeddel is a slur for trans women, but if you take it from their perspective it's still trans women. All the horrid shit they say about baeddels, they are saying that specifically about trans women.

Sex as society uses it doesn't exist. It is a scientific enforcement of gendered oppression. I do believe you can be whatever you want. But, I also think you have to remember that we do not live in a gender utopia, free of societal oppression. A "trans woman" is a specific thing in the eyes of society.

[christinaseas]

I've been getting into backyard birding this past year, so learning a lot as I got as far as the birds that show up around my house. First time a Flicker showed up I was so surprised by the flash of yellow! I guess I just really felt this urge to capture it.

This isn't the only bird in my yard I've felt this way about, this this is the only one that took this long. I've taken some really lousy ones in that time, some of which I probably posted on tumblr, but here are two I found quickly:

So in some ways it wasn't just a this bird in particular, but this was definitely the longest wait and the biggest payoff.

Also sorry to get a little sappy on your reblog, but I'd been hoping for something that was just a small-to-medium step up from the ones I just posted, but this felt like such a big one. Northern Flickers show up a lot, but the combination of one being on the rooftop while my camera is out and ready and then flying in my direction with my reaction being quick enough...idk feel like I got really lucky and I feel grateful for it and I've been getting kind of emotional.

ANYWAY I FINALLY GOT A GOOD PICTURE OF A NORTHERN FLICKER TAKING OFF IN FLIGHT

I've been trying to since around late February or early March of last year, so almost as long as I've been doing this. I'm really fucking stoked about it.

[takes1]

Hiii, I love all ur fics sm! Ur literally so talented omgg

I wanted to request a fic where Oikawa and short/academically inclined reader are friends with benefits. I think it would be fun to see them get jealous and tiptoe around their feelings for each other since they don’t wanna ruin what they have. Can it also be nsfw and could u add some angst pls? Thank youu!

f*cking jealous!oikawa in secret

hi! thank you so much!! hope this interpretation is alright!

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / short!reader / jealous!oikawa / popular x loser trope / jock x nerd trope / tutor!reader / subby-switch!oikawa / switch!reader / oikawa with a nerd fetish / needy!oikawa towards the end / kind of hate fucking? / oikawa being mean / riding / implied oral / fluff, angst, and smut / reader with glasses / 1.8k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. my imagines

"You're sooo lucky to tutor him, (Y/n),"

Your hopeless friend sighed, scrolling through Oikawa's Instagram for the upteenth time.

"I'd give anything to spend that much time alone with him."

It was a little creepy, but you loved her. Other girls fawning over your secret fuck-buddy was something you had to -begrudgingly- get used to. It pained you more when it was somebody so close, but nothing was worth coming clean about it.

The last thing you needed during senior year was a target on your back.

"Oh, he's such a prick!" You wave her off and grab your drink from the café counter with a smaller, pleasant, 'Thank you.'

The table was more of a C-curved booth that your group had to shimmy into. The shape made it hard to get in and out of, rather serving as an ultra-cozy prison to focus on your studies, your caffeine, and your snacks.

As a way of not letting you off the hook so easily- your friends cracked open their notes, laptops, textbooks, while entertaining the 'absurd' idea that any of you could actually date Johsai's least eligible bachelor.

A bunch of star-students with decorated academic achievements was the only impressive thing about the patrons at your favorite, quiet, coffee house. With- maybe-- the exception of money in eyeglass prescriptions, or luxurious stationery that decorated the table.

Your voice stood as the most displeased, the most troubled, of the discussion. You flipped through the chapters, halfway forgetting what page you needed to be on, because you got caught up in his shortcomings.

"He doesn't listen- he takes my hours away from people who might actually need it- he's, obviously, got the biggest ego I've ever seen--, Oh- hold up."

It was a struggle to flip to your page and rummage around your pocket for your buzzing phone.

"Well, I'm glad somebody's got some common sense-," Was the only guy in your group, disgruntled at all the Oikawa-talk.

Oikawa's name flashed across your screen. Your body seized and you hugged it to your chest.

"Woah!"

"You good?"

"I'm just--gonna take this outside," You cleared your throat and sank all the way to the floor, crawling over shoes and bags from under the table to get far away from your friends.

It was on the second-to-last ring by the time you hurried outside. You hated him for many things, but the wind picked up, spraying a chilly mist all over your clothes, and you couldn't help but associate him with the feeling. Your hoodie was still inside, forgotten in your haste.

"What? I'm busy right now." You spat, shivering already.

"Don't fog your glasses up, princess."

His easy, light tone particularly bothered you. You groaned.

"Get to the point, pretty boy, I'm busy--,"

"I know. I just called to say you should stop talking about me. Reads as a bit... obsessive, don't you think?"

The breath you took to poke a hole in his 'obsessive' argument gave way to nothing- except a silent realization.

"You're- where are you?"

You squinted at the dark window, but it was one-way.

Oikawa watched you turn to the parking lot, smirking, from inside the cafe.

He sighed, a real airy, fake one; the one he knew you loved to hear from him in bed.

His voice was lower, closer to the receiver. "I thought you said you were busy?"

The audacity to call you obsessive, mixing with the adrenaline his sudden proximity shot into your system. You pressed 'end call.'

When you re-entered the cafe, you spotted him immediately. He was walking back to his booth, one away from yours, from the restrooms. Though you both saw each other, there was hardly an indication that you knew one another at all, thanks to so much practice.

It was, still, hard to watch him slide into a seat right next to some other girl.

So, he heard you talking shit about him while on a date, then left her to go call you? You rejoined your booth, and spared a mean glance over at him, like the absolute garbage he was. He returned it with lesser intensity.

-

You'd think, with his cock in your hand, he wouldn't bring up the events of that morning. It put him in a less-than ideal position.

"Y'knoww,"

He hadn't said anything yet, but your eyes were rolling. Used to the attitude, and equipped with a firm point to make, he continued:

"You should ditch- ahh, that little loser in your little friend group."

A little roll of your hips had him wincing- spreading the slickness all across his dick, from all the work he had put in, already.

You cocked your head at him, "Oh, yeah?"

Oikawa's eyes rolled back into his skull, a groan at how hot you looked, grinding on him. You were his perfect, nerdy little secret. He specifically wanted you to keep your glasses on today. It was a thing. You didn't understand it in its entirety, but it likely had a connection to the reason why he opted for a lowkey arrangement.

"And you should ditch that shallow whore--,"

"Oh my god!" He gasped, surprised to hear such a thing uttered from your mouth, "Fuuuck you're so jealous-!"

"Me?"

It was completely unfair and utter bullshit that he acted like his jealousy was nonexistent. To him, only you could get out of your pay grade. He pretended to forget that the only reason you were fucking multiple times a week was because he 'needed' you so bad. You felt a little exploited.

"That's so hot-aughhh!"

His big, strong hands were forcing your cunt against his slippery, thick cock, since you wouldn't move quite right.

"M-mmh-! Tha-t's-," You struggled, voice breaking, hands against his muscular chest, "Not- mh, fair."

Your textbooks, his assignment due in 40 minutes, were neglected on the floor across his bedroom. Your tutoring was basically roleplay. It turned him on as soon as you got to talking about the relevant class material, telling him that the work he had already done was wrong.

It turned you on too, to an extent. You liked that you got him stiff without trying, without touching. You loved when he pretended like he wasn't, but bounced his leg right next to yours, cleared his throat before every response, got caught staring like some depraved creature.

You were exactly his type. He was the hottest guy you'd ever met. Something had to give.

"I- ah, don't wanna--," He fucked you hard, like you had a ring on your finger, "See you talk to that loser again."

He couldn't stand the threat of being second place. A guy with such a precious ego needed to feel like you wouldn't leave him. While your social structure may have harbored the suggestion that this would be the case, it wasn't an accurate representation of your feelings.

The whimper lacing his voice grew as you placed a firm hand around his throat.

"Don't- date- other girls." You threatened through gritted teeth and bitten-back moan.

It was just your luck that the most ridiculous peacock of a man would have such a great dick, give you such great head, that you couldn't live and let this fucked-up situationship die. The timer of the semester ticked away, standing as an informal end to it, so neither of you had the gall to cut things off before you needed to.

He whined under your touch, bottoming out hard, keeping himself as deep as he could get.

The lonely bastard draped his arms around you and pulled you close.

"Mmh- you know I gotta- h-ah, keep up appearances for us, princess," His quiet mutter, spilled across your shoulder, forced a shiver down your spine.

His sheets smelled just like him.

You loosened your grip and decided to play with his soft, lush locks, taking in his scent, his touch- that feeling. Like you were his, but not in some twisted, shameful way.

You wanted one of his shirts but it wasn't that simple.

For the moment, you chased the dream, while he was still gentle and peppering you in kisses.

Maybe in some perfect world, he would let go of his status, be a little less weird about your intelligence, and you could have a boyfriend instead of a glorified dildo.

He sounded close, so you fucked him back, hand back on his throat; you wondered how many girls would be disappointed to know that Oikawa Tohru didn't last very long in bed.

"You wanna cum, pretty boy?"

A wince at your rough, loaded kiss. His grip was iron, his strength speaking enough for how mute you got him.

It was so quiet, so pitiful: "Pl-ease,"

God, he looked so cute all fucked-out. He only looked at you like that. Like he never wanted you to leave, like he couldn't breathe without you around him, like you weren't just friends with benefits.

Too bad you were just some freaky nerd-fetish.

He pulled out and you sat, buzzed, on his drained cock, more than satisfied with the sight of cum all over his stomach.

When you pushed up your fallen glasses, his cock twitched accordingly and reminded you of the only reason you existed to him at all.

Kissing, cleaning up, cuddling, all of the winding down was still commonplace between you. He wanted attention, you wanted time to chill before you had to go home. He even made it difficult to get dressed and out the door.

Today, he kept his arms around your waist when you attempted to get up, after 20 minutes of cuddling.

"Pleaaase stay," He whined, unable to hold you as firm as he wanted for fear he would hurt you.

You smiled.

"I need to study more tonight."

"Study here!" He pouted.

Right. Then this would happen all over again- because as soon as he would see a pencil between your teeth, he'd try to replace it with his cock.

"Really study," You pried his fingers off and got dressed.

He watched for a time, but needed to assert himself more in order to feel like he wasn't useless, or forgettable. He joined to get dressed, too, and kept a close eye on your seemingly unbothered expression.

"I'm sorry for cursing at you."

It was so unimportant that you had no idea what he was talking about.

"It's okay," Rolled off your tongue, fast.

Oikawa got twitchy. His sly attempts at dragging out your departure slipped through his fingers like sand.

"Let me help you with that," His unprompted kiss to your forehead, along with his gentle gathering of your things, left you a bit dazed.

You fixed your hair- hesitant to look at him.

"Thank you."

He insisted, like usual, to walk you home. You sighed and posed the same argument, the way you had for the past month. People would notice if you were together in any capacity. Rumors would start.

When he was done packing your books up, he was touchier, and hung over you like a cat rubbing itself all over your ankles as you walked to the door.

You rationalized that it had to be your glasses. It gave him some sort of kick. He barely let you out of his bedroom, let alone his house.

You forgot to ask for a shirt, but... maybe next time?

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu. (new) my imagines.

[destinationtoast]

Hello! I keep hearing that fandom culture has changed, and there are less comments now than there were years ago. Have you noticed this in your analysis? Is the percentage of comments being left today lower than before?

Hey! Thanks for the question -- it prompted me to start collecting data about comments (after procrastinating on it for a while, because I had to write new code to gather comment data). I've also seen other discussions from folks also thinking about how to do this kind of analysis (like in the fandom data projects community) -- hopefully we'll end up with multiple people attacking this from different angles and getting a variety of data about comments!

I'll give a sneak preview that partially addresses your question and contains some good news. If we look at the fraction of AO3 works that get at least one comment (focusing just on one-shots for now), I think things have gotten better over the past decade on AO3*:

In other words, it tentatively looks like more works were getting at least one comment in 2024 than in 2014 (for a variety of time periods). One caveat, though -- if a bunch of works with no comments got deleted in the interim, there will be survivor bias here. I'll try to look into that possibility later. Another caveat: this is based on only like ~100 randomly selected works from each year -- this may all change with more data!

Another interesting tidbit: I still see some of the 2014 works getting comments. In fact, ~30% of works have gotten new comments over 5 years after they were posted, and it looks like ~10% of one-shots posted back in Mar 2014 got a new comment in 10 years later, in 2024.

I'm still doing other analyses; there may be other factors that better match with the discourse around how comment culture has changed. It could be that comment activity peters out faster now than it did back then, for instance. Or the total number of comments left on the popular works is less now than it was back then (though my current methods may not be able to capture that). Edit thanks to quick eagle-eyed readers: it's likely that some of what people are thinking about is ratio of comments to hits -- that is hard to compare in 2014 to 2024, because we don't know which hits came from which years. But I am working on some analyses along those lines. :)

If you have other hypotheses about what's changed in commenting culture, feel free to share! I'll look into what I can.

Some methodology notes:

*I've been tackling this by comparing AO3 one-shots posted in early 2014 to one-shots posted in 2024, and comparing activity in the days/weeks/months immediately after the works were posted. (To start with, I'm only scraping the first page of comments for each work -- meaning the first 20 comment threads -- so there are lots of comments I'm potentially missing for the really popular works. But for many works, this captures all the comments, and I think it may be sufficient for a lot of the analyses I am interested in.)

I'm choosing to focus on 2014 vs. 2024 because 2024 is close to now (but it's been long enough for comments to have settled down a bit), and 2014 was well after AO3 was established (thus it was already a pretty lively time on AO3). I don't want to collect data about every single year because it's too time intensive/too hard on AO3's servers. But if people think that I should be looking at different years, I'm interested in feedback.

Because it's only been ~10 months since March 2024, I am limiting a lot of my analyses to only look at commenting activity the first ~10 months after works were posted in both cases.

[harrygoeswest]

Lazy Days

Featuring fiance!Harry, nail painting, bath smut, and general soppy shit.

Trigger warnings: [if there was a 6th Spice Girl she would've been called] soft spice

Word Count: 3,870

A/N: Hiyaaaa. Ages ago (and I really do mean like actual years ago, on a blog long since forgotten) I posted on here a head cannon of all the things I think Harry does during his down time. This is basically just that, but in fic version. Hope you likey like!

~~~

It’s the shifting of weight on the mattress that stirs you from slumber; the sudden absence of warmth from another body at your back; the whisper of fingertips over your hips and thighs. Still, your body is too tired, your limbs too sore to stay conscious for long, and once the rustle of sheets and padding of feet against the hardwood dissipates, you fall back into the darkness of sleep.

Not too long later, you’re awoken again—the click of a door, the soft clunk of clay on wood. Between sponged kisses up your spine where you lay on your front, you catch a whiff of coffee. You smile to yourself.

Those same fingers from before trace the curve of your sides, those lips now pressed lovingly against the nape of your neck. As tentative fingers make way for strong, capable, safe hands, a satisfied sigh leaves you. You’re gently tugged back into the solid embrace of your lover, his front to your back, skin to skin. His arms are a blockade, arresting you into submission.

“Good morning,” Harry practically slurs, his lips brushing and breath tickling your ear.

Melting against him, your response is a croaked, “Hi.”

That plush mouth of his ghosts across your shoulder and back to your neck in slow, tantric lines. While one hand—one arm—remains firmly in place to keep your body gripped to his, the other travels to his favourite places. He starts with small, spiralling circles on your hip, before migrating to the soft swell of your stomach, following the scars of stretch marks on your thighs. You can feel his barred hand testing the weight of your boob, a light-pressured knead.

A satisfied, breathy moan leaves you, and Harry’s grip tightens.

“When was the last time we did this?” he asks, still massaging your breast.

“Did what?” You barely open your mouth to speak.

“Just…nothing? Slept in? Cuddled?”

You grunt, thoughtful. You can’t remember. “Too long.”

His hum sounds like an agreement. “Shall we just…stay in today?”

You idly skim your fingers along his forearm. “Can you manage to sit still for that long?”

He pinches your waist, and you yelp. “I can for you.”

A fizzy kind of happiness begins to bubble its way through you. He achieves this feeling a lot, with his words. His actions. Sometimes just his face. He’s so handsome.

“Deal,” you finally agree.

You drift in and out of consciousness as Harry’s mouth and fingers map your body. He mumbles in your ear in gentle pries for attention, sometimes compliments and verbal loving. Subtle affections. And it’s also contemplation—what are you going to do with your day off together?—or future planning—do you sit your mean uncle next to his problematic third cousin at the wedding just to see who makes a scene first?

You elbow him for that one, even though he makes you laugh with his boyish mischief.

Sunlight filters in through the bedroom blinds, and even though it’s cold outside, it warms your skin where it touches. Harry notices the same thing you do—the way your engagement ring glints off the light—because his hand finds yours, particularly that one finger with his ring on it, and starts toying with it.

Saying yes was the easiest decision you’ve ever made, and for some reason, Harry struggles to believe it sometimes. Why he ever thought you’d say no is beyond you.

In the quiet room, the endless band recedes as the focal point of your attention while his hands continue to caress and travel around the plains of your body. You simply let him, snuggling back into his embrace, holding his arms around you so he doesn’t let you go.

Before long you feel the sensation of want growing, pooling between your legs. It appears much the same for Harry, whose length has stiffened at your back. With a slight adjustment you let it slip between your thighs, sliding against your bare pussy. You release equally tortured groans, his face shoving into your neck, his tongue tasting and his lips sponging kisses there.

You reach behind you, pushing your fingers through his hair and gripping, keeping him pressed to you as closely as possible. His mouth finds yours, tongue eager as it slips between your lips. The kiss is anything but innocent, and it causes the friction between your legs to heighten.

“Find a condom, H,” you beg breathily.

His presence slinks away, only briefly, and you turn over your shoulder to watch him clumsily searching for a foil packet in the drawer of his bedside table. Producing one, he gets to work.

Once he’s rolled it on he’s back with you, arms returning around your middle and his length squeezing through the space between your thighs. He lifts your leg up by the back of your thigh, and his cock sinks into the heat of your wet pussy.

“Fuck yeah,” he mumbles, nibbling his way down your shoulder, “y’always feel so fucking good.”

“So do you,” you huff out, as your body adjusts to the feel of him.

It starts slow, calm. All of your recent intimate moments have been rushed and sloppy because you’re hardly ever home at the same time and you’re too exhausted to do anything. But this…this feels like the opposite.

Harry takes his time. He keeps your leg aloft while he moves in and out of you, talking in your ear with his favoured phrases.

“Can we move?” you ask after so long. “My leg’s starting to cramp.”

“Sure.” He slows down and pulls out of you. “How d’you want it?”

Throwing him a devilish smile, you roll onto your front and lift your ass in the air.

Harry chuckles. He takes a firm grip on one of your round ass cheeks, squeezing and pinching, before landing a swift smack to that same place.

You groan, arching further into the mattress.

His dick sneaks back inside of you and he takes your hips in his hands. His thrusting starts off measured, timed to perfection to build the ache inside you. His cock really does feel sensational, the way it stretches your inner walls, filling you up. 

“That feel good?” 

“So fucking good,” you assure him. “But I need it faster, baby.”

“How fast?”

“Just…faster than this. It’s nice and all, but I like it when you’re a bit messy.”

“Funny, you never say that when I’m drunk.”

Drunk Harry trying to have sex is…an experience. And not necessarily in a good way.

“I want to feel my backside jiggling, and that ain’t happening at this pace.”

He smacks your ass again, his palm immediately soothing the sting. “I can do that.”

And boy does he deliver. With his hands back on your waist he pistons his hips with vigour. It feels sensational. Your body comes alive as every thrust reaches a deeper, more pleasurable place.

“Fuck, Harry, yes.”

He loves that—the praise you give him. Turns him on and builds him up. He gets faster, sloppier. He becomes uncoordinated, jostling your body forwards, backwards.

You reach under the pillows, fisting the sheets and the corner of the mattress, just looking for purchase on anything.

“You feel. So. Good.” He punctuates each word of his statement with a punishing pump of his hips.

A cry leaves you, and you bury your head further.

He smacks your ass again. And again. The sharpness of it, the crack of skin-on-skin echoes through the room.

You suddenly feel his weight over you, the warmth of his skin against your back. His cock shifts inside you, a strangled gasp garbling from your mouth at the bottoming feeling of it close to your stomach.

His teeth sink into the crook of your neck and then he soothes the bite over with his tongue. “You’re edible.”

“Likewise,” you choke.

Still thrusting away, he grabs a boob in one hand and toys with your clit with the other.

The noises you’re making become hysterical and disconnected. You’re a mad woman—you’ve lost your mind.

“Harry,” you pant.

“I know,” he grunts, his teeth in your neck again. “Fuck.”

“I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah?” His breathless question leaves perspiration along your shoulder.

“Yeah. Come with me?”

“I’ll certainly fucking try.”

You clench your pussy around him. “Please?”

“Shit!” he yells. “Do that again.”

So you do, your delicate muscles contracting around his thick, hard length. He rubs your clit faster, and you tumble over the edge as he follows.

Spent, Harry collapses onto you, his body a delicious weight.

“Fuck, that was good,” he pants.

“It really was.”

“I think I need a nap.”

“We’ve only just woken up.”

“You’re the one who wanted it fast and hard.”

“Yeah. And?”

He sighs, his lips grazing your neck and shoulder. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

— — —

Later that morning, as you’re pulling fixings out of the fridge for a cooked breakfast, Harry appears out of the pantry, tying an apron around his waist.

A laugh tumbles out of you. “What are you doing, H?”

He gestures down himself with both hands. “Getting ready to make breakfast.”

“You and I both know you will not be doing any of the cooking.”

“I will be here for moral support.”

“Right. Which involves sitting there,” you point to a stool at the island, “and looking pretty.”

He flashes a winning smile. “You think I’m pretty?”

In lieu of swatting him with a tea towel, you flip him the bird.

“Is there anything I can do?” he offers, even as he’s rounding the counter to take his usual seat.

On a sigh, you say, “No, Harry. Your company is all I need.”

“You’ll be sick of me by the end of the day,” he predicts.

“Impossible.”

The food is a poached egg and salmon affair, which you plate up and serve at the counter. You take a seat in the stool beside Harry, both turned towards each other with your knees interlocking. He eats his breakfast one-handed, his other resting on your knee, squeezing every so often.

Rumours by Fleetwood Mac drifts from a speaker on the windowsill—Harry’s choice—eventually bleeding into Rock Spectacle from the Barenaked Ladies—your favourite.

When you’re done eating, Harry collects up all your dirty crockery and leaves a peck to the top of your head as he passes. While he does the washing up, you take the clothes out of the washing machine and put them into the dryer, then add a second load to the washer.

You finish your task before him, so you head into the living room and start looking for something to binge for the day. When Harry does reappear, now only in his boxers, he snatches the remote out of your hand, wraps an arm around your waist and yanks you down onto the sofa with him. You yelp as you tumble into his lap.

“What do we need to catch up on?” he asks, barely struggling with breath as he rearranges you with ease.

You wind up with your legs draped across his lap, the rest of your frame curled into his side. You make an attempt to swipe the remote out of his hands, but he holds it aloft with a shouted, “No!”

Heaving a sigh, you give up. “Silent Witness is back on. Or there’s, like, ten new murder documentaries on Netflix.”

He gives you a funny look. “Anything that doesn’t involve death?”

You scoff.

“Please. You love it.”

“I’m concerned you’ve watched so many at this point you could easily murder me and get away with it.”

“And you’d be right,” you deadpan.

He barks a laugh. “Fine. Murder in the day, rom-coms at night.”

“Good plan.”

— — —

Some hours later, when the low January sun is just past its highest point, the two of you vacate your nest on the sofa for some lunch. While Harry puts something together from the scraps in the fridge, you find the bits you need to paint your nails. Once you’ve eaten, you set everything up on the coffee table.

“What are you doing?”

Peering up at him from your seat on the floor, you answer, “I’m painting my nails.”

He’s quiet for a moment, curiously studying his own nails. “Will you do mine too?”

You fight the twitch of your mouth. “Sure. Pick your colours out.”

He joins you on the floor to rifle through your polishes. “What are you having?”

“Blue. Dark glitter and pastel.”

“I want the same.”

“Alright,” you say with a giggle.

“Can I paint yours?”

“If you like.”

So, with your insane murder documentary on in the background, you take turns to paint each other’s nails over the coffee table. He’s meticulous and particular with his work—tidying your cuticles, filing your nails to an even length, and never painting outside the lines. He also applies cuticle oil when he’s finished.

“Only thing missing is the warm flannel massage,” you joke.

He gives you another of his funny looks. “Do you want that?”

“No,” you chuckle.

“I’ll do it,” he insists, “hang on.”

“Harry, it was a joke!” you call after him as he runs from the room.

A minute later, he returns with a steaming flannel in hand. Retaking his seat, he leans over the table and takes each of your hands in turn, massaging your fingers and palms with the hot cloth.

“How do they look?” he asks as you admire your fresh manicure.

“They’re perfect,” you declare. “In fact, I’m concerned my abilities aren’t up to scratch.”

Your fiancé scoffs. “Don’t talk bollocks. They’ve always looked good.”

Deciding to keep quiet, you snatch his hand in one of your own and the cuticle stick in the other. While you prep his nails for polish, you keep an ear trained on the TV and what’s happening in the story. Harry remains suspiciously quiet, but you can feel his gaze on you all the time—not what you’re doing to his nails, but on you. It should be unnerving. Maybe even disconcerting, but you actually find it oddly relaxing. You’re so used to having his eyes on you—though it has always boggled you why he’d want to—it’s a comfort. You feel safe with him.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter at something said on the telly, and you catch Harry’s nose wrinkle.

“That’s grim,” he agrees under his breath.

“You gonna do that to me one day?” you tease.

“What? Quarter up your dead body and shove it in a barrel?”

“Yeah.”

He barks a laugh. “No way. You’re no use to me dead, darling.”

“Aw. That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Fuck off,” he scoffs.

— — —

The sound of a cork being popped causes your head to lift from where you’d been staring thoughtless at the rising bath water. You find Harry standing in the doorway to the bathroom, two wine glasses slid between his long fingers and a bottle of something bubbly in the other.

“What’s that?” you ask, swirling the water around with your foot to even out the temperature.

Steam swirls seductively through the air, rising from the tub in wafts and waves. Lavender and chamomile candles burn in the corners and on the windowsill. Your bath time playlist fills the otherwise silent room, featuring pandemic Taylor Swift and early London Grammar tracks.

“Wine, duh.” Harry places one glass on the lip of the tub and the other on the floor.

You watch bewildered as he fills both. “What for?”

“We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

He kisses his teeth and shakes his head, his response an exasperated, “So many questions.”

You roll your eyes as you strip out of your clothes, knowing well enough you’re not going to get an answer to any of them. Also, who really cares what the wine is for? You’re an adult with no work commitments tomorrow.

Harry sits beside the tub using a stolen pillow from your bed to cushion his backside. While you talk more wedding plans his hand dangles in the water, sometimes just swirling the water around idly, other times gliding a finger up and down your arm, your waist, your thigh.

His touch is intoxicating, and you find yourself sinking lower into the water.

His gaze trails to your legs where they’ve subtly spread for him. Expression hungry, he dances his fingers across your inner thigh and up to your pussy.

The conversation naturally drifts off as he starts teasing your clit, his chin now resting on the side of the tub to watch his work.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s done it so many times—a talented man with talented fingers. Perhaps not quite like this, though, set up in the bathtub, but it works all the same. In fact it might be even better this way. 

He works his way around your needy clit and then into your wanting heat with his finger, causing your body temperature to spike. You moan and gasp your way through his clever ministrations, having to bite down on your own finger when he adds a second to take up more space.

What actually finishes you off, unbelievably, is when he leans in to kiss you.

When you’ve calmed down he slowly removes his fingers, and he’s about to wipe them on a towel, but you snatch his hand and clean them up yourself before he can. He groans and kisses you again.

With your legs like jelly, Harry helps you rise out of the bath and onto the solid, heated bathroom floor. He finds your towel and wraps it around you like a well-sated little burrito. He brings you into his arms, your body flush against his, and he pecks the tip of your nose ever so lightly. You can’t help but smile up at him, because you seem to have found the man who is the exact perfect mix of sweet and spicy. Your smile brings out his own—dimples and laugh lines and all.

“Shall we get a takeaway?” he asks, breaking the spell you’d found yourself in.

“I’ve bought stuff in for dinner!”

“Ah, we can have that tomorrow.”

“Harry,” you scold.

“I really want Thai.”

“You always want Thai.”

“That’s not true. Yesterday while you worked late I had sushi.”

“But was that really just a substitute for Thai while I wasn’t home?”

“Nope. I really wanted sushi.”

“Sure.”

“Come on, bab,” he starts nudging you towards the door, “go put your jim-jams on, and I’ll put the order in and set the lounge up for movies.”

“You don’t know what I want,” you argue, digging your heels in.

“You have the same thing every time, my love.”

“Well maybe I want something different.”

“No, you don't.” 

At the entrance to your bedroom, he whips off your towel and shoves you through the door. “Go on.”

— — —

Harry’s phone starts chirping on the coffee table when you’re nearly done with your first film. His head is in your lap, knees up with his white-socked feet pressed against the arm of the sofa. Your hands are in his hair, freshly painted nails scratching his scalp. You love the noise he makes when you do it—he purrs like a kitten.

Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney bicker their way around Sydney on the telly, with Glen’s abs and Sydney’s chest on display for the entirety of Australia to see. Not that you’re complaining.

Harry blindly reaches for his phone while moving as little as possible, and lifts it high to check the caller ID.

You wince at his mother’s name on the screen because you know he’ll never turn her down if he’s free, even though it’s your first day off together in months and you’re in the middle of a film. This isn’t to say you have anything against the woman—you don’t. She’s amazing, kind, and generous.

But…

“Pause the TV, bab?”

Harry is a mummy’s boy.

And sometimes, just sometimes, you don’t feel up to listening to their conversation for an hour.

Still, you love the man and his mother, so you pause the movie and paste on a smile that portrays interest. Anne asks about your day, how work is going, how the wedding planning is coming along, and fortunately these are all things you can give invested updates on.

Conversation naturally turns to Harry’s sister, the baby, and the next time you’re all free at the same time. Your work is unpredictable, so as always you can only give the disappointing, unhelpful answer of “You’ll let her know soon.”

You’re not sure exactly how long you end up on the phone with your mother-in-law-to-be, but it’s approximately one whole glass of wine. As soon as the call ends, Harry curls up right back next to you, his head returned to its favourite place in your lap.

Another two full films later—10 Things I Hate About You and 13 Going on 30—you finally hit your limit and decide to call it a night. You do a quick tidy up, clearing the mess of your dinner and that second ‘celebratory’ bottle of wine. Not wanting to wake up to a mess, the two of you tag team the dishes, although Harry spends the first few minutes clinging to you from behind and feeling you up in lewd ways.

It’s late by the time you’re done. You can’t fight the yawning you’re doing, and your body is close to shutting down. The ascent of the staircase to bed looks like a mountain.

“Want a piggyback?” Harry offers with a peck to your cheek.

“Yes please,” you say, still yawning.

“Climb on, then.”

You scramble ungracefully onto his back, your arms fastened around his neck and your legs hooked in the crease of his elbows. He carries you up the one flight with criminal ease and straight into your shared bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Ready for bed?” he asks, settling you back on your feet.

Smothering another yawn, you nod as you stumble toward the bed. “I am. How can I be so tired after doing nothing all day?”

He smiles down at you, green eyes shiny and hooded. “You’ve worked hard recently. It’s probably catching up to you.”

You grunt in response. His hands paw at your clothes so you allow him to undress you. Once you’re both naked you tumble into bed.

Finding yourself back in an innocent tangle of limbs, you sink against the warmth of his body.

“What shall we do tomorrow?” Harry prompts, his lips brushing your temple.

Your finger traces the lines of tattoos on his chest—the swallows, the butterfly, the ‘g’ and the dates. “No idea.”

“Walk?”

“No.”

“Drive?”

“Maybe.”

“Noted.” He giggles, kissing your temple where his lips rest. “I know just the place to go.”

“Yeah?”

He hums. “I think you’ll like it.”

“If you’re with me, I’m sure I will.”

His arms tighten around you, and you reciprocate his grip, burying your face into his neck.

“I love you, H,” you mumble, on the cusp of unconsciousness.

And just as you slip into that dark, warm abyss, you hear his whispered, “I love you, too.”

[taffywabbit]

I've been thinking about this song a lot again since yesterday, and if you'll indulge me in being overly wordy and a bit sentimental, I kinda wanna share some of my thoughts here:

so I alluded to this a bit while rambling on bluesky earlier, but early in the process of composing this song I REALLY wanted it to have lyrics. I tried writing some, and having looked at them again this morning, frankly they're kinda garbage and I stand by my decision to scrap them and let the music just speak for itself. but I only really wanted to write lyrics in the first place because I got ONE specific line (and subsequently a chorus, or at least one version of it) stuck in my head and wanted the rest of the song to kinda revolve around it.

the scrapped verses were sorta loosely about how, when you're younger, you tend to have a very straightforward and simple sense of optimism and justice - kids generally believe that things WILL just work out somehow, and often have surprisingly obvious and on-point responses when they learn about societal issues, but adults will often talk down to them and tell them they just don't understand how the real world works yet. and as you get older, that optimism gets conflated heavily with childlike naivety and kinda gets metaphorically beaten out of a lot of people over time, until they're just kinda consigned to the status quo and thinking of societal problems being too large/permanent for them to fix or influence.

this song was meant to embody a sense of rebellious optimism - a stubborn belief that we have a say in the kind of world we live in, and furthermore that our inner child would never forgive us for shrugging and giving up now that we're finally Adults and Adults are supposed to be the ones with the power to actually Fix Things. it was meant to evoke some nostalgia too, sure - thus the title "Grass Stains", which came from the scrapped first verse about childhood, and also just the general musical style being reminiscent of pop punk music I really liked as a kid and still tend to associate with summertime and old video games from that era. but more than that, I wanted to convey the idea that, sooner or later, we have to stop waiting for the Adults to decide how to fix things and get a hand on the ball ourselves; the idea that growing up should empower us, not make us cynical and detached and too tired to care anymore.

anyways, I will spare you most of the unfinished lyrics because I really do promise they're not interesting or good at all, but here's the chorus part and the specific last line that I was really fixated on back then and (for reasons that are probably not hard to imagine) thinking a lot about again now:

you keep pacing

so sullenly facing

away from the task left to you

why can't you see it?

if you want hope, then be it

those gears aren't just going to move

you gotta change the world, before it changes you

so yeah. shit's rough out there right now. shit's been rough for a while and it's gonna continue being rough for the foreseeable future. like I mentioned in the original caption, i wrote this song when I was feeling pretty awful (both mentally and physically, actually - I'm pretty sure I had covid for the second time when I made this lol) and needed something to perk up my mood, and it... kinda worked honestly? and now when I listen to it again I still kinda get a boost from it, especially if I let myself think back to the original message I was trying to imbue it with. it's hard for me to feel totally hopeless or unmotivated while I'm listening to it, and I hope that energy sorta comes through for other people too (though I would obviously be just as happy that people like the music I made anyways, without deeper context or ideas attached to it).

I guess i just wanna say this: remember that the world's gonna change one way or another, but your contributions to it are never meaningless, and their absence would be felt. and you also have the power to embolden and support those around you to become a stronger force for good together. the only real way to fail in all of this is to give up and lay down and let whatever happens wash over you, to believe them when they treat you like you're too small to be a threat or a challenge. and even if you don't believe your efforts matter to anyone else, let them matter to you. if you want hope, then be it. strive to be a force for good in spite of all opposition, and that goodness will in turn continue to propel you forwards.

ok I think that's about as sappy I can stand to be, I'm going to bed lol

hey i finished a new song!! check it out!!

my prompt for starting this was essentially "i'm in a bad mood and i want to make music that'll fix that". apparently what that translated to was whatever genre "music that would make 9-year-old me think they could do a backflip off the swings at the park" is, but like... it DID cheer me up? so, mission accomplished? i hope you enjoy it too!

♫ made with OpenMPT! ✎ cover art by me!

[zerocoded]

summary: headcannons of what caleb is like in bed.

authors note: help me i need him chronically. this is my opinion babes! i can't shut my brain off when it comes to him anymore. waiting for the 22nd to come is like waiting for my husband get back from war. everything here is what i read about his character so far, i hope you enjoy!

warnings: nsfw content • minors dni • SMUT • talks about size kink, teasing, fingering with his prosthetic bla bla, idk what else. A LOT. • this is basically word vomit, i'm sorry.

word count: 1.2k

caleb might be more conscious of his touch, especially with his bionic arm, carefully adjusting his strength to ensure comfort and gentleness.

i KNOW bro can’t keep his grunts down, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

he wants to consume you entirely, like occupy your every thought and feeling when getting intimate with you.

he’s a sucker for your reactions, so attentive to the point it makes you shy.

ALSO he’s so big—like everything about him is just massive. we know that already, right? sometimes HE forgets.

i just got a feeling that caleb's bed is enormous, like king-size for real, made for someone his size. like BIG BIG. because he's a big boy.

he kind of doesn’t fully grasp how strong he is or how big he is compared to you, like the first time he closed his hands around your throat, he gave you whiplash.

everything in his apartment is set high to accommodate him, and you struggle with it constantly.

his frame completely consumes you, overwhelming but in a way that feels safe.

one time, tara walked in on the two of you mid-moment, she was sleeping on your apartment for some reason and caleb came from the farspace fleet really missing you. she asked caleb where you were, and he just casually said "here," while tara bolted out, flustered beyond belief when she realized what was going on.

you were literally UNDER him and to anyone passing, it looked like he was alone lol.

you two have little banter all the time, thanks to growing up together as childhood friends.

tell me i'm not getting too ahead of time, but i gotta say this. when you’re pregnant, caleb has this habit of saying “shush, i’m talking to the baby” every time he rests his head on your belly.

THAT'S SO CUTE, RIGHT? URGH.

he loves being in control – not in a domineering way, but because he wants to make sure you feel completely taken care of. he’s meticulous, learning what you like and pushing those boundaries just enough to drive you wild.

his size is an obsession for him – he’s hyperaware of how much bigger he is compared to you, and he uses it to his advantage. holding your wrists in one hand, pinning you beneath him, or just the way his body completely overshadows yours—it gets him going every time.

he’s vocal, but only for you – low grunts, whispered praise, and occasionally losing control with a deep growl when you hit just the right spot. but he’s also hyperaware of how you react, loving every gasp and whimper that escapes your lips.

a possessive streak – he doesn’t say it outright, but the way his hands grip your hips or how he marks your skin with kisses is all about claiming you. his touch lingers, even when you’re just walking around afterward.

obsessed with eye contact – he insists you look at him, especially in your most vulnerable moments. “keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs, his gaze locking you in place as if the world outside the two of you doesn’t exist.

an absolute tease – he loves winding you up, taking his time until you’re begging him to stop playing around. slow kisses down your neck, feather-light touches that leave you trembling—he knows exactly what he’s doing.

his hands – they’re huge and rough, but his touch is incredibly gentle when he wants it to be. he loves how your body reacts to the contrast, and he uses it to his full advantage, whether he’s tracing your spine or gripping your thighs.

THE BIONIC ARM? OH MY GAWD.

he really hates the fact that he can't feel you - at all. but his prosthetic can come in handy sometimes 😏

he could use his arm’s advanced capabilities, like adjustable pressure or vibration, to focus on your pleasure, experimenting with new sensations. GUYS I HAD TO SAY IT.

i just know he teases you gliding the cool metal over warm, flushed skin and eliciting shivers of delight.

not him using it like your own personal vibrator. turning on subtle vibrations during a kiss or when he's fingering you.

he LOVES to explore areas like the neck, back, or thighs, using varying pressures to heighten your sensitivity.

aftercare king – he’s all about making sure you feel safe and comfortable afterward.

he’s a little shy about certain things – despite his confidence, there are moments when he feels self-conscious, like when you run your fingers along the scars on his body. but your touch soothes him, and he grows to crave the intimacy of being vulnerable with you. again, his prothetic can become a insecurity of him on these times.

unexpectedly playful – he likes to keep things fun, especially when the mood is light. sneaky touches, biting your ear just to hear you squeak, or pulling you onto his lap when you least expect it.

easily undone by you taking control – as much as he loves being in charge, when you take the lead, he absolutely melts. seeing you confident and assertive makes him lose every ounce of his composure. I JUST KNOW HE LOVES IT.

praise kink on both sides – he loves telling you how good you’re being, how beautiful you are, and how perfect you feel. but he’s also weak for your praise—if you tell him how much you want him or how amazing he’s making you feel, it’s game over.

a sucker for your scent – burying his face in your neck or your hair is his favorite thing. he associates your scent with safety and home, and it’s an instant comfort for him, even when things heat up. i just know he missed you so much while he was gone.

light experimentation – he’s always willing to try new things if it means making you happy. he might be cautious at first, but your enthusiasm has a way of bringing out his adventurous side.

he’s an absolute wreck for soft moments – when you’re tender and loving, gently tracing his features or whispering sweet things, it undoes him completely. he’s all about intensity, but those quiet, intimate moments leave him weak in the knees.

he’s competitive – if you ever tease him or play hard to get, he rises to the challenge, determined to win you over every single time. and when he does, he’ll make sure you know it.

obsessed with your reactions – he watches your every move, cataloging the way your body arches, the sounds you make, and the way your breath catches. nothing escapes his attention, and he uses that knowledge to drive you to the brink.

neck kisses – his favorite spot to tease and mark. he loves the way you shiver when his lips brush over that sensitive spot just below your ear.

secretly loves when you’re a little rough – tugging on his hair, biting his shoulder, or leaving marks on his skin? he thrives on the proof of how much you want him. it’s like a badge of honor for him.

he’s insanely attentive to detail – he remembers everything you like, from the way you gasp when he kisses your collarbone to how your breathing changes when you’re close. he uses that knowledge to make sure you’re always completely satisfied.

i need to write about him loving us ASAP, bye.

author's note: i came up with these while trying to write for caleb's love language (the thrid chapter) and i thought i could use it as a solo post hehe. see you guys next! send me a request • my masterpost

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

PUSH AND PULL

a/n: Hey! Sorry it's been a long time, but rn I have a lot of exams… While I finish them, here's something I've written before.

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: they fight but happy ending! long af

summary: In love, mess is inevitable—especially when you're as stubborn as Jude and you. A fight breaks out, and with it, comes chaos. But instead of facing it like adults, you both become kids again, unable to stop poking at each other and pushing each other's buttons. Whether it's a teasing remark, a too-close-for-comfort touch, or a pointed silence, you both dance around your feelings, caught in the tension of unspoken frustration. However, when the stubborness between you becomes unbearable, one kiss shatters the walls you’ve both carefully built.

The flat was a battlefield of silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the sharp-edged, suffocating kind, where every creak of the floorboards sounded like an accusation. Jude sat sprawled on the couch, legs wide, one hand gripping the remote. The TV played highlights from some old match, but you could tell from the way his eyes lingered on the screen without focus that he wasn’t watching.

You also sat on the couch, cross-legged, your laptop balanced on your thighs. With the television humming faintly in the background, you pretended to be engrossed in your laptop, fingers brushing aimlessly over the keys. Your hair fell over one shoulder, hiding the way you glanced at him every so often, wondering if he would break the silence. He did not. What he did, was catching you once, his dark eyes locking with yours for a brief moment, before you both looked away as if burned.

The tension in the room was suffocating, as if the air itself refused to move. Neither of you dared to take the first step to break the silence, which stretched between you like an invisible wall. The funniest part was that, in a house so vast, the two of you had ended up in the same room, sharing the same couch, barely a few inches apart. It was almost ridiculous. Tho, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. Internally, you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

The fight from last night sat heavily between you. It was the kind of argument that left no room for winners, only wounds. You weren’t even sure how it started. He neither. A jab here, a poorly timed comment there, and before you knew it, the words turned sharp, biting into places neither of you wanted exposed. And now, all that was left was this: icy silence and the simmering frustration of two people who loved each other too much to let go but were too proud to make the first move.

Jude turned up the volume on the TV—just a notch higher than necessary. A small, petty move, but you caught it. You gritted your teeth and opened another tab on your laptop, pretending to type while your jaw clenched.

He leaned back, draping an arm casually across the back of the couch, his shirt hitching up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. A silver of his abs. You noticed—of course, you noticed—but you stubbornly refused to let your gaze linger. He was doing it on purpose, you were sure of it. The smug bastard.

To be fair, you weren’t entirely innocent either. You’d been wandering around the house all day without a bra, and you were well aware of how his eyes occasionally darted toward you before he quickly looked away. It wasn’t overt, nothing you could call him out on, but you could feel his awareness of you, just as you were hyper-aware of him.

In retaliation, you slammed your laptop shut, regardless of the tabs you had open. The noise echoed through the room, over the loud volume of the TV, and for a moment, Jude’s eyes met yours. There was a challenge in his gaze, a slight arch of his eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. Then, as if nothing, you opened the device again.

After a while, your boyfriend, decided that now the couch was not as comfortable as it was minutes before and went to the kitchen. In there, Jude’s movements were deliberate, exaggerated in a way that felt almost taunting. He opened the fridge with more force than necessary, the door creaking loudly, and lingered there for what felt like forever before finally pulling out a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap with unnecessary force, the crack of the seal piercing the silence.

“You could’ve done that quieter,” you muttered, not looking up from your screen.

He snorted, the sound low and derisive. “You’ve been so sensitive later.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond. Instead, you tapped harder on your keyboard, the clatter of the keys a pointed counter to his earlier disruption. It was petty, childish even, but you couldn’t help yourself. If he was going to be difficult, you could be too. You knew he hated that, and when you turned back, you caught the briefest twitch of his lips, as if he was holding back a smirk.

The audacity of him almost made you snap again.

The minutes dragged on, and the uneasy rhythm of your coexistence continued. Jude eventually moved to the living room, sprawling across the other end of the couch. His long legs stretched out, nudging your thigh as he adjusted his position. It wasn’t accidental—you could tell by the faint smirk that tugged at his lips when you glared at him.

“Can you not?” you snapped, shifting slightly away from him. Honestly, even when you were angry, you still liked the warmth of his contact, but you knew that pulling away would bother him.

“What? I’m just sitting,” he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. But then he moved his leg again, deliberately pressing it against yours, skin against warm skin. This time, you didn’t move, choosing instead to act as if you didn’t notice at all.

“Sitting doesn’t involve invading someone else’s space.”

He didn’t respond, but the smirk on his face only deepened, as if he found your irritation amusing. Leaning further back into the couch, he made himself completely comfortable, clearly unbothered.

You turned your focus back to your laptop, though you weren’t sure why you bothered. It wasn’t like you were getting any actual work done.

When he grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels, the sound of the TV growing louder with each change, you shot him another glare. He didn’t acknowledge it, his gaze fixed on the screen as if he couldn’t feel the weight of your annoyance.

“Are you trying to be obnoxious, or does it just come naturally?” you asked, your voice sharp.

He finally turned to look at you, annoyed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”

The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, but neither of you said anything more. Instead, you both retreated into the silence, your mutual frustration simmering just below the surface.

By early afternoon, the passive-aggressive dance had reached new heights. You were in the kitchen, making yourself a coffee when he got up moments later, brushing past you as he headed to the sink. You could have moved, made it easier for him, but you didn’t. Neither did he. Your shoulders bumped, and you felt a spark of irritation—at him, at yourself, at the situation.

“Excuse me,” he said finally, his tone clipped but low, his breath brushing your temple as he reached over you for a glass. You stepped aside, not because you wanted to but because your pride wouldn’t let you linger there like some lovesick fool.

He filled the glass with water, the sound of it cascading against the sink somehow louder than necessary. His presence so close to you was suffocating, but you refused to move too far. He stood there for a moment with heavy eye contact after taking a sip, leaning against the counter like he was waiting for you to react.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, appearing uninterested. You saw him glance at you from the corner of his eye, and for a fleeting second, you thought you saw amusement flicker across his face. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

The rest of the afternoon passed in much the same way—sharp glances, clipped words, and small actions that seemed designed to provoke the other. When Jude left his empty glass on the coffee table instead of taking it to the sink, you picked it up with exaggerated care, your movements pointedly loud as you placed it in the dishwasher. When you adjusted the thermostat without asking, he changed it back moments later, the beep of the controls echoing like a challenge.

This repeated a few times.

Neither of you said what you really wanted to say. The words hovered in the air, unspoken but undeniable, like a ghost haunting the space between you.

As the night deepened, the tension between you became almost unbearable, thick and suffocating in the dimly lit room. You lay curled up on the bed, your fingers mindlessly scrolling through your phone, the glow of the screen illuminating your face. At the other end of the mattress, Jude sat hunched over his own device, the faint light from his screen carving sharp shadows across his features. His face was drawn tight, his brows furrowed in a way that made the lines of worry and frustration painfully obvious. You couldn’t help but wonder if you looked the same—tired, distant, and weighed down by the silence hanging between you.

You despised this chasm that had grown between you, the quiet hostility that lingered unspoken in the air. The silence wasn’t a comfortable one—it was filled with an unrelenting tension, an undercurrent of anger and hurt that felt alien and wrong. This wasn’t what you had envisioned. It wasn’t what you wanted. You loved him, even now, even through the haze of pain and frustration that churned within you. That love was still there, steady and unwavering, but it felt harder to reach, buried beneath the heavy layers of everything left unsaid.

Jude shifted slightly, his movement breaking the stillness. His fingers brushed against your arm, light as a whisper, a touch so brief it was almost nothing—but it wasn’t nothing. The contact jolted through you, surprising in its warmth and its ability to remind you of what once felt so natural. For a moment, you both froze. The touch lingered, suspended in time, carrying more weight than such a small gesture should. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, he pulled his hand away, retreating back to his side of the bed.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

The bed had grown colder as the hours ticked on, the tension between you and Jude acting like an invisible barrier, keeping you both firmly planted on opposite ends of the mattress. Sleep came to you first, though not peacefully—it was the restless kind, with the occasional shuffle and murmured sigh as your body sought the warmth that your pride kept you from asking for.

Jude stayed awake longer, his phone abandoned on the nightstand. His gaze flickered toward your sleeping form, the soft rise and fall of your shoulders pulling at something deep inside him. Even in sleep, there was a tightness to the set of your jaw, a lingering sign of the frustration that had consumed the day. He wanted to reach out, to smooth the lines away with his thumb, to press a kiss to the crown of your head like he always did when you argued. But the memory of your sharp words, and his own stubbornness, kept him still.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted off into a restless slumber.

Next morning, the dim light of morning crept through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. Jude stirred first, his body stiff and warm under the tangled sheets. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, until he became acutely aware of two things: the faint scent of your shampoo and the fact that his arm was draped securely around your waist.

His heart thudded once, heavy and slow, as the realization hit. Sometime during the night, you two had moved closer, the invisible wall of your argument forgotten in sleep. Your back was pressed against his chest, your legs loosely intertwined, his nose buried in the crown of your hair. It felt impossibly natural, like the way you used to fit before the fight. His hold on you was firm but careful, as if even his sleeping self knew you were something precious, something not to let go of.

Jude’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles before his pride crept in, whispering to him that this was just a fluke. He wasn’t supposed to be happy about this, was he? You were still angry—still caught in the push and pull of your unresolved tension. But damn it, holding you like this felt good. Really good. It felt right. He allowed himself one more selfish second to savor the moment before you stirred.

Your soft murmur pulled him from his thoughts. You shifted slightly, pressing closer to his chest, your body melting into his as if seeking his warmth even in sleep. His heart ached, and a wave of affection so fierce it startled him coursed through his chest. He wanted to kiss you, to tell you he was sorry for the things he said, the things he didn’t say. But pride anchored him in place, so instead, he lay there, pretending he didn’t feel anything at all.

You woke to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the unmistakable weight of his arm around you. For a moment, still caught in the haze of sleep, you sighed contentedly, nestling closer to the warmth behind you. It felt safe, familiar, and so achingly right that it made your chest tighten.

But then, reality crashed in like a bucket of cold water. You froze, eyes flying open, as you realized exactly where you were—and who you were with. The fight, the tension, the stubborn refusal to bridge the gap between you—it all came rushing back, drowning out the soft thrum of happiness that lingered from waking in his arms.

Still, you didn’t move immediately. Instead, you let yourself linger for just a moment longer, feeling the solidness of him behind you, the warmth of his breath against your neck. Your heart ached with love, raw and unrelenting, a stark contrast to the frustration still simmering beneath the surface. How could you feel both so intensely at once?

You wanted to turn around, to meet his gaze and let the love you felt show on your face. But the pride that had fueled your argument held you still. You couldn’t be the first to crack—not after last night. So, you did what you always did: you pushed the feelings down, buried them under a layer of indifference, and carefully shifted away.

You swung your legs out of bed, avoiding Jude’s gaze as you reached for your robe. He remained lounging on his side, his dark eyes tracking your movements.

“Morning,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. It wasn’t quite warm, but it lacked the sharp edge from yesterday.

“Morning,” you replied, fastening the belt of your robe with deliberate nonchalance.

As you padded to the kitchen to start the coffee, Jude followed, his footsteps soft but noticeable. He leaned casually against the counter as you worked, his arms crossed over his chest. The silence between you hung heavy but was no longer suffocating—just thick with the remnants of stubborn pride.

“You’re not going to make me a cup too?” he asked, arching a brow when you filled a single mug. A smirk tugged at his lips.

Yep, that early in the morning.

You turned, lips also twitching. “Last I checked, you have two hands and know where the mugs are.”

That smirk persisted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t mocking—it was teasing. “Wow. So generous this morning.”

You shrugged, raising your mug to your lips. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

Jude shook his head, stepping forward to grab his own cup. You moved to lean against the counter opposite him, your mug cradled in both hands. He stood closer than necessary, the distance between you shrinking inch by inch as the minutes passed.

“You were hogging the blanket last night,” he stated suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me? I was hogging the blanket? You’re the human furnace who takes up three-quarters of the bed.”

He scoffed, setting his mug down. “Three-quarters? Dramatic much? You sleep like a starfish.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it—a real, unguarded laugh that felt like a balm to the tension still clinging to the edges of the morning. Jude’s lips quirked into a grin, the kind that softened the sharp lines of his face and made your heart skip despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

The teasing was lighthearted, a refreshing shift from the icy tension of the previous day. But underneath it, the stubbornness remained—a silent promise that neither of you would be the first to openly admit you wanted peace.

Jude leaned against the counter, his coffee in hand, watching you with that maddening smirk. It wasn’t just his expression; it was the way he stood, as if the entire kitchen belonged to him, as if he were perfectly at ease and you were the one who had to figure out how to navigate the unspoken rules of this little game.

“You’re staring,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow as you sipped your coffee calmly.

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Can you blame me? You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“Oh, please,” you retorted, setting your mug down and crossing your arms. “I’m not in the mood for your cheesy one-liners. They are not working.”

“It wasn’t a one-liner. It was an observation,” he replied smoothly, taking a step closer. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, “And besides, it’s not my fault you look cute when you’re grumpy.”

Your jaw tightened, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, twitching upward for just a moment before you caught yourself. “I know you miss me, but this is not the way of fixing things.”

“Miss you?” he shot back, leaning closer, his proximity making your heart stutter. “I woke up with you cuddling against me so…”

You rolled your eyes and turned away, feigning nonchalance as you began to tidy the already clean counter. “That’s not how... forget it,”

The morning passed in a steady rhythm of petty jabs and fleeting touches that neither of you could resist. When you walked past him to grab something from the pantry, his hand brushed lightly against your lower back—just enough to make your skin tingle. You shot him a look over your shoulder, but he was already looking elsewhere, as if the contact had been incidental. You knew better.

Later, as you stood by the sink rinsing your mug, Jude joined you, crowding your space under the guise of washing his hands. The sink was large enough for both of you, but he leaned in anyway, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“Do you mind?” you asked, tilting your head to glare at him.

“Not at all,” he replied with a grin, his voice laced with mock innocence.

You huffed, turning to move away, but his hand darted out to catch yours. The suddenness of it made you freeze, and for a moment, you just stared at each other, the air thickening between you. Jude’s thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a simple, unassuming touch that sent shivers racing up your arm.

But just as quickly, he released you, his smirk returning as if to mask the moment of vulnerability. “Don’t trip over your own stubbornness,” he said, stepping back.

You bristled, turning sharply to face him. “Me? Stubborn? That’s rich coming from you.”

The tension that had been simmering all morning suddenly flared, sharp and electric. That was what you both needed. “You’ve been impossible since yesterday,” he shot back, his voice rising just enough to match yours. “I’m not the one slamming laptops shut and stomping around like a child.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you took a step closer, your chest brushing against his as you jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I’m not the one deliberately trying to piss the other off!”

Jude tilted his head, his smirk fading into something darker, more serious. “Oh, you think I’m the one pushing buttons here? Newsflash, love—you’ve been just as bad.”

“Love?” you repeated, your voice dripping with incredulity. “Don’t you dare—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Jude’s hands moved, quick and decisive. One slid to the small of your back, the other cupped your ass firmly, and in one smooth motion, he pulled you against him and lifted you off the ground. A startled gasp escaped your lips, but it was swallowed almost immediately as his mouth crashed against yours.

Finally, you thought to yourself, something you would never say out-loud.

The kiss was hot and demanding, a clash of teeth and tongues that mirrored the intensity of your earlier fight. Jude’s lips moved against yours with a ferocity that left no room for argument, his grip on you possessive and unyielding. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands finding purchase in his neck as you pulled him closer.

For a moment, you forgot everything—the fight, the pride, the stubbornness. All that existed was the heat of his mouth on yours, the solidness of his body pressed against you, and the way his hands gripped you like he never wanted to let go. It was messy and desperate and so painfully raw that it left you breathless.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were red and swollen, his breathing uneven as he stared at you with a mix of frustration and something deeper, something softer. “You argue too much,” he said, his voice rough and low.

You blinked at him, your chest heaving as you tried to process what had just happened. “And you—”

“No no, shhh,” he interrupted, his mouth crashing against yours again. This time, the kiss was slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. It was an apology, a truce, and a declaration all rolled into one.

When he pulled back this time, his hands lingered, one sliding up to cup your cheek while the other stayed firmly at your waist. His thumb brushed lightly across your skin, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. His chest was heaving, just like yours, as if the kiss had stolen the air from both of you.

You stared at him, the heat of his touch grounding you even as your heart raced. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence thick with everything that had just been said without words.

Finally, you broke it, your voice soft but steady. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “For… being difficult. For letting it drag on like this.”

Jude raised a brow, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Oh, so you can apologize,” he teased, though the smirk on his face softened at the edges.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched despite yourself. “Juuude, don’t ruin the moment,” you warned, your tone light.

“I’m not,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Keep going, come on, I want to hear you say how wrong you were.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and you swatted lightly at his chest. “Don’t push it.” But then your smile faded, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “I really am sorry, baby.”

His teasing faded as he looked at you, the sincerity in your voice settling over him like a balm. “Yeah, well,” he began, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. “I’m sorry too. For being a stubborn ass. And for… picking fights when I should’ve just talked to you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. “We’re a real pair, aren’t we?”

His thumb traced circles against your hip, his touch impossibly warm. “We’re kind of great, though,” he whispered, his voice almost teasing. “When we’re not driving each other crazy.”

You let out another soft laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re not wrong.”

The air between you shifted, the playfulness giving way to something deeper. Your lips hovered over his, your breaths mingling as the tension built again, electric and magnetic. You kissed him this time, slow but deliberate, pouring every ounce of affection and apology into it. His grip on your waist and ass tightened, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the way his heartbeat echoed yours, fast and unsteady.

When you finally broke apart, his lips were slightly swollen, his eyes dark and half-lidded as he gazed down at you. “You’re a tease, you know that?” he muttered, his voice husky.

You smirked, the heat still thrumming through your veins. “Only for you.”

“Lucky me,” he murmured, his tone both teasing and sincere. Then, without warning, he bent slightly, sliding his hands down to your thighs and hoisting you up effortlessly. A surprised laugh escaped you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you out of the kitchen.

“Jude—what are you doing?” you asked, though your tone betrayed more excitement than protest.

“Making up properly,” he replied, his voice low and rough in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “No more interruptions.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you leaned into him, your hands threading through his hair as he kissed you again, his lips stealing every thought from your mind. Whatever tension had lingered between you melted away completely, leaving only warmth, laughter, and the undeniable pull of each other.

[fiapartridge]

wish you were sober | nico hischier 💌🤍🥂

"pulling me close, begging me to stay over / but i'm over this rollercoaster" - conan gray, wish you were sober

nico hischer x reader

summary: nico only loves you when he can't remember it

warning(s): drinking, pushy a little? but not that bad

wc: 3.5k

fia's notes 💌: hiii i havent written a fic in so long lol so sorry if this sucks lmfao but i go back to school tomorrow so just wanted to put something out before i leave <3

THE BASE OF the music thrummed through the house like a heartbeat, loud and relentless. It was as if it was mirroring your own. The party was packed to the brim—bodies pressed together and drinks spilling as people shouted over the noise. Had half the party not been famous hockey players, the police would have had this place shut down within the first 30 minutes. 

You lingered in the kitchen, your cup held loosely to your lips as you scanned the crowd. You sat atop the cold marble countertop, knowing exactly who you were looking for—though you told yourself you weren’t. It wasn’t your fault, though. It was like your eyes were just attracted to him. Like you could sense him from a mile away without even seeing him. He was that intoxicating. 

And there he was. Right in the middle of the room. 

Nico.

He was surrounded by his teammates, his head thrown back in laughter as he listened to some joke Jack had said. He had this effortless way of commanding attention, of making people want to be around him. Maybe it was his everpresent smile, or the way he pushed back his soft brunette hair every couple minutes, or the way he towered over anyone in his presence, like he was protecting them. Nico was always the protector. Maybe that was what drew you to him the most. 

But that was also the worst thing about him, because who was there to protect you from him?

You tried to tear your gaze away, but it was impossible. You were caught in his orbit, just like always. 

As if sensing your eyes on him, Nico turned, his dark gaze locking on yours. His lazy, drunken smirk molded upon seeing you—his best friend. You knew how this would end. Save the heartbreak—and leave. But before you could get the chance to slip away, he was making his way toward you, weaving through the crowd with the kind of determination that made your stomach twist.

Nico wasn’t a bad person. He never hurt you, or blatantly tried to make you feel bad. He was honestly the nicest guy on the team when he wasn’t making fun of your skating, or the way you try to pronounce certain German words. He was your best friend. The one guy in the whole world who you would trust with your life. But tonight, and other nights just like these, you weren’t sure who he was.

“Y/N!” he shouted, his voice bright with excitement as he reached you. He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear, sending chills down your spine. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

You looked down towards the pulsating floorboards, turning away from his gaze. This happened—a lot. He’s your best friend one night—coming over to your apartment just so you two could watch funny TikToks at 2AM, critiquing your Tinder profile (“Your favorite dog breed is a golden retriever? That is so basic. We’re coming up with something better than that.”), and pushing you in shopping carts as you run away from angry employees—and other nights, he was like this. He was “in love” with you.

“You’re drunk, Nico,” you muttered, your heart stuttering in your chest.

It wasn’t like you didn’t want this. You’ve been wanting this since the moment you started working for the Devils and saw him walk down the tunnel in his full gear. He gave you a smile, gave you a rundown on every single player on the team—who to avoid (dating-wise), who to keep your camera on, and who gave the best answers— and wished you luck. A year later and you’re still waiting on him. It felt pathetic at this point, but every party gives you a little spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he feels the same.

“And you’re insanely gorgeous,” he countered, his grin fading into something softer but more dangerous. His hand slid to the counter beside you, nestling himself in the spot between your legs. He leaned in so close, you could feel the heat radiating off him. The move wasn’t casual—it was intentional, like he wanted to make sure you couldn’t look anywhere but him. He knew he was etched on every single fold of your brain. He knew you were his.

Your breath caught in your throat as his eyes searched yours, dark and glassy from the alcohol but holding something deeper, something that made your heart twist. It was something you’ve felt time and time before. Something out of reach, something fleeting, something unreal.

“Nico,” you said, your voice trembling as you tried to inject some steadiness into it, “you’re drunk. You don’t mean that.” You never mean it.

“Don’t I, though?” he challenged. His free hand hovered near your waist, hesitating, before brushing against the fabric of your dress, sending a shiver up your spine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You should’ve walked away, should’ve pushed him back and created distance between the two of you, but you were frozen in place, unable to move—unable to do anything. Nico Hischier, your best friend, was looking at you like you were the only person in the room, like you were something worth chasing.

And it wasn’t the first time—but it still hurt like it was.

Two weeks ago it had been the same. A late night after one of his games, Nico’s arms slung lazily over your shoulders as you sat on your couch, giving in to him. You two had just came back from a bar Mercer had coaxed you all into hitting up after the game. Nico was drunk, warm, and inviting. He’d leaned in closer than usual, his voice low as he told you how much he appreciated you, how you made everything easier, how he didn’t know what he would do without you. 

He’d kissed you that night. Just once, soft and fleeting, but enough to leave you staring at the ceiling long after he’d passed out on your couch. 

The next morning, he’d woken up with a groan, running a hand through his messy hair and complaining about his hangover. 

“Thanks for letting me stay over,” he’d said casually, like nothing happened, like your lips hadn’t still been burning from his the night before.

You had waited, hoping—praying—he’d bring it up. Hoping he’d say something. Anything.

But he hadn’t. And you hadn’t dared to either. 

Then there was last summer. Jesper Bratt’s birthday party. Nico had been drunk, but not sloppy—just enough to let his walls come down.

“You’re it for me, Y/N,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours as you sat on the back porch, ignoring the sounds of shouting and laughter from inside. “No one even comes close.”

You’d let yourself believe him, let yourself imagine for one stupid, passing moment that he meant it. 

But the next day, when you’d texted him, he responded with nothing more than a meme and a casual, “What time are you coming to the rink?”

No acknowledgement. No follow-up. Just the same old Nico, acting like your heart wasn’t caught somewhere between confusion and disappointment. 

And then there was the time he had pulled you onto his lap at a party. His hands rested on your thighs, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured sweet nothings, the kind of thing that made your stomach flip and your heart race.

“You’re everything, Y/N,” he’d whispered. He kissed you, allowed his arms to roam around your body, for his eyes to trail over every part of you that made you insecure. Maybe that was part of the rouse. He had pressed his lips, branded every single surface of your body, had seen all the parts of you that you absolutely hated, and somehow convinced you that they were beautiful.

But the next morning, just like all the times before, he’d acted like it hadn’t happened.

“Did you see that dog I sent you on Instagram? Gotta update that Tinder answer—that is your new favorite breed,” he’d said, flashing you that charming grin as you two sat in a diner for breakfast, like you hadn’t spent half the night replaying the way he’d held you—like maybe he actually meant it this time.

Your chest had tightened, you forced a smile and nodded, choking down your disappointment like it was something that you could just swallow and forget—but you never did, and you probably never will.

You swallowed thickly, staring at the boy in front of you. His dark, glassy eyes held yours as if searching for something—some unspoken permission, some proof that this wasn’t just a one-sided game he liked to play when the alcohol made him bold.

But you knew better by now. Didn’t you? You’d spent too many nights like this, caught between the boy who claimed you were his everything one night and the one who pretended none of it mattered the next morning.

But still, your heart betrayed you, skipping a beat when he leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. His lips finding the soft skin of your neck, placing delicate kisses in the places he knew drove you crazy.

"Nico," you whispered, the word trembling in the air between you. You couldn’t keep doing this to yourself. You shouldn’t keep doing this to yourself.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice low and rough, almost pleading. "Come home with me tonight."

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn the world stopped spinning. The music faded, the room blurred, and all that existed was him—his soft brown eyes, his messy hair, the faint scent of cologne mixed with alcohol.

You wanted to say no. God, you wanted to say no. But the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing keeping him here, made it impossible. He always did this—always made you feel like you were the center of his universe for one fleeting moment before tearing it all away the next morning.

And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was because you were simply weak, but you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away. Not when he looked at you like this.

"Okay," you said softly, hating yourself for how easily the word slipped out.

Nico grinned, a lopsided, boyish smile that made your stomach flip despite the ache in your chest. His hand wrapped around yours, pulling you off the counter and guiding you through the crowd with an urgency that felt all too familiar. The buzz of the party seemed to drown out, replaced by the rapid beat of your heart, the quickening of your breath.

When you reached the door, Nico was already pulling out his phone, ordering the Uber without a second thought. You didn’t stop him. Maybe part of you was still caught in the warmth of his hand in yours, or maybe you were just too tired to argue.

Once the Uber arrived, the two of you slid into the backseat, his arms already encircling you as your head laid on his slow-rising chest. The peacefulness of it all made you feel both content and terrified at the same time. How was he so good at this? At making you believe that he wanted you? How was he so steady and still, knowing that he was shaking up your entire life with this moment alone.

He felt safe, and warm, and inviting. And you hated that because you knew it was wrong. This whole thing was wrong. So why couldn’t you let go?

He planted flowery kisses to the crown of your head, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. His entire body was so close, you could feel the heat and the tension radiating from him. This moment—it felt like everything and nothing at the same exact time. 

"You’re so beautiful," Nico murmured against your hair, his voice rough but sincere. "Every time I look at you, I just... I don’t know how to explain it. You’ve got this way about you that drives me crazy. You’re everything."

You closed your eyes, trying to block out the knots of confusion twisting in your stomach. It felt too good, and that scared you more than anything. His kisses continued, delicate and tender, each one making your heart race in a way that both calmed and terrified you.

You knew this wasn’t real; that he had done this countless times before, but was it so bad to believe it was—just for tonight?

You allowed for your eyes to close, for your body to rest and mold against him, for him to take you completely..He shifted slightly, his fingers running through your hair, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “You’re always like this,” he murmured, his voice warm with affection. “You just always make everything feel... easier, I guess.”

You couldn’t help but notice the softness in his tone, the way he seemed to genuinely mean it, even though you both knew this wasn’t it—not really.

The car hummed quietly around you as he leaned his cheek against your head, his breath warm on your skin. It was easy to let yourself get lost in the moment, his presence so familiar, so comforting. But then his voice broke the silence again, the words so casual they almost seemed like an afterthought.

“I always remember you, Y/N.”

The words hung in the air, soft but heavy, and it hit you like a tidal wave. Your breath caught, your chest tightening so suddenly it felt like you’d been punched. You glanced at him for half a second, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore, his gaze fixed out the window, a faint smile still playing on his lips, like he hadn’t just shattered you with a few careless words.

You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift in your thoughts. The feeling of his arms around you didn’t feel the same anymore. His closeness had always been a comfort, but now it felt like a reminder of everything you were trying to avoid.

He didn’t even realize what he’d just done, how his lighthearted, offhand comment had sent you spiraling. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t do anything. His hand continued to lightly trace circles on your arm, his presence close, but something about it now—it felt toxic, like the entire thing, all that you two had built in the last few minutes had just blown up on you. 

Because he wasn’t just talking about tonight, not just the alcohol clouding his thoughts. No, he’d remembered you all along. Even when it felt like he hadn’t been there, like it was just something that happened when he was caught up in the moment, he always remembered.

But he pretended like he didn’t.

Before you could say anything, the Uber pulled up to his apartment, and you both got out of the car, the night air doing little to settle the emotions swirling between you.

Nico smiled softly, his hand brushing yours, pulling you into the building. He looked at you like nothing had changed, like he hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb on your heart. 

When you arrived, he held the door open for you, his grin softening into something more intimate as he led you inside, his hand lingering on your lower back as he guided you past the threshold. The apartment was familiar, but it felt different tonight—distant, colder, almost suffocating. Nico wasn’t just a boy in front of you anymore; he was a reminder of everything you couldn’t quite make sense of.

Once you were in, he closed the door behind you with a soft click. He stood there for a moment, his eyes still on you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, steady breath, as though he was waiting for something.

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do. But just like everything Nico did, he pushed forward like he didn’t even have to try, like he never did anything for the first time. He just always knew. 

And before you knew it, his hands were on your waist, hungrily exploring your body like he had never traversed around it before. His lips pressed gently against yours, like he was giving you time to back out, to tell him that this wasn’t what you wanted. He was testing the waters with you. And you knew you shouldn’t be here; that you should’ve taken that moment, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not yet.

He backed you up against the couch, the soft, plush arms hitting the back of your thighs as he groaned softly into your mouth. His hands slid under your dress, the heat of his palms on your skin making your breath hitch, his kisses growing more urgent as if he was trying to steal something from you. You could feel the tension building between you, his desire so palpable, so intense, that it was almost suffocating.

You could feel it, too—your own heart pounding, your body responding despite the part of you that was screaming to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him. You did. Maybe too much. But this wasn’t right. Not like this.

He kissed down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “Y/N…” His hands found their way to your back, slipping the straps of your dress down your shoulders, his lips trailing after them. "Come on, just let go tonight," he whispered, his voice rough and pleading. "Tell me you want this."

The weight of the situation settled over you, and suddenly everything felt wrong—too fast, too much. You pulled back, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breathing. His eyes were dark, clouded with desire, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t what you needed.

“I can’t do this,” you said, your voice trembling, but firm. “I don’t want this.”

The words hit him like a switch. As soon as you said them, Nico froze.. His hands, still hovering near the straps of your dress, stilled. His lips parted, but no words came. His hands dropped to his sides, and he took a deep breath, like he was trying to steady himself, like he was struggling to understand. You could almost hear the shift in his thoughts—the reality sinking in as the alcohol seemingly cleared from his system in an instant.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispered, the words low, raw, and full of regret. He reached for you as if to stop you from leaving, but then he hesitated, pulling his hand back like you might vanish if he touched you. "God, Y/N, I didn't—"

“You didn’t do anything,” you murmured, placing your hand on his wrist. “It’s me.” Before he could protest, you were already looking into his eyes with something he’s never seen from you before. Remorse? Sadness? Regret? “I like you more than you will ever like me. I just wish…you wanted me when you were sober," you whispered like you had just revealed your entire hand.

And in the scope of it all, you had. You were completely bare.

There was a long silence, his lips parted as though he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he just stood there, his hands hanging at his sides as if the life had drained out of him. And you knew he wasn’t seeing you, not really. He was seeing someone else—the girl he could keep at arm’s length, the girl who would give him what he wanted when it was easy, when he was too drunk to remember what it really meant.

You didn’t want to be that girl anymore.

“I’m leaving,” you said quietly, already stepping toward the door. Nico didn’t try to stop you this time. Instead, he watched, his eyes following you as you reached for the handle.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

The words hung in the air between you, and for a brief moment, you could almost hear his sincerity, though you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol wearing off or the realization that he had truly pushed you too far. But that didn’t matter anymore.

You opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, the weight in your chest only growing heavier as you walked away. You knew leaving was the right choice—no matter how much it hurt. It was time to stop pretending, to stop chasing something that wasn’t meant for you.

By the time you were back home, the tears were spilling over, and his words were echoing in your head. You leaned against the wall, your body crumpling into a pile on the floor of your kitchen. You had made the right choice—leaving before it went too far, before you let him make you feel like you were disposable again. But that damn line, "I always remember you"—it haunted you. Lighthearted. Careless. Yet somehow, it felt like the cruelest thing he’d ever said. 

After a while, you stood up, wiped your tears, slid off your dress, sat in bed, and hoped that one day, Nico would wish he’d been sober too.

[sideprince]

This is what makes Pettigrew such an interesting character tbh! According to Sirius:

‘Just before he transformed,’ said Black. ‘When I cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to hear that I’d betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand behind his back, killed everyone within twenty feet of himself - and sped down into the sewer with the other rats …’

Prisoner of Azkaban, Ch. 19

Pettigrew didn't just kill twelve people. What I mean is, the manner in which he killed those people says a lot about his character. He didn't serial-murder them in a deliberate way, he didn't line them up and take them out one by one, he didn't even target a specific building with certain people in it.

He blasted the street apart with his wand behind his back. He didn't look where he was aiming. He didn't look at who might be in the way. We don't know if he had a reasonable sense of the extent of the destruction he was causing or if he even knew there were any bystanders who would be hurt, let alone killed.

Was he panicked and acting without thinking, running down into the sewer afraid both of the law and of himself? Did he spend a significant period of time coming to terms with what he'd really done? Or maybe he ran from Voldemort's followers now he had no ally in Voldemort whose downfall they'd hold him responsible for, as well as from the law, not knowing how many people he killed, or that he'd killed any, and only found out later by reading an old Prophet in a bin. Was it his guilt that drove him back to Voldemort, the desperate need for validation he'd always had now magnified because he'd done something unforgivable?

Or was he fully aware of what he was doing, his move calculated, his peripheral vision telling him that a dozen people were within range of his blast, knowing that if he got away as a rat Sirius would be locked away for life for mass murder and the secret of his own betrayal would be safe? Did he get a taste of the power Voldemort wielded in the process and like it, having spent his life following others sycophantically, and now discovering what strength felt like? Is the reason he sought out Voldemort later that he had been chasing that high for years and was hoping Voldemort would give him the opportunity to feel it again? Only to realize when he did resurrect him that he didn't have the courage to wield that kind of power of his own volition with him around, and clearly didn't have it without him.

Even so, he killed Cedric without a second thought when Voldemort commanded him to. He prepared Harry meticulously for death when resurrecting Voldemort. He was ready to kill Harry and Ron at Malfoy Manor, if his silver hand changing course and killing Pettigrew is any indication of his original intentions. By the end of his life, Pettigrew was the person Voldemort used to do the dirty work like keeping prisoners quiet, the implication being that he was willing to murder and torture in the same casual way he killed Cedric. Yet he was also willing to be as brutal to himself, cutting his own hand off, an act of self-harm that goes against every human instict. Was it an act of self-preservation? He could have refused, turned into a rat and left Voldemort alone and friendless and gone to live under a false identity somewhere far away, but instead he chose to give his own hand to restore a master to power in the hope of gleaning some of it for himself.

I'm not sure the narrative tells us enough about Pettigrew to get a clear answer to his motivations or how his experiences informed his character arc, but he's interesting enough to raise all these questions!

I feel like this fandom never really talks about the fact that Peter Pettigrew murdered at least twelve people. Probably more (either directly or indirectly) while he was working for Voldemort. Like, everyone fixates on the fact that he turned traitor, that he was a spy and he got James and Lily killed and framed Sirius for it, and all of those things are absolutely terrible, but like... he murdered twelve people in cold blood. What Sirius went to Azkaban for was that murder, not for supposedly betraying his friends. Most of the wider wizarding world wasn't aware that the Potters had a secret keeper or that they'd been betrayed, they just thought that Voldemort had tracked them down, as he had so many others, and that was that. What Sirius was famous for was supposedly murdering thirteen people (twelve muggles + Peter) with a single curse. The mass murder was the big deal here as far as the rest of the world was concerned, and even without all of the betrayal, murdering twelve people on its own is still an absolutely horrific thing for Peter to have done, and nobody really seems to talk about it. He literally has so much blood on his hands.

[trek-tracks]

De Day

Today would have been DeForest Kelley's 105th birthday (January 20, 1920)!

As per tradition, I'm going to screen some of his work, including movies, TV eps, and probably some Trek. It'll be a wild grab bag, and I'll take requests. I'm going to start around 4pm ET on the trektracks kosmi channel, and go as long as people feel like watching.

Rules:

Be kind to others. I run a civil, loving screening room. Racism/homophobia/transphobia/antisemitism/Islamophobia etc. will not be tolerated. This is also a place of refuge for those of us who want a respite from other world events happening today (luckily, there are none of those, right?), so please keep venting minimal.

To that end, please remember that De did a lot of westerns, and that these and other films of his era are a product of their time, and include, for example, depictions of Indigenous characters that we would now consider inappropriate (for good reason). The screening of an episode does not indicate my endorsement of its content or message.

I will attempt to include warnings at the start of each episode, but content may include dark themes, sexual content, violence, death, alcohol and drug use, etc. Please know yourself and your ability to handle these, and exit if anything makes you uncomfortable.

The tone is light and joyful. Loving snark and critique are welcome, but remember that people in the room may enjoy these films, and we're not ripping them apart. We're celebrating De and his work.

While the tone of the discussion will probably be PG-13, this is primarily a by-adults, for-adults event. I am an adult. Please only attend if you are over 18.

Have fun!

I hope to see you there!

[jthealien]

Foreshadowing I’ve Found for THAT Reveal

Spoilers for the Season 1 finale under the cut!!!

HI GUYS HOW ARE WE FEELING WOW

I’ve spent the weeks in between the fast pass release and now rereading and looking for every bit of foreshadowing I could find for B- I mean Nox… being a key. (Or at least key adjacent)

Side Note: I’m playing fast and loose with the definition of foreshadowing here. Some are pretty small details or silly observations, but my list my rules :P

So here it is compiled in a massive (vaguely chronological) list with numbered photos!

Also if there’s anything I missed (I’m sure there is) please add it!!

———

1) The literal first scene of the comic is a crescent moon (in a purple background), which we now know is Nox/the villain key’s symbol

2) (Ep. 13) Nox knows “plenty about the keys.” uh yeah I bet you would

3) (Ep. 13) Chase asks if Nox is part of Ex Libris and wants to make the keys more miserable, which seems to make him really upset. It’s understandable, I’d be pretty upset if I was implied to be working with my tormentors to make my own life even worse.

4) (Ep. 13) From the start Nox assumes Chase wants the keys for something selfish. Considering Ex Libris treats the keys like objects, and some of the keys (like Bronze) are pretty weary around people, that’s not an unreasonable assumption. Nox is so accustomed to being used by higher ups for selfish wishes

—This puts his outburst in Ep. 31 in a whole new light, specifically the line about Chase wanting to befriend the keys. He’s so convinced that couldn’t be true because it’s never been true for him.

5) Each of the keys has a specific junk food/snack they like. Silver has cheese, Bronze has peanut butter, Goldie has gummies, and it seems Nox has chocolate :]

6) (Ep. 20) “Every last thing” about the keys is his business in his words

—Guess that includes himself

7) Metals can rust, and Nox isn’t a fan of water (besides baths, but I assume that’s because he can control when he goes in and for how long)

8) When you stick a key in a book, they automatically know the story (as said by Bronze in Ep. 21). This explains why Nox seems to know a book’s plot no matter what

9) (Ep. 28) He says that the keys can take advantage of “certain loopholes.” In that moment, this is a reference to what characters a key can use for their role. But it could also be a nod to how keys can technically use other keys to enter stories. He’d know that since it’s what he’s been doing this whole time.

10) In the infamous “They feed you, right?” scene (Ep. 29), we’ve always kind of assumed that — yeah — Ex Libris just doesn’t feed him often. But in this scene, Chase ALSO says “keep you locked up.” I have a feeling that’s actually what Buddy got upset about. Ex Libris probably did keep him locked up as a key, which has to be really traumatic considering his severe claustrophobia.

11) (Ep. 31) Nox assumes Chase’s wish is just as “self-serving” as his is, which we now know is to be human again.

—(Nox actually projects a lot of his own feelings onto Chase, I’ll talk about that some other time though.)

—Referring back to number 5, during this whole confrontation, Nox is convinced that Chase only wants Narratonin for a wish. As a key, of course he’d think that, because that’s all that the humans usually around him want.

12) ”Nobody should have to accept being the villain if they’re trying their best not to be.” (Ep. 30) and “I get it, you’re the villain around here…” (Ep. 32)

—He literally IS the villain

—(Also I didn’t have room to include it, but Nox gets a really sad look on his face after Chase says that last line. yikes..)

13) (Ep. 32) In response to Chase talking about trusting humans, Nox says “them.” He could’ve said something like ‘people’ or ‘anyone,’ but his wording here implies that he sees human beings as separate from himself.

14) The crescent moon necklace on his outfit in Sick Days, as well as the half-ones on his jacket. If you really think about it you could also count the gemstones near his eyes as representing his gem eyes.

—It’s maybe a little strange that this outfit is the one he decided to make so similar to his key form. But it makes sense considering the previous arc was Beach Boys, where Nox became more trusting of Chase

15) (Ep. 35) He’s never been sick because keys can’t get sick.

16) (Ep. 36) He says “real people” and “person,“ showing again how he might not think of himself as either of those. (See number 13)

17) (Ep. 39) There’s a lock on Nox’s coffin

18) (Ep. 39) I originally thought it was the lighting but nope, his ear is literally gray! Also his hair here is less spiky at the ends, like how it is in his key form

19) (Ep. 39) He looks surprised by his reflection, because he’s only used to seeing his human form while in the books.

—In fact, since you can’t see yourself in the book mirrors, when’s the last time he saw himself as a human?

20) (Ep. 39) The broken key-ring looking thing around his neck

21) (Ep. 49) “Good, that means I’m taller than someone for once.” if only you knew, Chase..

22) The entirety of Ep. 50 confirming that keys can go into books

23) (Ep. 53) He gets really pissy over the idea of his teeth being “baby”. Might be carry over from his grudge against being like 5 inches tall in reality

24) (Ep. 53) His claustrophobia could stem from being stuck in his key form and being put in a box for weeks or months at a time.

—He keeps repeating that he just needs to “wait it out” and “it’s fine” because that’s all he could do and think as a key

25) (Ep. 54) “That moon is too close” following the scene where Buddy decides to lower his guard and work on his harmful behaviors. We now know the symbol of the villain key is the moon, so it could be Nox trying to distance himself from his role as the villain.

26) (Ep. 55) The crescent moon on Bad Cat’s lapel

27) (Ep. 56) “Some people are very good at disguising their true nature” in reference to Nox. It’s quite literal, in this case.

28) All the characters’ eyes are drawn in a very specific way, no matter their color (black shading taking up half the iris, the white shine). Every character except Nox, that is.

—Well, every character except Nox and the key’s human forms. I always thought it was meant to make him seem more intimidating (which it Does), but it really might be a byproduct of being a key. The queen in Friends and Family (Ep. 56) almost has Nox’s exact eye color, and her eyes are still colored in the usual way. So it’s definitely more than a stylistic choice.

—Makes me wonder what Nox looked like pre-key form. ..Did he still have his bright blue high beams..

29) Dreams by Day is about a key having a dream/flashback, and Dreams by Night is.. also about a key having a dream/flashback

———

And that’s all I have for now!! I’m absolutely going to find something else the millisecond I post this but like u said please add anything you notice.