#Because it’s pride month so if not now when

[fraisescore]

contains vaginal sex, g!p sevika, manager sevika, starlet reader, morning sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, possessiveness

—Her Starlet.

She knew from the beginning it was a bad idea.

Fucking your own client, stupid. She’s not new to this industry, not reckless, not some wide-eyed agent screwing around with a starlet just because she’s pretty. Sevika built her reputation on being untouchable. Cold. Professional. She doesn’t blur lines. Doesn’t lose focus.

But then you came along. Loud, glittery, impossible to ignore, unfortunately funny. And worse, you had talent. Real, bone-deep talent. A voice, lyrics, concepts.

She told herself it wouldn’t last. That you’d crash and burn like most of them do. Too soft. Too sensitive. Crying in bathrooms after interviews that dug too deep or shows that didn’t go as planned. She spent money on you thinking you’d be a waste of money right after you signed that contract. But the thing is… you do break down, makeup smudged and hands shaking, and then bounce back like nothing happened, like that raw, tender mess wasn’t something that made Sevika feel too much.

She should’ve drawn the line when she still could. But somewhere between backstage hand-holding and late-night strategy calls that turned into sleepy phone sex, she lost the thread. Now she’s tangled in it. Tethered to you in ways she doesn’t even want to name.

You used to be scared of her. Hell, you would barely look her in the eye when you were starting out. That part, she misses. Now you poke and prod like it’s a game. You call her Boss Lady in front of cameras, like the entire world doesn’t already whisper about how close the two of you are. You post shit on Instagram, blurry, stolen photos she didn’t agree to. Her with her coffee. Her with your cat. Her asleep on your couch with her arms crossed like she’s guarding something.

She tells herself it’s her job, that protecting your career is just part of the contract. But the truth is messier than that. It’s pride, mostly. The kind that tightens in her chest every time you win. Every time you smile, wide and weightless, with some glass trophy in your hands or your name lit up behind you. She watches you from the sidelines with her jaw clenched and her fists in her coat pockets, and she aches with it.

No one knows what she does to you when the lights go down.

No one knows how you pull her into hotel bathrooms between interviews, kiss her like you’re starving, beg her to touch you like you need it or you’ll break. No one sees the way she holds you after any show when you’re overwhelmed and crying into her blazer, whispering half-coherent shit about not being good enough for that or that chocolate stain you had on your fingers everyone saw.

She tells you to breathe, wipes your face, doesn’t say ‘I love you’ but she thinks it.

And whatever this thing is now, it’s not clean. It’s not professional. Hasn’t been in months.

You’re not just her client. Not just her problem.

You’re hers. And that’s the worst part.

Because Sevika doesn’t do messy, doesn’t do feelings. But here she is. Jaw tight, heart fucked, watching you on a livestream as you laugh into the camera and yell, “Hey! Boss Lady’s watching, so behave!” like you’re not going to straddle her lap the second the phone is off.

It’s a bad idea. She knows it. And unfortunately, she would burn her career for you if she had to.

That morning after you won your first award, the phone won’t stop vibrating.

It’s somewhere on the bedside table, buzzing against the wood like it has something important to tell, and it probably does. Sevika doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. Her face is buried in the crook of your neck, warm breath fanning over your skin, her body heavy between your thighs. One arm hooked beneath you. One large hand holding your hip like she owns it. Which, at this point, she might as well.

You smile, drowsy and amused, your fingers trailing through her hair where it’s mussed from sleep and sex and you tugging on it the night before. You’re sore. Aching in that delicious, well-fucked way. The golden trophy you won sits on the armchair a few feet away, still shining in the soft hotel light. But Sevika’s mouth, lazily kissing along your neck, your jaw, your collarbone like she’s got nowhere else to be, that’s what you’re really proud of right now.

“hey… boss lady,” you whisper, smug. You pat her head like she’s your favorite pet. “That phone’s been going off for ten minutes.”

She grunts into your skin, doesn’t lift her head.

“You gonna answer it?”

“No.”

“Could be important.”

“I don’t care.”

You laugh, but she doesn’t. Her lips press harder to your neck, almost rough, like she’s trying to bite down the growl in her throat. She shifts, the covers rustling with her, and you feel the slow drag of her hips settling deeper between yours, intentional. You inhale sharply, but she’s still not looking at you.

“Sev,” you hum, voice going soft, teasing. “They need us.”

“I don’t care.” her voice is low. Possessive.

She hates mornings like this. When the world starts knocking again too early. PR calls, event follow-ups, producers who don’t know how to wait. Everyone wants a piece of you, and Sevika’s spent the last year giving it to them carefully, strategically, like she’s playing chess. But right now?

Right now she doesn’t want to share.

Your legs shift beneath her, spreading a little wider without thinking, and that’s all the invitation she needs. She finally lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable, but her jaw’s tight. Like she’s holding something back. Like she’s trying to remember she’s still supposed to be professional, and you too.

But you’re glowing, all soft from the night before, still flushed in places she knows she touched. And you’re looking at her like she’s not your manager, not even your lover, just yours. Fully, beautifully, completely.

The phone starts vibrating again. She growls this time, low in her throat. “They can wait.”

Her mouth finds your breast before you can answer, slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that make you arch up into her. Her hand drags down your body, under the covers, sliding up your thigh like she’s mapping it again. Like she didn’t already spend hours memorizing it.

Your breath catches, sighing at the sensation. “Hm.. are you still mad about that guy at the afterparty?”

Sevika doesn’t answer. Her tongue circles your nipple, and you can feel her hardness between your thighs teasing your entrance until you feel her slide in.

Your head falls back against the pillow, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut as Sevika slides deeper, inch by inch. Her hand’s on your stomach, steady, grounding, while her hips roll with slow, ruthless precision, pushing into you with that thick, aching pressure that makes it impossible to think.

You whimper, one arm thrown over your eyes like maybe you can hide from the way she’s fucking you, the way she’s watching you unravel, the way it feels when her cock presses so deep it knocks the air from your lungs.

She loves that. Way too much.

Loves when you go quiet. When that big, loud mouth goes soft and gasping and helpless just for her.

And fuck, you’re so soft for her right now.

“Good girl,” Sevika mutters, voice rough against your throat as she kisses up along your jawline. Her grip on your hip tightens. “Knew you’d shut up once I gave you what you wanted.”

You moan softly in response, high, needy. Your thighs twitch around her hips, already trembling, feeling your pleasure build inside of you, already so close, and she hasn’t even picked up the pace yet.

“Yeah?” she murmurs. “This what you needed, baby? After all your smiling and waving and playing nice last night—this what you come in my arms for?”

You nod frantically, eyes squeezed shut.

She pulls back just enough to watch your face as she thrusts in again—slow, deep, filthy.

You gasps in pleasure, your breath harsh.

“Look at you,” she grits out. “My perfect little starlet. Too fucked out to remember who was calling.”

She’s not wrong. You don’t care about the calls. About the emails or meetings or press. Not when she’s inside you like this; real, thick, yours. Not when her hand presses down gently on your lower belly and you feel her all the way up.

Every time she moves, the head of her cock grinds into the spot that makes you cry for her, makes your nails scratch at her shoulders, makes you beg even when you’re too far gone to form the words.

And Sevika just smirks.

She shifts her weight, pulls your thighs over her hips, fucks into you harder now, deeper. One hand on your chest, pinning you down, her body rolling against yours like she was made to be here.

“I should fuck you like this before every show,” she murmurs, low and dangerous. “Keep your head where it belongs. Let everyone see you glowing and know exactly why.”

You moan, slightly louder, raw. Enough for her hand to fly to your mouth, palm pressing against it without stopping the rhythm of her thrusts.

“Shhh,” she growls. “Don’t make me stop just ‘cause you can’t keep quiet.”

You look up at her, eyes glassy and wide, cheeks flushed, and she sees it, how close you are. How much you need to fall apart for her.

And so she leans in close, lips brushing your ear, voice rough and low.

“Come on, baby,” she whispers. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

And just like that, you do.

Your whole body arches, shaking beneath her as your orgasm crashes through you, tearing a sob from your throat under her palm. Sevika doesn’t stop, not until you’re clinging to her, wrecked and boneless and mumbling her name like a prayer.

When she finally stills, still buried deep inside you, she kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the soft pulse beneath your jaw.

The phone buzzes again.

You don’t move.

Sevika smiles against your skin. Smug. Satisfied.

Then she watches you. Lips parted, flushed chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, thighs twitching against her hips. Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, and you look ruined in the way that makes her stomach clench.

You came so hard for her. You always do.

But she’s not done, not even close.

She stays deep inside you, cock still thick and hard and pulsing, the stretch of it dragging whimpers from your throat every time your body flinches around her. You’re too sensitive now, slick and messy and open, but you don’t tell her to stop.

You never do.

“Still with me?” she murmurs, lips ghosting against your cheek. Her voice is low, rasped, dangerous now. You nod weakly, fingers curling into her arms.

That’s all she needs.

She adjusts her grip on your hips, dragging you down just a little further on her cock as she pulls her hips back, slow and deliberate, and then slams back in.

You cry out, hands flying to her shoulders, nails digging in. “S-Sev—”

“I gave you what you needed,” she growls, breath hot against your neck. “Now I’m taking mine.”

She fucks into you harder now, rougher. Still controlled, but deeper, meaner. Not out of anger. Not even out of frustration. It’s need, pure, unfiltered need, that’s been simmering all night. Every time someone touched your arm on the red carpet. Every time you smiled at someone else, every time someone looked at you like they had a chance.

They didn’t. They never fucking did.

Because Sevika gets this. Gets you. Like this; bare, shaking, and soaking her cock with every stroke.

Your hands are scrambling, gripping her back, her waist, her shoulders, anything you can reach, just to ground yourself. Your moans turn choked, desperate.

“Fuck, baby,” she mutters, jaw clenched. “So fucking tight for me. Still—still fucking squeezing me. You like this, huh? Letting me use you like that?”

You nod frantically, sobbing out something that’s not even words, just moans, and that’s it. That’s all she needed.

Her rhythm gets rougher, faster, her cock slamming into you with every thrust, hips snapping with that low sound of skin meeting skin. You feel her all over. Her weight, her hands, her mouth dragging over your throat, biting softly, claiming every inch of you like you’re hers to own. Because you are.

She growls low in her throat, almost a snarl, as she drives into you, once, twice, and again, until her whole body tenses above you.

And then she comes. Her hips jerk, cock buried deep, and she lets out a low, guttural moan against your skin like she’s been holding this in for hours. Her hands grip you tighter, anchoring herself to your body like you’re the only thing in the world keeping her grounded.

You whimper under her, overstimulated, dizzy, still clinging to her and enjoying the feeling of her seed inside of you.

She stays there, buried inside you, breathing hard against your shoulder. Her nose presses into the curve of your neck again. That’s where she always ends up, where she needs to be.

And when she finally lifts her head to look at you, sweaty, flushed, a few glitters still sticking to your skin from the night before and fucked stupid beneath her, her smirk is soft, but her eyes are still wild.

Your chest rises and falls against hers. Still trying to catch your breath.

Sevika exhales slowly, her forehead brushing against yours. Her hand runs down your thigh, slow, steady, calming now, and you shiver under her touch, overstimulated but comforted.

“Easy,” she murmurs, barely audible. “I got you.”

You nod faintly, cheek brushing her shoulder.

Eventually, she pulls back carefully. She watches your face the whole time, hand on your stomach, ready to pause if you flinch, but you don’t. You just exhale shakily, blinking up at her like you’re still halfway gone.

She gets up without a word, disappears into the bathroom. The faucet runs. You hear her moving; towels, something opening, a soft clatter. And then she’s back.

Warm cloth, gentle hands. She cleans you slowly, reverently, as if touching you too rough now would undo everything you just shared. She doesn’t tease, doesn’t talk, just wipes you down with steady, quiet care.

When she finishes, she throws the towel aside and slips back into bed, one arm curling under your neck, pulling you into her chest. You go easily, limp, sleepy, entirely hers.

You rest your head on her collarbone. Your fingers find the chain around her neck, the one she never takes off. You toy with it, absentminded, and she lets you.

She kisses your hair. Once, then again. No words, no need.

Just warmth, her body wrapped around yours, the scent of you both thick in the sheets. The afterglow soft and golden.

It’s not a good idea.

Still one of her best ideas.

[manuellawritesfiction]

No, I'm not in love | Joel Miller

pairing: jackson!joel miller x reader summary: Joel Miller was the one thing she swore she’d never fall for. But love has a way of slipping through the cracks, no matter how hard you try to shut it out. heavily inspired by no i'm not in love by tate mcrae! warnings: slow burn, angst, tension, age gap (not specified but Joel is older than reader), mentions of alcohol, jealousy, emotional repression, inner conflict, intimacy avoidance, painful ache of almost love series masterlist taglist: @marauvderss @missladym1981 @edenexisting <3

Chapter 2: It's not like i think about her.

It's been 3 months since the incident.

It's been 3 months since your heart stopped at the sight of Joel dancing with someone else.

It's been 3 months since you've realized that maybe, just maybe you might feel something for Joel. You don't want to admit it out loud. Even thinking about it makes you feel icky inside.

You don’t like him. You’ve repeated that enough times it should feel true by now. So why did it feel like the world tilted the second you saw him dancing with her, and not with you?

You haven't really left the house since the incident, too embarrassed by your own outburst (you're a grown woman running away from a guy you might have a crush on, it's quite childish you thought to yourself).

When you would leave the shelter of your home, you'd keep you head down, walking through the crowds quickly hoping you don't see her or even worse Joel.

You were unsure if Joel noticed your absence, and since the incident he hasn't approached you once. He didn't even breathe once in your direction.

Yes, he barley interacted with you, but he always gave you a tight smile or he'd nod at you. But now it as if you were invisible, maybe it's because you're trying to hide from him, but Joel is a very observant man. He must've seen you at some point, right?

You'd sometimes admire his tall frame through the windows of the flower shop, and you wondered if he felt your eyes (that's a lie, you always watched him)

Why do you care so much? you ask yourself over and over again.

it's not like you care.... right?

You scrunched your face as the cold air hit your face as you walked out of your new place. Since you've moved to Jackon you had a roommate (Alliya. You thought you could cook till you met her) she roommate got married, and just like that, the chapter you shared quietly came to a close. There were no hard feelings just boxes taped shut and memories packed with them. You hugged her goodbye at the front step and wished her and her husband everything good.

And then it was your turn.

You moved into a small house on the other side of Jackson. Not big, not fancy, but yours. The floors creaked like they were learning your footsteps. You were excited, giddy, even, at the idea of independence. It was quiet, sure. But it was a kind of quiet that held promise, not loneliness. A blank canvas. A new beginning.

Despite your house being empty (it only had a mattress but let's be positive, you have something to sleep on) you were really excited for this new life you were building.

You closed the door behind you making your way into town. You were doing to meet Maria. Maria (being the sweetheart she is) offered to take you furniture shopping.

You haven't seen her since that night: you've been avoiding her if you were being honest. In the weeks after the incident you've been struggling with your feelings. You were confused, jealous, angry, sad. She was going to ask questions you knew she was, and you didn't need her questions at that time, all you needed was some alone time to think.

To think why seeing Joel with her made you feel so sick.

You take a quick glance back at your place, a prideful grin spread across your face. In the movies they play at the movie nights, you always see girls going off to college and looking happy, maybe this was your version of that happiness.

You walked through the streets of Jackon, waving at few regulars who always come to your store. You spot maria and she hugs you so hard you feel the air leave your lungs: "where have you been!?"

"Why are you yelling?"

"I'm yelling because i missed you"

You felt guilt creep in, but you quickly dismiss it before you give her a small smile "i missed you too"

"Where have you been?'' she pressed

"My new place"

She rolls her eyes "You're hiding something"

"I'm not"

"You are"

You sigh with defeat: "i needed... space... i needed to think"

She smiles softly "do you want to talk about it?"

"No" you answer almost immediately

She nods "i understand"

You smile happy she finally gave up. The two of you quickly catch up outside: she tells you about an argument her and Tommy had, how Ellie broke her nose. You nod hoping she's mention Joel, but she didn't.

There was a new furniture store that recently opened in Jackson, and you hoped to find something to add to your home. As the two of you walked in, a little bell rang above you.

The air inside the store was thick with the scent of old wood, worn leather, and something sweetly nostalgic like time itself had a smell. Every piece in the shop seemed to hum with its own quiet history. There was a velvet armchair in the corner, frayed slightly at the arms, the fabric sun-faded in places. You wondered who used to curl up in it was it a grandmother with a book? A man with a pipe and a tired sigh? Mirrors leaned against every wall, some tall, others plain. Coffee tables with faint cup rings whispered of lazy mornings and conversations now long forgotten.

You walked through the aisles slowly, fingertips grazing the grain of an old oak cabinet, and couldn’t help but wonder: whose hands had opened its doors before yours?

You decided to get something small today. There were a few things you liked but before you grabbed a purple pillow your eyes landed on a sunflower doormat.

"I want this'' You look around but Maria was nowhere to be found.

A voice talks behind you ''you can take it'' Your eyes land on him.

A newcomer.

You've heard that there was a cute guy who recently joined Jackson, but you didn't think he looked like this: He was tall (not as tall as Joel), he had big beautiful brown eyes and even more beautiful black hair (you wondered how he was able to maintain his hair in this apocalypse). He was attractive you couldn't deny it he reminded you of the sunflower you saw that made you realize that you wanted to open a flower shop.

"I'm David"

''Y/N" you responded.

''Can i take it?" you asked after a few seconds of awkward silence.

"Yeah" he nodded.

"Is it free? There's no price tag" you joke trying to lighten the mood.

"Of course, this world has no value for money"

You felt hot under his gaze, you quickly cleared your throat, and you made your way towards the exit. You had to get out of here, the walls were closing in on you and it was so fucking awkward.

"Wait!" He called out. He looked to the ground before he shyly asked "would you.... perhaps show me around?"

"Like a date?"

"No, it's not-"

"Then why are you anxious?"

He sighs before he admits: "yes like a date.... you're just really pretty and it's making me nervous" he awkwardly looks down.

You smile for the first time in a while and without hesitation you say yes.

He quickly hugs you before pulling away with a gasp: "I'm sorry, i just got excited"

"it's ok" you chuckle.

As you make you way out of the store, your new mat in hand and a huge grin on your face you make eye contact with Joel who stood across the store. He stood tall, his face unreadable, you could've sworn you saw him frowning.

Was he watching you?

One date turned into two, two dates turned into three. And now he sleeps over. You wake up to pancakes and sweet gifts after he stayed the night. He was gentle, kind, loving. Someone you'd always see in the cliché romance movie they play.

But you quickly realized you weren't happy. You didn't feel the same way Maria described what she felt with Tommy (not that you've ever experienced that feeling before it just doesn't feel right with David).

You hated to admit this, but you missed Joel. Despite him being cold and sarcastic there was a little warmth, the two of you shared, those brief glances that would make you feel dizzy, those hushed words shared that made your legs weak.

David was a great guy but he didn't make you as happy as you thought he would. He wasn't funny, he wasn't romantic enough, he wasn't Joel, and you hated that.

Since you and David started dating Joel has drifted. He lives in the shadows (even more than he already does), when you greet him, he wouldn't say a word. If you were in the room he'd leave. If you smiled at him, he barley looked at you.

Why the fuck was he acting like this and why the fuck is it upsetting you this much?

You let out a frustrated groan as you tried pushing your couch up the stairs. It's quite stupid for you to be doing this alone but you were bored and this looked like something fun.

Your house was fully furnished, decorated with different pieces form David's shop and things he brought back from patrol. It felt like a mixture of you and him in one place despite this being your house.

You decided when you woke up this morning the couch would look better in your bedroom but now you were there out of breath and tired of trying to move this stupid couch.

You needed this done today or you'll go insane, and you hand no patience waiting for David to come home from patrol. You knew Tommy would be in the stables, but you were too lazy to look for him.

Joel. It's Wednesday and you knew he'd be working in the garden area (let's not talk about how you got this information).

You slipped on a pair of shoes before you quickly made your way to the garden area, and when he wasn't there, you frowned slightly. Your eyes searched the grown in front of you, but you couldn't find him.

You were sure he'd be here

"hi" you heard his southern accent from behind you. This was the first word he said to you in weeks.

You turn to look at him: "hi Joel! Can you help me move my couch into my room?" you quickly asked not trusting yourself around him.

"where's your boyfriend?" he asks almost mockingly.

"patrol"

He stayed silent looking at you: "ok".

You thank him before the two of you walked back to your place. The walk was quick, silent not awkward silence but comfortable. You didn't feel pressured to talk around Joel. It was peaceful.

"Is this where you've been hiding?" he asks as he walks into your place taking in your house that you proudly decorated.

"I wasn't hiding"

"You don't talk to me"

"it's not like you try either" you respond sarcastically.

You stare at each other silently before you awkwardly cleared your throat.

"this" you point to the to the couch "first room on the left"

He nods as he swiftly moves the couch, you watched how concentrated he looked, the way his fingers grip the couch the way his arms flexed underearth the baby blue button up he wore.

You quickly closed your eyes before you walked to the kitchen. You cannot be staring at him like that, you were acting like a pervert,

You weren't sure how long you were standing there with your eyes closed, until you hear his voice:

"I'm done"

Your eyes shot open.

"Oh... thanks"

He nods and he opens his mouth- like he's going to say something but he quickly closes it shaking his head.

"I'm going to go"

"Wait" you say as you open a cookie jar.

"This is a thank you... i made them myself"

He nods as he reaches out to grab it.

Your fingertips touch his, and your skin feels like it's on fire. None of you moved, you just stand there, your fingertips touching. You feel his eyes on you, you take your eyes off the cookie, and you see him look at you, his eyes travel to your lips. The air is thick with tension.

His eyes don't leave yours, but in an instant, he quickly grabs the cookie, and he rushes out the door slamming it behind him as he left.

What the fuck just happened?

[measuredingold]

stomach tied in knots

a/n: something quick i wrote up a few weeks ago after binge listening to stomach tied in knots by sleeping with sirens. short, sweet, and just enough angst to make your chest hurt. this isn’t my official return, but thought i’d share 🥲 love yall.

pairing: noah sebastian x reader

word count: 1.7k

cw/tw: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, Noah Sebastian Is Bad At Feelings, established relationship, 18+ mdni

He's tossed around in bed at least twenty times in the last thirty minutes he thinks.

Noah sighs, hands raising to rub at his tired eyes. He can feel the exhaustion over his body but for some reason, he can't seem to sleep. It's like his body knows there's something off and is actively fighting sleep, probably in hopes that he'd get over himself and fix the issue. He blinks and tilts his head to stare at the clock on the side table.

2:35 A.M.

The ache in his chest tightens as his hand drifts out, running over the empty space next to him. Usually you'd be beside him, sleeping soundly as your body curls against his. You have the day off tomorrow, just like you always do, and it became some sort of tradition that you stayed over.

Except you're not here.

His fingers briefly tighten around the cold and empty sheets before another sigh passes his lips. He tosses an arm over his eyes, the ache in his chest suddenly feeling deeper.

Maybe if Noah wasn't so stubborn, you'd be right here next to him like you usually are. Maybe he could be sound asleep right now, face buried against the crook of your neck and legs tangled together like missing puzzle pieces. His stomach twists.

Your fight the other day was stupid. He barely even remembers why those thoughts started, the fear of losing you. That one day you're going to slip between his fingers and he'll be alone yet again. He doesn't understand why the initial response to that is to push you away. It's like his brain says if he pushes you away now, he won't be hurt in the long run.

That's a lie he keeps telling himself.

He remembers the way you looked at him, the hurt in your eyes when you tried reaching from him but he flinched away. The deep regret settling in his gut at that very moment is something he'll never forget, especially because he just fucking sat there and didn't do a damn thing. He watched you leave, sparing him one last glance before telling him to call whenever he was ready.

He swears he saw tears in your eyes, but for his sake, he tells himself he just made that up.

Now here he was, two days later and still hasn't called. Was it because he didn’t want to hurt his pride? No. It was the fear of calling and you not being on the other side. The fear of his call going unanswered is what stopped him.

He hasn't slept since. Night one he chalked it up to being upset, to the anxiety settling in his veins keeping him awake, but now he's approaching night three and he's slowly thinking it's not that. He thinks, maybe, it's the fact you're not here with him.

He realized a few months ago that when he slept next to you he seemed to get a much better night's rest. Slept through the night, no nightmares. It was the first time in his life where he felt... at ease. Content.

His arm drops and he tilts his head again, eyeing his phone laying beside him. His finger twitches and before he can think twice about it, he's reaching for it and scrolling for your name. His thumb hesitates over the call button, thinking it would be stupid to call at this hour, but he does it anyway.

Noah holds his breath as he listens to the ringing on the other end. It rings once, twice, and on the third he starts to think you're not going to answer, but then your voice fills his ears.

"...Hello?"

You sound tired and he knows he definitely just woke you up. He feels guilty again, that deep regret settling in his gut again.

"Uh. Hi. Did I wake you?"

You take a second to respond, a yawn slipping from your lips before you say, "Sort of. I wasn't really asleep. Is everything okay?"

"Um." He chews on his bottom lip, mind racing with things to say. He doesn't know where to start or why he even called. Maybe just to say sorry? That could be a good place to begin. "I'm sorry. For the other day."

There's a quiet pause between you two and he can hear the shuffling of your sheets on the other end.

"It's almost 3 in the morning, Noah."

"I know. I just..." He sighs before tossing an arm over his eyes again. "I can't stop... thinking about it. I can't sleep. I think this is my body's revenge in telling me to get over myself and apologize for being a dick."

You huff out a short laugh. "A dick?"

"Well, yeah. I was being one. You didn't deserve whatever the fuck that was." He mumbles, a frown settling on his lips. "That's not fair to you. I'm sorry."

There's another pause before you speak again, "It's okay, bub. I was never upset with you."

"But you were upset."

"Well, yeah. My boyfriend was shutting me out so of course I'd be a little upset, but it wasn't at you. Just the situation. I knew you needed some time to think it out and hopefully come back around..." There's another pause before you sheepishly add, "and to be honest, I planned on coming by tomorrow to check on you. Haven't spoken in a few days. Got me all worried. I even texted Jolly today to see how you were."

His frown only deepens. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I know, baby." There's more shuffling on the other end and then you yawn. "It's okay."

The ache in his chest is still there, but more mute. It's like hearing your voice has eased some of the tension from his body, and knowing that you're not really upset with him makes it somewhat better. Not quite all the way better, but somewhat. His fingers tighten around the phone.

"Can I..." He swallows. "Can I come over? I wanna see you... and I think I'd sleep better with you. I'm sick of this not sleeping shit."

The silence on the other end sends a short moment of panic through his body, immediately thinking he's fucked up in some kind of way and you're going to tell him no. You'll see him tomorrow, right? You planned on coming over anyways, so why does he need to see you now-

"...I'm really glad you asked that because sleeping without you has been the worst thing I've ever fucking gone through. Felt like you were on tour. Hated every second."

The tension in his shoulders melt and he lets out a breath of air that he'd been holding,

"Yeah... didn't like it either."

His body moves without second thought, immediately searching his dark room for the hoodie he tore off earlier and slipping it back on.

"I'll see you a few, okay? Doors unlocked. Come on in."

He thinks he's out the door in record time, probably didn't even take longer than a minute before he was in his car and starting for yours. He knows it's late and he should've been more cautious, but he definitely speeds on the way there, yearning to just... see you. Hold you in his arms for just a second to remind himself that you're real and that it's okay.

He's okay. And so are you.

He lets himself in, carefully locking the door behind him before making a beeline for your room. The soft light of your television peaks from behind your cracked door and when he pushes it open, he finds you sitting up in the middle of your bed, blanket wrapped around your shoulders. It's like the tension in his body releases the second he sees you, shoulders deflating and that nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach instantly dissolving.

You smile, that one solely reserved for him - all sweet and gentle and makes him feel warm all over.

"Hi bub."

"Hi."

He stands in the middle of your door frame, shifting from foot to foot. He isn't sure what to do, if he's allowed to just crawl in beside you and block out the world for the next few hours. Your smile softens and you let the blanket wrapped around your shoulders fall as you open your arms, beckoning him closer. Something twists beneath his chest.

"C'mere."

He follows immediately, feet guiding him closer to you. It takes a second before you're both happily curled up against each other, having to maneuver some of the blankets for Noah to actually be comfortable. He presses his face against the crook of your neck and lets out a breath he had been holding, long legs tangling with yours. He hums when your fingers slide through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp.

He's okay.

You're okay.

"Missed you." You mumbled after a while, brushing your lips against his forehead. His entire face burns.

"...Missed you too." He all but whispers against your skin, trying to press himself closer. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

“No, it’s…” He pulls away from you, just enough to where he can see your brows furrow together in confusion. “It’s not and I’m sorry and-“

"Noah, honey, relax. It’s okay." You reach a hand out to press against his cheek, giving him a gentle smile. "We're okay. I promise. Just... talk to me next time, okay? Don't shut me out. You know I don't like that."

"I know." He whispers. "I'm sorry."

"You don’t have to apologize anymore. I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He gives a slow nod. "I'm here until... until you don't want me here anymore, alright?"

His mouth moves before he can think twice. "I'll always want you here."

He can see his words take you by surprise in real time, blinking at him. Your lips part and he swears your eyes are glossing over, but you blink that away. You smile again, small and sweet, and it warms his entire body.

"Good, because I’ll always want to be here. With you. If that's okay."

"Yeah... that's more than okay."

He doesn't say anything after that and swallows down the words that are dying to slip out. Instead, he presses his face back against your neck and breathes in. You smell like your shower gel that he sometimes borrows when he stays over - sweet vanilla - and like... you.

Like home.

His chest aches but this time with something else, something more hopeful, and he sleeps through the night for the first time in days.

[d0llcuries]

FUSSY

pairing(s): neteyam x fem! omaticaya! reader

summary: in omaticayan culture, neat braids are a young warrior’s greatest pride. neteyam wonders why his insistence on keeping his hair perfect seems to agitate them so.

author’s note: hello, you. back after like ummmm idk a couple months?? (˶' ꒳ '˶) MY BAD!! this is my official apology post ><

neteyam had spent most of his adolescence fighting two things: his own hair, and the way his throat tightened whenever you looked at him for longer than necessary. the former was publicly humiliating, the latter was privately torturous. he endured both with a stubborn, balled-jaw resolve and a reckless fixation on solving them with his own hands. that strategy had worked well enough in combat, in family disputes, in early rites and trial runs where his younger siblings were still learning how to mount their own ikran. but hair was not a battlefield, and feelings, worse still, were not a sparring match he could win by discipline alone.

morning after morning, after half a night pressed into the moss, sweat pooling at the back of his neck and rubbing into the base of every braid, he woke up with them puffed out around the edges. by the end of any skirmish, dampness clung to the roots and gathered into an irritating itch that he could never reach without unraveling a day’s worth of discipline. no matter how tightly they were wrapped the day before, they loosened. kiri said it was his mana rejecting order. lo’ak said it was because he looked uptight. tuk had no opinion other than tying trinkets, rings, wooden beads into the mess, once adding a polished shell to a side braid so large it slapped his cheek when he ran. their mother was no help either. when she got her hands on him, her grip was too strong, her pace too quick, and she talked about expectations, posture, plans, and behavior while she did it. and her hands tugged harder every time he interrupted. he never interrupted. his mother braided his hair tight enough to make his forehead sting and never softened her hands no matter how often he reminded her that his scalp was sensitive, that he was no longer a child, that he could feel every tug echo behind his eyes. she would frown, say you are strong enough to tolerate this, and he would nod, bear it in silence, and spend the rest of the day biting the inside of his cheek whenever a breeze touched the sore parts near his temples.

he never liked being called impatient when it came to his hair. meticulous was closer to what he would have accepted. responsible, or perhaps even invested. he saw it as a part of how he carried himself, how he maintained dignity through the constant scrutiny of others. the strands his mother once beaded with her calloused fingers were meant to signify growth and pride. now they stood up in coils of rebellion after every sparring match, every muddy sprint through the southern grove, every sweaty ride on his ikran across the basin. they loosened and frizzed, his scalp throbbed when touched, and he was left looking disorderly when he wanted perfection.

“you are old enough to do it yourself,” neytiri said sharply one morning, fingers buried in the base of his scalp, pulling a knot so tight he almost saw stars.

“ow,” he mumbled but her hands did not pause.

“hold still,” she said, tone clipped. her fingers were not cruel, but they were not kind either. her hands were efficient, conditioned by necessity. this was routine for her. she handled braids the way she handled skinning fruit or checking bowstrings. you do not coddle your bow. he could feel her breath steadying against the side of his head, and still her fingers worked through the tangled mess that used to be a clean row of traditional braids and now looked like something a pa’li had trampled over after a skirmish. because honestly, it kind of had been.

his hair had been flawless before the ambush the night prior, when he’d gone leaping headlong into a thicket of dense moss and low-bending sycamores after tuk had vanished from his sightline, laughing at something, probably nothing, the way she always did. in his rush, a low-hanging branch had caught across his shoulder and scraped against his scalp, knocking his braids loose under his wrap. then came the rain, brief and sideways, soaking every thread and loosening the smaller woven beads until they hung in uneven clusters, clinking every time he turned his head. later, when he’d tried shaking the dampness out of his mane by the fire, it only made the ends puff and twist outward, giving his silhouette a fuzzy halo that kiri had laughed at for an entire hour.

he’d tried fixing it himself that night, hunched over a sliver of polished bark, cursing every time his fingers slipped or the smaller braids unraveled while he tried to tighten the main row. he ended up with four half-undone strands pinned back with a strip of twine that wasn't even the right shade, which drew an unimpressed glance from lo’ak and a long, suffering sigh from his grandmother.

so that morning, he’d tried the silent plea first. he stood there in the corner of their tent, shoulders rounded forward slightly, eyes wide, that look he used to get what he wanted when he was ten and skinny and always catching trouble from chasing hexapede through the trees without his harness. neytiri didn’t glance up at him the first time, too focused on a battered set of bowstrings she was mending with one foot perched on a woven stool. he cleared his throat. waited. exaggerated the way he pushed a clump of unruly hair behind one ear. still nothing. finally, when he knelt beside her and leaned into her field of view with a slow, puppyish tilt of his head, letting a strand fall into his eyes with exaggerated sadness, her eyes flicked upward.

“you are not a child,” she told him, though her tone softened slightly when she saw the frizzy crown and the beads hanging lopsided on either side of his head as ornaments do.

“i didn’t say i was,” he said, doing nothing to hide the grin threatening his mouth.

she clicked her tongue, pushed the stool aside, and told him to sit cross-legged in front of her, her palm coming down heavy on the top of his head with enough pressure to make him straighten his spine on instinct. her fingers dug in without warning but with a certain utilitarian resolve that came from having too much to do and not enough time to be delicate.

every tug felt raw. she split the uneven rows with the edge of her thumbnail, just the dull throb of sensitive skin being yanked in three directions while her knees knocked against his back whenever he shifted too much. when her hand twisted to flick a knot loose, he flinched but this was not enough to make her pause.

her knuckles scraped over his scalp as she worked, pulling apart strands caked with yesterday’s dirt and traces of leaf fiber that had somehow wedged themselves deep into the base. she scoffed when she uncovered a patch of bark chips lodged near the nape. “were you sleeping in the roots?” she asked, and didn’t wait for a response before pulling the braid open entirely, which stung more than it should’ve.

his scalp felt stretched thin, as a hide pulled taut over a drum, every nerve awake and screaming, and she just kept going, faster now. her thumb ran roughly along an old part line, now shifted out of place, and her other hand moved quick, snapping sections into shape without checking if she was tugging too hard. he bit his lip when she hit the crown, he’d knotted that section too tight last night trying to salvage the mess, and now her fingers were undoing it with a precision that didn’t spare any pain.

“too tight here,” she muttered, mostly to herself, jerking the braid loose in one motion. it felt as if she’d just peeled a layer of skin from his head. he hissed through his teeth, but she was already moving to the next row, sectioning it out with two fingers and twisting them so fast the baby hairs along his temples caught in the seam of her palm. she didn’t notice.

“too loose back here,” she continued, tugging his head sideways with one hand while gripping the braid with the other, yanking it to see how much give it had. it made his eyes water.

“ey—ey, sa’nok,” he whined immediately, voice cracking halfway through the word, one hand coming up to guard the side of his head even though he knew she would just swat it away. “are you trying to scalp me? i am not going to survive this.”

she did not stop braiding. “then die quietly.”

“you are not even using the oil first,” he grumbled loudly, shifting his weight and tilting his head slightly away from her fingers. “you are supposed to care for the scalp before you tear it open.”

“you should have thought of that before letting your head turn into a bird nest,” she replied evenly, tugging another knot loose, not gently. “do you want me to stop?”

“no,” he said instantly, pouting. “but i do want you to be nicer about it.”

neytiri clicked her tongue again, fingers moving even faster as she re-parted the section she had just redone. “i am not your mate. i do not need to be gentle.”

“you say that like it is not traumatizing to hear,” he muttered, though it came out muffled since she had tilted his chin down with a quick flick of her wrist and was now braiding right along the crown, each motion pulling skin so tightly it felt like his whole face was being lifted back.

“your scalp is weak. your attitude is worse.”

“you are so mean to me,” he whined again, louder this time, mostly for show. “kiri gets her hair done in silence and praise. you treat me like i am a sack of woven bark.”

“because kiri combs hers. and does not sweat into it for two days straight before bringing it to me like a wet heap of tangled string,” she said, sharply twisting the end of one braid and knotting it, giving it a final tug that made him flinch all over again.

he groaned, then slumped forward with a heavy sigh. “you used to be nicer when i was small.”

“you were less disgusting when you were small.”

he let out a half-laugh, even though she was dragging her nails along the parts again and it hurt. “i miss the days when you used to hum while you did this.”

“i do not hum for grown warriors who cannot braid their own heads,” she said flatly, pulling the next section so tight his eyes narrowed.

“i am injured,” he lied instantly, blinking fast like his vision was being affected.

“where?”

“emotionally. i am injured emotionally.”

neytiri gave a small snort, the closest thing to a laugh he was going to get out of her mid-braiding. but her fingers slowed for just a breath, just long enough that he thought she might have eased up. and then she yanked the next braid into place. harder than before.

he swore under his breath.

“watch your mouth,” she warned without looking up.

“you are ripping my soul out through my scalp.”

“you will survive.”

“barely.” he slumped again. “sit straight.”

he straightened. her fingers dipped to rub along the base of his neck, where the skin was dry and slightly flaking, “you never listen. i told you, southern roots, not trader pulp. they cut it with shell powder. your scalp is burning because you do not take care.”

he wanted to say he didn’t have time, that he’d been tracking out in the northern flats for two days straight and barely had a moment to rinse his face, let alone mix proper oil. but it didn’t matter. his mouth stayed shut. her hands were in his hair, rough and fast and hurting him a little, but they were still there. he stayed still, even when she gripped a braid too close to the base and pulled it tight enough that his ear bent forward and stayed that way until she was done with the next section. even when her nails scraped his scalp, too hurried to avoid the sensitive spots. even when her sighs grew heavier with each row, suggesting that she was counting down the seconds until someone outside called for her again.

she was rushing, and he knew if he flinched again, if he so much as whined one more time, she might stop. and he’d rather take the pain and sit in silence than lose this sliver of her time. this small, rare moment where he got to sit still and feel his mother’s hands in his hair, methodical and careful and annoyingly judgmental was not something he’d ruin with backtalk. this meant she’d forgiven the way he’d scared her last night by disappearing for longer than she liked.

“it hurts,” but she only grunted, adjusted her grip, and yanked tighter, as if to punish him for speaking. he exhaled hard through his nose, eyes narrowed at the floor, biting down the urge to complain again, because she would only remind him that he was too old to be so delicate, that she had once braided his hair with one hand while holding kiri as an infant in the other, and did he think she had time for theatrics now?

he pouted openly, the tug against his scalp made him wince, and when he flinched, she slapped his shoulder with the back of her hand, muttering about spoiled boys who needed to be reminded that they were warriors first, sons second.

her braiding was uneven, done from memory and habit rather than patience, and though he could already feel the tight pull at the top that would give him a headache by afternoon, he swallowed every complaint because he knew better than to push her when she was generous with time. it was never about the braid. it was about proximity, about feeling her near again after so many days spent apart, him tracking, her leading, about pretending this was just routine, not borrowed.

so even when the ends hung crooked and the coils were too close at the temples, he kept still. and when she finished and stood without a word, brushing her hands off on her thighs, he waited until she disappeared into the hut before reaching up to touch the braid nearest his ear, already sore and too stiff. still, he said nothing.

kiri had helped or at least attempted to once, but her fingers wandered, her mind elsewhere, and he left the session with two crooked braids, three thin ones, and a loose piece falling over his right eye. he did not try again. tuk, in her violently creative generosity, once tried to braid him while half-asleep using a twist method she claimed she saw in a vision, resulting in a clumpy disaster that had to be cut free with a sharpened fishbone. she was artistic to the point of sabotage. he once found himself walking through the village with four asymmetrical braids, each tied off with a different color bead and a twist of bark. lo’ak was impossible.

“go ask your little gatherer girlfriend,” lo’ak snorted, barely containing a laugh as he dodged a thrown seed. “she has soft hands.”

“i do not have a girlfriend,” neteyam said, eyes focused on nothing, trying to play it off even though his ears had already gone warm.

“sure,” lo’ak grinned, flipping onto his back with both arms behind his head. “bro, you stare at her every time she walks past. you follow her with your eyes even when she’s halfway across the clearing. it’s weird, you gotta stop.”

neteyam looked over his shoulder, unimpressed. “she is good at braiding,” he said.

“okay. and?”

“she actually cares about doing it right. she makes it neat. she uses the right stuff. her fingers do not hurt. and she talks while she does it. she is easy to talk to.”

lo’ak groaned. “you’re doing it again. stop talking about her voice. you sound insane.”

“you don’t get it,” neteyam muttered, ignoring him.

lo’ak made a gagging sound and rolled onto his side. “you need serious help.”

“my head hurts,” neteyam snapped. “kiri made it worse. the whole braid on the side is going in the wrong direction. she pulled it out three times and still got it wrong.”

“go cry to your girlfriend,” lo’ak said, already losing interest, flopping back onto his elbow. “she’ll pat the mat and you’ll fall to your knees.”

neteyam did not rise to the bait, barely spared his brother a glance, too preoccupied with the dull, uneven weight of the braid near his temple and the way his scalp still ached where their mother had pulled too hard. he rolled the thought over in his head once, twice, then let it settle. that actually did not sound so bad.

you would braid it exactly how he liked it, starting at the base with oil-soaked fingertips, parting each row with a wooden comb that you kept tucked behind your ear, your knuckles brushing his skin only when necessary. your touch was never hurried. you smoothed down flyaways with the edge of your palm and never tugged too hard, even when the knot was stubborn. he never had to ask you to slow down or mind the sore spots behind his ears.

besides, your hands smelled better. your braids held for days longer than kiri’s ever did. and you listened when he asked for something specific, even if you teased him for being picky. you made the ends neater and wrapped the base just tight enough to hold, never tight enough to throb.

he could already picture it. your legs drawn up close, ankles crossed beneath you, a faint smile curving your mouth before he even asked. you would tilt your head and tell him to stop pouting, then pat the mat with those soft, practiced fingers, and he would go. immediately. no hesitation.

lo’ak had said it to mock him but all neteyam could think was, yes. exactly that. he would fall to his knees. and he would stay there.

he left lo’ak half-talking and crossed the camp with purpose, slipping through the shaded paths that ran between each woven home, ducking under low-hanging ropes hung with drying fruit skins, stepping around cooking pits still hot from the midday meals. he passed two elders, one of whom nodded to him, and he nodded back without slowing. a little girl tugged at his arm to show him the shell she'd painted; he gave a quiet compliment, then kept moving. every time he tried to keep his expression calm, it didn’t work. he could already feel the way his mouth kept wanting to turn upward the closer he got.

your family’s home was tucked deeper near the southeast line of camp, where the trees thinned just enough to let the sun bleed through, warming the ground unevenly. the walls of your home were thickly woven, layered with hanging wraps and baskets of dried herbs tied high. a water pot sat to the left of the entrance. small plants had started creeping up the base where the soil stayed soft. there was a stack of clay dishes near the fire pit, still damp. he stepped around them quietly.

you were sitting just a little ways off, at the side clearing where you always took the children in the afternoons. the mat beneath you was familiar, woven from old cloth in fading tones of green and yellow, wide enough for two people to sit side by side. your knees were tucked in close. your hands were busy sorting through a shallow basket of combs and beads. the younger kids were off to the side, half of them napping, the rest distracted by someone else in your family who had come to collect them.

you looked up and your eyes settled on him immediately, already knowing. you said nothing. just smiled and patted the mat in front of you with one hand, then motioned for him to sit. he did.

“you came crawling,” you said, voice soft, eyes fixed on the top of his head.

“i walked,” he said, leaning forward with the kind of grin he knew you could not ignore. “but i can crawl, if you like that better.”

you blushed instantly. he saw it. you tried to look back at your basket, adjusting a bead that did not need adjusting.

“you always say something,” you mumbled, and he leaned in further, close enough that his knee brushed the edge of your foot.

“you always blush when i do.”

you looked up again, just enough to meet his eyes. yours were greener today. maybe from the way the sun was hitting your face. maybe because you were smiling, even though you tried not to.

“what happened this time?” you asked, reaching to touch the edge of a crooked braid behind his left ear.

“mother,” he said plainly. “she was angry about something and punished me for it.”

you made a small sound, almost a laugh, but your hand was already at his temple, moving gently, brushing back the loose hairs that had escaped.

“you could ask me first, you know,” you said.

“but then i would miss the part where you pretend you are surprised,” he replied, settling his hands in his lap and shifting slightly forward. “i like when you pretend.”

you tried not to smile, but you failed. again. he lived for that. for that quiet way your lips pressed together to keep from laughing. for the way your fingers always paused for a second when he caught you off guard. for the part where you stayed quiet, but your whole face gave you away.

“sit still,” you said, finally, gently separating the first row near his scalp. “you are the one who is nervous,” he murmured, already grinning again. you said nothing. but your hands were warm, and he sat perfectly still.

he sat stiffly, praying his tail would behave. you poured warm water into a carved bowl, added oil thickened with herbs he could not identify by scent, dipped a fine bone comb inside to soak it, then placed one hand lightly on the top of his head. his pulse scattered like prey. your fingers parted the frizz at the crown and grazed the sore spot near the base of his skull. you clicked your tongue, and began with the middle braid, the one neytiri had pulled too tightly. he nearly flinched when you passed your knuckle over the raw skin, but you only adjusted your angle and kept going.

“you let your mother do this to you?” your voice sounded more amused than judgmental. he only hummed, blissed by your closeness. your nails scraped lightly against his hairline as you assessed the damage. your thumbs brushed the edge of his ears and he stopped breathing for a moment when one strand slipped and touched the top of his cheekbone.

his scalp tingled under your touch and his ears betrayed him again, twitching twice, one of them folding all the way down before snapping back up. he focused on his breathing, but your fingers were grazing his hairline and it was impossible to calm anything in him. every breath you took came close enough that he could feel it stirring along the crown of his head, and the quiet closeness of your chest behind him made his heartbeat pound in the wrong places.

a purr rose, and he swallowed it down fast, jaw tightening until it ached because the last thing he needed was to sound too soft and give away the way his whole body was reacting to the contact. you always made him feel too much and you never even looked tried that hard. he knew his pupils had expanded more than they should have. the light was low but it was not that low and he could feel how wide his eyes had gotten, how still his face had become while he tried to stop the flush that was creeping into the edges of his skin. he could not help it. your fingers were so soft.

he had known for a while that most of the other boys his age had started noticing you, every time you passed through the middle of camp with your gathering basket, heads turned, and every time you walked back carrying twice your weight in roots and herbs, someone always offered to help you unload. he watched it all. he heard the way they talked when they thought you were too far to listen. he hated it. they only saw the way your eyes shone or how your hips moved or how your mouth curved when you smiled at someone kindly. they did not know that you woke before everyone else and still stayed up late to help your mother finish washing. they did not know how soft your voice got when you asked someone a question. they had not sat on this mat. they had not felt the way your hands moved over a scalp with patience and care.

and maybe he should not have had anything to worry about. he knew what people said about him, what he looked like to everyone else. he was the firstborn son of toruk makto. he trained harder than the others, led better than most adults, already walked with the weight of leadership on his back even when no one asked him to. he had been hunting since he was barely tall enough to hold a bow properly, had carried out orders with precision while others second-guessed themselves, had taken more bruises than he ever admitted just to make sure he was always strong enough, always ready.

he was the future olo’eyktan.

people stared at him too. he heard the way some girls laughed a little too hard around him. girls who wore more beads than necessary, who made a point to pass close during communal tasks, whose fathers had already begun speaking to his parents under the pretense of forging stronger bonds between families. there were three in particular, daughters of hunters, healers, and warriors, each of them polite, trained well, eager to impress. they lingered after gatherings, brought offerings of fruit or balm, sometimes asked about his bow or tried to walk home alongside him even when their homes were in the opposite direction. his mother smiled and offered no comment, but he could tell from the way she watched with narrowed eyes that she was already sorting through them. measuring not just their skill, but their intention. his father never said much either, only glanced up from whatever he occupied his attention when one of the girls spoke too sweetly or sat too close.

kiri teased him openly, always naming one of them whenever he tried to speak seriously, claiming he should just pick whichever one smelled the most like berries and be done with it. lo’ak was worse. much louder, cruder, full of fake sympathy about how exhausting it must be to be so desired.

“must be hard having girls cry when you do not look at them,” he had said once, eyes wide and mocking. “poor you.”

neteyam never gave any of them what they wanted. he was respectful, civil, careful with his words, but never generous with attention. because no matter how neatly their jewelry was strung or how often they smiled, none of them ever made his heart stutter. none of them were you.

you, whose father stood half a head taller than most and whose voice never lost its edge, even in affection. you, who had grown up in a woven home tucked high in the trees, where medicinal plants were hung from the roof beams and satchels of drying fruit were arranged with care along the ledges. your father, a man with deep furrows in his brow and calluses across both palms, had made it clear through years of silence and long glances that no suitor would be adequate. not the son of a hunter, not a favored singer, not even the future leader of the clan. it was not personal, your mother once said. it was habitual. a man who had raised one daughter alone would never find peace in the idea of anyone else protecting her.

but that did not stop tuk from whispering about you constantly. she liked the way you always greeted her first. mo’at called you gentle. good with children and steady with herbs. that mattered more than most things.

so neteyam had time. to stay close enough to make your father used to the idea. because you made him nervous and soft and distracted, and he did not want to lose that to someone else who only saw how pretty your eyes were and thought that was enough. he knew better. he wanted all of it.

he knew he was good at things that earned praise. he knew how to speak well when it mattered. there were mothers who eyed him hopefully and fathers who clapped him on the shoulder and said things in low voices about how lucky someone would be. he should not have felt jealous, but he did. he felt it constantly, deeply, irrationally. the thought of another man sitting in front of you like this made his stomach twist and his throat tighten. he trained beside them. slept beside them in the warrior encampments. shared smoked meat and water gourd and laughter with them after long hunts. but they were rivals, even if he said otherwise.

’änan was the strongest of them. thick across the chest, silent with his movement, always composed. his mother was a weaver, and he spoke in soft tones when he was not holding a bow. he always managed to find your father at gatherings and hold his attention with long, intelligent questions. you had complimented sekko’s aim once, and neteyam had watched it go to his head immediately. he made sure to invite you to the next three archery displays. kalek was the most shameless. always loud or calling out your name too publicly during meal times. neteyam knew your smile changed when kalek spoke to you. it became strained, a little shy. not the one neteyam wanted to protect.

he could not bear to imagine your hand resting against another man’s leg, your scent braided into someone else’s chest, your smile curling for someone who did not know the shape of your silences.

his vision of the future had always been clear. he would lead. he would protect. he would answer to his people, to his father, to eywa. but the path was hollow when you were not there. when he imagined a home without your warmth in it, your woven baskets at the doorway, the cadence of your footsteps climbing the rope ladder before dawn, it all felt false. even now, sitting in front of you with your thighs tucked near his ribs and your fingers smoothing oil across his scalp, he felt the urgency of it all pressing against his chest. if he waited too long, he would have to smile through your courtship with another. and he would die by inches, over and over again.

he had wanted to say something once, when another boy had brought you a whole woven pouch of shell beads and stood in front of you acting smug, waiting for you to praise him. neteyam had stood back, hands tight at his sides, jaw clenched, watching the whole thing, watching how you smiled politely but did not blush and how you never wore any of those beads later. he remembered that.

“this is shameful, mighty warrior” you teased softly, picking apart a knot near the base of his neck with such practiced care that he had to suppress the urge to lean into you.

“do not tell lo’ak,” he muttered.

“he already saw you walk over here.”

neteyam flinched. “great.”

you had pulled your knees in closer than last time. the warmth of your legs pressed into his sides. his tail curled then flinched.

the sensation of your skin, bare beneath the hem of your woven wrap, was an ambush. the contact was casual in your body but not in his. every small shift in your posture sent him reeling, even if he kept his spine straight and his jaw set. your calves were folded so snug along his ribs that the motion of your breathing brushed through him in gentle, repeated passes, and he could count every inhale just by the quiet stretch of your muscles.

his tail twitched, coiled, stiffened, then settled in a wary rest behind him, as if it could retreat into the earth. his ears had angled back at first, then twitched forward when you exhaled a laugh and reached for the comb with practiced ease. when you adjusted your legs to get closer, the whole right side of his torso tensed from the sudden new warmth, the immediacy of your body against his.

he swallowed too hard. he could hear the sound of your breath through your nose. you were quiet but present, full of softness and care, focused entirely on parting the rows of his hair with delicate precision.

“you are nervous again,” you said.

“i am not nervous. your fingers are very cold,” he lied. you both knew it.

“they are not cold,” you said.

“they are freezing. i might die.”

“if you die, who will bring me those fruits you always pretend are for kiri?”

he froze. “kiri likes them.”

“kiri is allergic to them. they make her tongue swell.”

“then i suppose they are for you.”

“i supposed so as well,” you said. and you pulled the braid a little tighter, just enough to make him sit up straighter.

he had never been this close to you before for long. you adjusted his posture with a nudge of your knee. he obeyed before you even spoke. his spine aligned, his hands pressed to his thighs, and his pulse beat directly against your palm as you worked. “you tease me too much.”

you did not even blink. “you let me.”

his lips twitched. his tail gave him away again, curling tight near your calf before snapping back to stillness. he could not help the way his head tilted a little toward your hands, following your touch. “i would let you do worse things.”

your thumb paused on his scalp. then you clicked your tongue, said, “your hair would not be this bad if you listened the first time.”

“i would listen if you talked more.” he could feel your breath on his neck now. it was doing things to him he did not want to think about, especially when your hands were right there. “your voice makes it hard to focus.”

you tried to keep your expression blank, but your lips quirked. “your hair makes it hard to look at you seriously.”

he gasped, mock-wounded. “is that why you never stare at me for long?”

“who says i do not?”

he turned his head a little too quickly, and you grabbed his chin to hold him still.

“do not move,” you warned.

he obeyed, his cheeks warm. hands gripping his thighs to ground himself.

“you are so tense,” you murmured, rubbing the oil near the roots.

“you would be too if your mother treated your head like a drum every morning.”

“she is still doing your braids?”

“yes.”

“you should wash this before sunrise. it is awful dry.”

“next time?” he asked, too fast.

“you are the one who keeps showing up near the stream. i assumed you were planning for that.”

“if you keep tearing your scalp apart, i will feel obligated to fix it.”

“obligated?”

“slightly.”

his lips parted, then closed again. he stared at the mat. at the careful pattern your knees made beside his thighs. you had leaned in so close your shoulder brushed his. he wondered if you could hear his pulse. if your fingers paused not because of hesitation but because you could feel what he was thinking through the taut skin of his temple.

“how can i repay you?” he asked, quiet but eager. his voice sounded more sincere than he intended.

you tilted your head. his braid was done now. your fingers had stopped moving. your nails brushed his neck once, and then you let your hand drop.

your cheeks were pink. your eyes flicked to his mouth, then away.

“you do not have to repay me.”

“but i want to.”

“then,” you said, voice a little uneven now, “be gentle with it this time.”

he stood slowly, towering over you again. your gaze barely reached his chest. you had not stopped smiling, but your hands were wringing in your lap now, and you looked up at him through your lashes.

neteyam leaned forward and pressed his lips to your cheek. but it was still a kiss.

“i will see you near the stream,” he said, already turning before his expression could betray how much it cost him to leave.

your hands were still still. but your ears twitched. and your smile widened.

[ptej1980]

Well yeah….

Power to the people….🐜 followers have dropped so woohoo!! Slowly but surely the message is getting out there.

I am not sure where you are all at but I am feeling quite positive….I am sat and I am unmoved. Did you notice that today was one of the first days in a month that neither Nic or Luke posted a story? For the last three weeks nearly constantly both have been posting on the same days, matching SM energies. And today no posts hmmmm

From all the research and investigations, Nic is definitely dropping NY coded bites with her strategic likes and follows. It is also been decoded that Big Mood is still not in production so not yet started filming ( for more info check out Fia blog). The matching schedules, and the fact that Luke’s HoM run is until 28/09 also suggests that he needs to be home for Nic or another project.

The glaring obvious fact that Nic is still MIA, not pictured at an event, anywhere, you would think if she was in the UK she would have been seen out and about, at the pride festival, at the Gaza protest. But we all know where she is….IMO she and BN is in NYC. It is the exact same situation as when Luke was MIA when we knew Nic was in Aus and then he reappeared magically when Nicola did. Matching energy….always

I don’t think I have to go into the adjacents but….JD has moved on….yes he posted Nics achievement but apart from that there has been no interaction and he has had lots of interaction with his new pal and best vacation bud Ewan.

🐜 Cyprus post…well I have theories. But in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter. She posted a mix of pics that I think (speculate) was from last years friend trip to now just to annoy people, throwing in a pic of the floaty 😂, why because she has nothing else.

Everyone is over them and yes there is a morbid curiosity when they post, but if we can remember that 🐜 has nothing and will never have anything.

There are some great blogs out there to keep you sturdy. @ladytumbledown and @fiamat12 of course the ever positive @frantastical for a giggle give @sassypleia and @tonsorialart a look. We are all here for each other. No matter how long it takes. We do not need to see it to know that they are together and happy. 😊 They will let us know one day but until then stay sturdy….

[arosesstorm]

Part two to that one drabble you made where shoto had a crush on bakugos girlfriend who was slowly drifting away from him?

Here you go! I'm super happy about how this one turned out and that y'all seemed to like it. I gave it a bit more context. Keep in mind that English is not my first language so forgive me for any mistake and enjoy!

There was a longing in your eyes, a spark that set Bakugo's world on fire. He knew that there had been love between you two. Your relationship was real, it had existed.

But every once in a while, Bakugo found himself asking the same questions: since when? How? Why? He looked at your bright eyes slowly turning dull, your skin paler. Had he been too hostile? Too rough? Did he waste too much time being prideful?

He knew he was a lot to handle. Should he have been gentler? No. He knew you, he knew your heart inside out and he knew, with certainty, that you would have never betrayed him.

He was so certain of it. It didn’t matter how many hardships he forced on your path, how many tears you shed because of his pettiness. You were loyal. Unchanging.

What Bakugo overlooked was the agony it provoked in you that dull love, those lonely nights, those cold shoulders.

Somewhere along the way you couldn't smile as brightly as before and his harsh words became a wound too deep to cover with a bandaid.

At the beginning of your story you handled his hot-headed side with a burning passion and a stubborn determination but then it became heavier and heavier like a weight on your shoulders and you were starting to crush under it, to suffocate.

So when that night life presented you an escape, you clung to it with your nails, even at the cost of everything.

You were sat by the window, in the darkness of the common area, the moon shining down on you, your temple placed against the doorframe. You were looking up at the starry sky.

You were alone with yourself, again. Thoughts were running through your mind, your unhappiness showing itself to you yet again when a sound scared you to your feet.

Your fingers twitched to ignite your quirk, the electricity running through your palms dying down as soon as Shoto stumbled forward.

He looked up at you, his eyes confused, his hair messy, he spoke: “Oh, sorry, it was me, there was a sound in the hall and-“.

You laughed, hard, maybe it was the sight of the boy looking disheveled or maybe the fear melting into relief. You laughed for the first time in weeks and Shoto found its sight beautiful.

You ended up spending the night talking, sat on the wooden floor under the moon. You learned so many things you didn’t know about the boy before you. It was refreshing to discover the silly side of the chilly hero. Shoto had always looked like an impenetrable fortresses but now he was there, hair carefully parted and flat, eyes aimed at the moon, wearing his jumpers. It was endearing, somehow comforting.

It became frequent, your nightly randez-vous. And soon it was a ritual. You found your lonely nights filled with warmth and giggles. You discovered Shoto’s favorite food and his favorite color, his family story, his hidden wounds, his silly dreams and his worst fears. There was a world behind his eyes and you were speechless before the enormity of it.

It was nice to be around, to refuge yourself in his world, to have someone who listened so quietly but attentively to your words, but every time the night was over and dawn rise before you, you dragged yourself upstairs, always hesitating a second longer in front of Bakugo’s room but never daring to enter.

Of course Bakugo had noticed, something had changed. He saw how comfortable you became around the icy-hot hero. How brighter your smiles were when he was in the room, you looked a bit too giggly, your cheeks a tad more rosy and it bothered him.

That’s why he confronted Shoto about it, but he couldn't know it was already too late.

A month deep into knowing you, the real vulnerable you, Shoto was head over heels for you. He didn't know what it was or how to describe that emotion, he just felt it.

After his confrontation with Bakugo, on one quiet, starless night, while you were talking about your failed attempt in class, Shoto found himself curious.

Was Bakugo right? Were you only a good company or did he feel the fire burning in his stomach. You were rumbling, moving your hands explaining yourself, your smile small and soft and you looked tired and he was curious. So curious. He had leaned in and pressed his lips on yours.

Sudden, thrilling, forbidden. That feeling lasted only a few seconds, then you pulled back, flushed, surprised.

Your lips moved to utter a word but he leaned in again. The fire was consuming his stomach and he felt like you and only you could tame it.

But you stood up. Your heart beating fast, both in shame and thrill. Did you like it? Was it surprising? Did you betray Bakugo’s feelings? Did Bakugo even had feelings for you? It crossed your mind.

Shoto called your name, softly, gently as he stood up “i’m sorry, i don’t know why i did it” he spoke. But you were already spiralling. His half red hair were shining under the moon light and his blue eye that he hated so looked just like the clear blue lake you saw in that one picture in your textbook. “I..” you tried to speak, but you words were failing you and in a moment Bakugo’s face crossed your mind.

You walked, then run upstairs, away from that moment, from that illicit act, from your own beating heart. You were running for your room but then slowed your steps, your feet stopping in front of Bakugo’s room and you knocked, once.

© 2025 of Mia (arosesstorm). All Rights Reserved.

[sequinsmile-x]

My Twisted Knife, My Sleepless Night, My Winless Fight

He’d wander the halls of their home like a ghost, stuck somewhere between the living and the dead, all of his mistakes and things he wishes he could change just one step behind him as they followed him and his weary footsteps around the house.

The one in which Aaron can't sleep.

-x-

Hi besties,

This was largely sponsored by my insomnia the last several nights. Sleep is alluding me for one reason or another, so I had to make it allude one of them too...and I've been really mean to Emily lately so it was Aaron's turn <3

As always, let me know what you think!

-x-

Warnings: Insomnia, anxiety, pregnancy

Words: 2.8k

Read over on Ao3, or read below the cut

He’d struggled with sleep for years. 

He’d always prided himself on how well he could cope on little sleep. It was a badge of honour, something the team would joke about - are we sure he isn’t a robot - when he was the last to reach for the coffee pot on long nights when cases drew out around them. It had helped when Jack was tiny and Haley was at her wits' end, crying from exhaustion because she’d wanted to do all the night feeds until he kissed her on the forehead and told her to sleep. He’d sat up in bed for hours at a time, a newborn Jack asleep against his chest, and his wife snoring softly next to him, and he’d go to work the next morning and be able to do his job without thinking twice. 

Not long after the explosion in New York that killed Kate Joyner, everything changed. 

It started with the ringing in his ears. It was constant. Impossible to ignore. Every time he closed his eyes, he was right there, ears ringing from the explosion and his hands wet with Kate’s blood. He was kept awake by it, replaying it all again and again as he tried to figure out if there was anything he could have done differently. He settled back into something close to normality after that, got used to sleeping again when he could and managing when he couldn’t. 

Then Foyet happened, and Aaron would see him in every shadow, would hear him in every creak in the floorboards. In those first few weeks, he thinks he only slept at all because of the medication he was on, his head fuzzy and everything out of focus as soon as he took them for the pain he’d still feel even now on his worst days. After Haley died, after he failed to save her, Aaron’s ability to sleep well went with her. He was haunted by it, the phantom of everything he could have done, and everything he couldn’t change, chasing away any chance of rest. 

He’d go through phases where it was fine, when he’d be able to sink into bed, wrap his arms around Emily, and fall asleep, lulled into it by the press of her against him and the smell of her hair. Then, inevitably, the insomnia would rear its ugly head.

It always started with a night of tossing and turning, an itch in the back of his head that he couldn’t place, everything and anything running through his mind on a loop he couldn’t break. It was frustrating, would make irritation that did not help lick at his insides, and he’d eventually get a few hours of broken sleep that did nothing to mitigate the exhaustion that was heavy in his bones. 

It had been weeks of it now. Weeks of lying in bed until Emily fell asleep and then sneaking out, a kiss against her temple as he murmured his love against her skin, unable to cope with just lying there until his body gave up and would let him rest fitfully. He’d wander the halls of their home like a ghost, stuck somewhere between the living and the dead, all of his mistakes and things he wishes he could change just one step behind him as they followed him and his weary footsteps around the house. He’d do paperwork sometimes until his eyes were blurry, work he’d always have to inevitably do again in the morning when he would furrow his brow and wonder what the fuck he’d been thinking the night before. Sometimes he’d do chores or housework they’d put off for months, or he’d quietly sit in the soon-to-be nursery as he folded and refolded impossibly tiny clothes for the baby growing beneath Emily’s skin, trying to do everything he could to make sure his daughter knew she was loved before she was even born. 

Aaron knew that Emily knew. She wasn’t a stranger to insomnia herself, had her own demons that would linger in their bedroom at times. More than once, he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find her reading, or just lying there, her hand wrapped tightly around his as she stared at the wall, using him as an anchor to everything she had now. She’d asked him more than once if he was okay, her brow furrowed as he’d slip past her in their hallway most evenings as soon as she got back from work, his hands on her hips as he kissed her cheek and said he was going out for a quick run, hoping that maybe this time it would tire him out enough to sleep. He’d get home and cook dinner - refusing help from her because she needed to rest, a combination of doctor’s orders and his own - and he’d tell her that he was fine, even though they both knew he wasn’t. 

She had enough to worry about; that’s what he told himself every time he came close to breaking down. She was 37 weeks pregnant. She was exhausted and anxious, and emotional in a way he knew she hated, prone to tears shining in her eyes at a moment’s notice, her famous control over her emotions in front of everyone except him left somewhere back in her first trimester. 

She had enough to worry about without having to worry about him, too. 

He sighs as he watches the clock in the living room tick past 3 am, and he rubs his hands over his face, hoping that by some miracle, he’d manage to wipe away the exhaustion he couldn’t remember not feeling. Usually, he would have gone back to bed an hour ago, would have been lying next to his wife, his arm over her waist and his palm on her belly, and desperately trying to get some rest before the sun rose and it all started all over again. He's about to get up, about to head back upstairs to try to sleep, when he hears a door upstairs open, followed by his wife’s familiar footsteps, slightly dulled by a pair of socks she’d no doubt stolen from him. 

He smiled as he hears her start walking down the stairs, the thunk of her feet against the hardwood punctuated by a quiet curse, loud in the otherwise silent house, as the baby gets pressed up against her lungs. Her ability to be stealthy was another thing she’d lost to pregnancy. Her gait had changed, so her footsteps were heavier than they used to be. He wondered if she knew that she talked all the time these days, that she’d mutter sentences under her breath to the baby, both in English and French, narrating everything she was doing as if their daughter was conversing with her. 

She’d never say it outloud, because on some level she truly believed if she did, he’d think she didn’t love their little girl, but she was over being pregnant. She felt out of control of so many things, including her body, which no longer felt like her own - and wouldn’t for a while yet, since she was planning on exclusively breastfeeding - and being at the mercy of whenever the baby decided she was ready to be born was, he knew, driving her crazy. 

“Let’s check on Daddy,” she says, just before she comes into view, her smile soft and tired as she walks, waddles, into the living room wearing a t-shirt that used to belong to him, the Harvard emblem stretched across her belly as she idly rubs circles where he knows their daughter will be kicking. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, smiling at her in a way he hopes covers how tired he is, “Are you okay?”

She nods, walking towards him, talking around a yawn as she makes it to his side, “I’m okay. Woke up to pee because there’s a baby girl on my bladder,” she says, smiling gratefully as he helps her down onto the couch, his arm automatically around her shoulders, “I thought I’d come and check on you.” 

He clenches his jaw, irritation he could only direct inwards burning up his throat. He kisses the top of her head and takes a moment to breathe her in, letting the smell of her, of home, dampen out the anger he thinks he may be woven through his DNA with nothing more than her presence. 

“Sorry.” 

She pulls back to look at him, furrowing her brow as she cups his cheek, “Don’t apologise,” she says, “I was worried about you. Usually, you’re back in bed by 2 am.” 

He sighs and shakes his head at himself, “I haven’t done a very good job of hiding it, huh?” 

She hums and runs her fingers through his hair, smiling sadly as he chases her touch, “In your defence, honey, I am up several times a night to pee these days,” she says, “Plus, even though I am the most pregnant person to ever waddle the earth, the bed is empty with out you.” 

He closes his eyes, guilt flooding his lungs because this was what he’d been trying to avoid. “You have enough to worry about.” 

“While that is true,” she cups his cheek again, and the teasing edge to her smile slips into seriousness, her eyebrows furrowed as she makes him look at her. “When are you going to learn that you’re worth worrying about, too?” She asks, running her thumb back and forth under his eye, trying to soothe the tiredness pressed into his skin. She presses her lips together, “Do you know what’s causing it?” 

He shakes his head, “Not really. I just…can’t relax enough to sleep.” 

She stares at him for a moment and bites the inside of her cheek, choosing her words carefully. “Having a baby is a big change, I know it’s probably not helping-”

“I love her, Em.” He says, cutting her off, an edge to his voice he knows she doesn’t deserve, something he wants to protect her from, even though he’s the one wielding it, his exhaustion making him feel like he was behind glass, everything around him muffled and slightly out of focus. 

“I know,” she replies, much calmer than him, not biting on the argument he’s unintentionally trying to start, nor offended by the grippiness he usually didn’t have with her, “I know you do. I do too,” she says, shifting his hand so it moves with their little girl, “But that doesn’t make it any less of a big, life changing thing bringing home a new baby,” she tilts her head at him, understanding and love he wasn’t sure he deserved shining in her eyes, “It’s understandable if that is what is making you anxious.” 

He sighs because he hates that she’s right, that she’s put into words what he’s been struggling to admit to himself for weeks, and he clenches his jaw tightly when he feels tears pressing at the back of his eyes. 

“Things changed after we had Jack,” he says, shaking his head as he sighs, “Things were good for a while, but things changed and…looking back at that’s when things started to fall apart. When Haley wanted more from me, and I couldn’t give it to her for reasons that feel so stupid now,” he swears he can hear his heart pounding in his head, a wave of emotion he’d usually be able to contain overwhelming him, “I don’t want…” he clears his throat, “I can’t let that happen to us too. And I feel so guilty I couldn’t do the same for her”

“Hey,” she says soothingly, the same tone of voice she used when she spoke idly to the baby, “It won’t happen,” she says, smiling when he opens his mouth to argue, her finger against his lips to stop him, “I’m not Haley, and you’re not the same man you were then,” she reaches up and presses her thumb into the crease between his eyebrows, “You’re still kind, and funny, and insanely handsome,” she says, smiling when chuckles, the sound wet in his chest, “But you’re making different choices. And that’s all you can do, and it’s the best way to honour her too.” 

He knew she was right, that he was making better choices now than he had before, that he was doing better at balancing everything, but it didn’t make the guilt any easier to take. It didn’t make sleep any easier to come by when he was haunted by all the things he couldn’t take back, that he wasn’t sure he would take back, because it would mean not being here with Emily, something that seemed more inconceivable than anything else. 

“I just…” he drifts off and swallows thickly, kisses her palm when she makes him look at her again, not letting him stop soaking in the comfort she had ready and waiting for him. “I’m so tired, Em.” 

She hugs his head to her chest and kisses the top of his head, soothing words she usually reserved for Jack murmured against his skin as he cries because he just wants to sleep. 

“I know you are,” she replies, scratching the back of his head. “I know,” she repeats, kissing his hairline, “I know you are, sweetheart.” The use of the nickname he usually used for her passes from her chest to his, and he holds her tighter as if he’d find solace in her skin. 

If he were honest with himself, he thinks he might have already. She was his guiding light, his port in a storm, and he liked to think, on the days when the good outweighed the bad and he could believe in happy endings, that she was the very thing he’d been limping towards all these years. 

“I’m sorry I tried to keep this from you.” He mutters against her chest, the t-shirt that used to be his damp with his tears. 

She smiles and pulls back to look at him, “It’s okay. I know what you were trying to do,” something sparks in her eyes, a type of mischief he can see their little inheriting, one of many things she’ll get from her mother that will make him incapable of saying no to her, “Plus, you aren’t the only one in this house who tries to keep things to themselves instead of sharing.” 

He hums, “You mean like you and the peanut butter cups?” 

She scoffs at him, her laugh bright and beautiful, and briefly a little too loud as she lightly slaps his shoulder, “Hey, those are for the baby. Not me.” 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he says, stamping his lips against hers, “I believe you,” kissing her again, smiling when he tastes chocolate and peanut butter, “Even if you do have a secret stash of them in your nightstand.” 

She playfully narrows her eyes at him and shakes her head, scratching her nails through his hair, smiling as he leans into the touch again, “Do you want to stay here for a little while?” She asks, trying and failing to hide a yawn, “Or do you want to try to go to bed?” 

“Let’s go to bed,” he says, pulling away enough to stand up, offering her a hand as he helps her up too, “Even if I can’t sleep, I can do my favourite thing.” 

She tilts her head at him, not letting go of his hand as they start to walk towards the stairs, “What's that then?”

He kisses her temple and palms her belly, “Snuggling with my girls.” 

She rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head, stopping them so she can kiss him, her lips catching the corner of his lips. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, winking as she kisses him and yawns again, “But it just so happens that’s our favourite thing to do too,” she rubs a circle on her bump, “Isn’t that right, baby girl?” She smiles at him as they start heading up the stairs, “Maybe you should call in sick tomorrow so we can snuggle all day.” 

He smiles and nods, too tired to argue or to try and convince himself that it wasn’t a good idea, “Yeah,” he agrees, “Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

She falls asleep the moment they are in bed, sandwiched between him and her pregnancy pillow. He lies behind her, his palm on her belly and his nose against her hairline, and he does everything he can to relax. It takes another hour or so, but he finally succumbs to sleep, safe in the knowledge that no matter what, he’d always have this. 

[multimousefanatic]

I once saw a post where someone speculated that Emelie and Amalie couldn’t get pregnant without the miraculous because they were trans and Felix and Adrien look alike because they are essentially clones of their mothers who are twins

And I know a lot of people headcannon Adrien as trans (Which I LIVE for) which would make a lot of sense with this theory

But have we considered… Trans Felix + Lesbian Kagami?

[johnnyshrine]

★ 178 // “Accessible Icon”

[gooserings]

@linked-disability

the best part about being an artist is that i’m able to draw characters suffering from the same exact issues as me.

and so, because my own joint pain has been flaring up, here’s a very self-indulgent drawing of legend wrapped in kinosio tape!

i took a lot of inspiration from risograph printing for this, which means i only used 3 colors on separate layers to make this. i think the individual color layers look pretty cool, so here they are :)

[vervielle]

hii to celebrate pride month i drew a little art of my favorite gay rocks

Also all except the first are doodles I haven't shared yet

sorry i couldnt do more i am kind of going through a personal rut but heeyyyy at least i finished school its summer time gangy #survived another month hahahaha.. hha... WOOOOOO I'M GONNA BE MORE ACTIVE NOW HOPEFULLY WOO WOO

[thefrogdalorian]

I love how Din and Cobb's first encounter is clearly supposed to be a tense standoff between two space cowboys because there's only meant to be room for one of them in this town, so we as the audience are meant to be on the edge of our seats, worried for Din and wondering who's going to shoot first... but instead everyone collectively decided that moment was full of homosexual tension and they should just kiss instead.

[taradactyls]

So I could be totally wrong but, I believe it was sort of expected that men/gentlemen lose their virginity before marriage in regency times. But I also there’s some fandom ‘debate’ about whether or not Mr Darcy would’ve had sex before getting married. So I was just curious about what your canon for Mr Darcy in T3W is. Is he a virgin or not?

I knew someone would ask me this eventually, haha. I've actually had really long conversations with my beta reader about this trying to figure it out. It sounds like this might all be stuff that you’ve already seen discussed in the fandom, but I’ve never thought about it deeply before and so these are new thoughts to me.

I keep going over the historical real-world likelihood, the authorial intent, and the text itself but I’m still not 100%. I’ll explain my thinking and what I find most likely, but here’s your warning that it’s not a clear cut yes/no.

Because on one hand, at that time period it was most common for men in his position to have seen sex workers or have casual encounters/mistresses with women from their estates. Though I do absolutely believe not all men did that, no matter how much wealth and power they had. To go back some centuries, William the Conqueror seemed to be famously celibate (no hints of male lovers either according to the biography I read) until his marriage, and there's no evidence of affairs after it either. The best guesses as to why are that it was due to his religious devotion and the problems that had arisen from himself being a bastard and not wanting to recreate that situation. Concerns over religion and illegitimate children would certainly still have been applicable in the regency to men who thought that way. And in modern times I've seen sex workers say that when an 18/21yo is booked in by his family/friends to 'become a man' often they end up just talking and agree to lie about the encounter. After all, it’s not like every man wants casual sex, even if they aren’t demisexual or something in that vein. But, statistically speaking, the precedent of regency gentlemen would make Darcy not a virgin.

On the other hand, just how aware was Jane Austen, the very religious daughter of a country rector, of the commonness of this? There’s a huge difference between knowing affairs and sex workers existed (and no one who had seen a Georgian newspaper could be blind to this) and realising that the majority of wealthy men saw sex workers at some point even if they condemned the more public and profligate affairs. The literature for young ladies at the time paints extramarital sex - including the lust of men outside of marriage - as pretty universally bad and dangerous. This message is seen from 'Pamela' and other gothic fiction to non-fiction conduct books which Jane Austen would have encountered. Here's something I found in 'Letters to a Young Lady' by the reverend John Bennett which I found particularly interesting as it's in direct conversation with other opinions of the era:

"A reformed rake makes the best husband." Does he? It would be very extraordinary, if he should. Besides, are you very certain, that you have power to reform him? It is a matter, that requires some deliberation. This reformation, if it is to be accomplished, must take place before marriage. Then if ever, is the period of your power. But how will you be assured that he is reformed? If he appears so, is he not insidiously concealing his vices, to gain your affections? And when he knows, they are secured, may he not, gradually, throw off the mask, and be dissipated, as before? Profligacy of this kind is seldom eradicated. It resembles some cutaneous disorders, which appear to be healed, and yet are, continually, making themselves visible by fresh eruptions. A man, who has carried on a criminal intercourse with immoral women is not to be trusted, His opinion of all females is an insult to their delicacy. His attachment is to sex alone, under particular modifications.

The definition of a rake is more than a man who has seen a sex worker once, it's about appearance and general conduct too, but again, would that distinction be made to young ladies? Because they seem to simply be continuously taught 'lust when unmarried is bad and beware men who you know engage in extramarital sex.' As a side note, Jane Austen certainly knew at least something about the mechanics of sex: her letters and literature she read alludes to it, and she grew up around farm animals in the countryside which is an education in itself.

We can also see from this exert that the school of thought seems to be 'reformed rake' vs 'never a rake' in contention for the title of best husband, there's no debate over whether a current rake is unsuitable for a young lady. And, from Willoughby to Wickham to Crawford, I think we have a very clear idea of Jane Austen's ideas of how likely it is notably promiscuous men can reform. This does not preclude the possibility that her disparaging commentary around their lust is based more on over-indulgence or the class of women they seduce, but it's undoubtedly a condemnation of such men directly in line with the first part of what John Bennett says so it's no stretch to believe she saw merit in the follow-on conclusions of the second part as well. Whether she would view it with enough merit to consider celibacy the only respectable option for unmarried men is a bit unclearer.

I did consider that perhaps Jane Austen consciously treated this as a grey area where she couldn’t possibly know what young men did (the same reasoning is why we never see the men in the dining room after the ladies retire, etc) and so didn't hold an opinion on men's extramarital encounters with sex workers/lower-class women at all, but I think there actually are enough hints in her works that this isn’t the case. Though, unsurprisingly, given the delicacy of the subject, there’s no direct mention of sex workers or gentlemen having casual lovers from among the lower-classes in her texts.

That also prevents us from definitively knowing whether she thought extramarital sex was so common, and as unremarkable, as most gentlemen treated it. But we do see from her commentary around the consequences of Maria Bertram and Henry Crawford's elopement that she had criticism of the double standards men and women were held to when violating sexual virtue. Another indication that she perhaps expected good men to be capable of waiting until marriage in the way that she very clearly believed women should. At the very least, a man who often indulges in extramarital sex does not seem to be one who would be considered highly by Jane Austen.

She makes a point of saying, in regards to not liking his wife, that Mr Bennet “was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice.” This must include affairs, though cheating on a wife cannot be a 1:1 equivalent of single young men sleeping around before marriage. However, the latter is generally critically accepted to be one of the flaws that Darcy lays at Wickham’s door along with gambling when talking about their youth and his “vicious propensities" and "want of principle." Though this could be argued that it’s more the extent or publicity of it (but remembering that it couldn't be anything uncommon enough that it couldn't be hidden from Darcy Sr. or explained away) rather than the act itself, or maybe seductions instead of paying women offering those services. I also believe Persuasion mentioning Sunday travelling as proof of thoughtless/immoral activity supports the idea that Jane Austen might have been religious enough that she would never create a hero who had extramarital sex.

So, taken all together this would make Darcy potentially a virgin, or, since I couldn't find absolute evidence of her opinions, leave enough room that he isn’t but extramarital sex isn’t a regular (or perhaps recent) thing and he would never have had anything so established as a mistress.

I’ve also been wondering, if Darcy isn’t a virgin, who would he have slept with? I’ve been musing on arguments for and against each option for weeks at this point. No romantasy has ever made me think about a fictional man's sexual habits so much as the question of Darcy's sexual history. What is my life.

Sex workers are an obvious answer, and the visits wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows. Discretion was part of their job, it was a clean transaction with no further responsibilities towards them, and effective (and reusable, ew) condoms existed at this time so there was little risk of children and no ability to exactly determine the paternity even if there was an accident. It was a fairly ‘responsible’ choice if one wanted no strings attached. In opposition to this, syphilis was rampant at the time, and had been known to spread sexually for centuries. Sex workers were at greater risk of it than anyone else and so the more sensible and risk-averse someone is (and I think Mr Darcy would be careful) the less likely they would be to visit sex workers. Contracting something that was known as potentially deadly and capable of making a future wife infertile if it spread to her could make any intelligent and cautious man think twice.

Servants and tenants of the estate are another simple and common answer. Less risk of stds, it can be based on actual attraction more than money (though money might still change hands), and is a bit more intimate. But Wickham’s called wicked for something very similar, when he dallies (whether he only got to serious flirting, kissing, or sleeping with them I don’t think we can conclusively say) with the common women of Meryton: “his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.” And it isn't as though Wickham had any personal duty towards those people beyond the claims of basic dignity. Darcy, who is shown to have such respect and understanding for his responsibilities towards the people of his estate and duties of a landlord, would keenly feel if any of his actions were leading his servants/tenants astray and down immoral paths. Servants, especially, were considered directly under the protection of the family whose house they worked in. I think it's undoubtable that Mrs Reynolds (whose was responsible for the wellbeing - both physically and spiritually - of the female servants) would not think so well of Mr Darcy if he had experimented with maids in his youth. It would reflect badly on her if a family entrusted their daughter to her care and she 'lost her virtue' under her watch. Daughters/widows of others living on the estate not under the roof of Pemberley House are a little more likely, but still, if he did have an affair with any of them I can only think it possible when he was much younger and did not feel his duties quite so strongly. Of course lots of real men didn't care about any of this, but Darcy is so far from being depicted as careless about his duties that the narrative makes a point of how exceptional his quality of care was. Frankly, it's undeniable that none of Jane Austen's heroes were flippant about their responsibilities towards those under their protection. I cannot serious entertain an interpretation that makes Darcy not, at his current age, at least, cognizant of the contemporary problems inherent in sleeping with servants or others on his estate.

A servant in a friend’s house would remove some of that personal responsibility, but transfer it to instead be leading his friend’s servants astray and in a manner which he is less able to know about if a child did result. That latter remains a problem even if we move the setting to his college, so not particularly likely for his character as we know it… though it wouldn’t be unusual for someone to be more unthinking and reckless in their teenage years than they are at twenty-eight so I don’t think having sex then can be ruled out. Kissing I can much more easily believe, especially when at Oxford or Cambridge, but every scenario of sleeping with a lower-class woman has some compelling arguments against it especially the closer we get to the time of the novel.

Men did of course also have affairs with women of ranks similar to their own, though given Jane Austen’s well-known feelings towards men who ‘ruined’ the virtue of young ladies we can safely say that Darcy never slept with an unwed middle- or upper-class woman. Any decent man would have married them out of duty if it got so far; but if he was the sort to let it get so far, I think it impossible Jane Austen would consider him respectable. Widows are a possibility, but again, the respectable thing to do would be to marry them. Perhaps a poorer merchant’s widow would be low enough that marriage is off the table but high enough that the ‘leading astray’ aspect loses its master-servant responsibilities (though the male-female ‘protect the gentler sex’ aspect remains) but his social circle didn’t facilitate meeting many ladies like that. Plus, an affair with a woman in society would remove many layers of privacy and anonymity that sex-workers and lower-class lovers provided by simply being unremarkable to the world at large. It carries a far greater risk of scandal and a heavier sense of immorality in the terms of respecting a woman’s purity which classism prevented from applying so heavily to lower-class women.

I think it’s important to note here that something that removes the need to think about duties of landlords towards the lower-classes or gentlemen towards gentlewomen is having affairs with other men of a similar rank. But, aside from the risk of scandal and what could be called the irresponsibility of engaging in illegal acts, it’s almost certain that Jane Austen would never have supported this. For a devout author in this era the way I’m calculating likelihoods makes it not even a possibility. But if you want to write a different fanfiction (and perhaps something like a break-up could explain why Darcy doesn’t seem to have any closer friend than someone whom he must have only met two or so years ago despite being in society for years before that) it does have that advantage over affairs with women of equal- and lower-classes. I support alternate interpretations entirely – it just isn’t how I’m deciding things in this instance.

I keep coming back to the conclusion that, at the very least, Darcy hasn’t had sex recently and it was never a common occurrence. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jane Austen felt he hadn’t done it ever. Kissing, as we can see from all the parlour games at the time, wasn’t viewed as harshly, so I think he’s likely made out with someone before. But in almost every situation it does seem that the responsible and religious thing to do (which Jane Austen values so highly) is for it to never have progressed to sex. I also don’t think it conflicts with his canon characterisation to say that he wouldn’t regard sexual experience as a crucial element of his life thus far, and his personality isn’t driven to pursue pleasure for himself, so it’s entirely possible that he would never go out of his way to seek it. So, I’m inclined to think that the authorial and textual evidence is in favour of Darcy being a virgin even if the real-world contemporary standard is the opposite. (Though both leave enough room for exceptions that I’m not going to argue with anyone who feels differently; and even if you agree with all my points, you might simply weight authorial intent/textual evidence/contemporary likelihoods differently than I do and come to a different conclusion).

Remember that even if Darcy is a virgin this wouldn’t necessarily equate to lack of knowledge, only experience. There were plenty of books and artwork focused on sex, and Darcy, studious man that he is, would no doubt pay attention to what knowledge his friends/male relatives shared. Though some of it (Looking especially at you, 'Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure') should NEVER be an example of appropriate practice for taking a woman's virginity. Darcy would almost certainly have been taught directly or learnt through exposure to other men talking to make sex good for a woman – it was a commonly held misconception (since Elizabethan England, I believe) that women had to orgasm to conceive. It would be in his interests as an empathetic husband, and head of a family, to know how to please his wife.

Basically, I’m convinced Darcy isn’t very experienced, if at all, and will be learning with Elizabeth. But he does have a lot of theoretical knowledge which he’s paid careful attention to and is eager to apply.

[eternitygarden]

it's a bit funny to me how hasegawa's interview happens so soon after [boy talk], mainly due to the contrast between the hiroaki-hasegawa coming out scenes. coming out, to hiroaki, is a huge deal. he's never told anyone before. he's never been able to. he blurts it out in the middle of an argument with a man he's done nothing but quarrel with. the scene ends with hiroaki crying, and yanagi accepting him wholeheartedly. meanwhile hasegawa states that he's not into women like it's a simple, obvious fact. his review file makes it clear his sister knew about his orientation. it's clear he's been accepted and loved for it. he reveals it to the person he cares about the most. it's only when kamimura goes silent that he gets nervous about it at all. (kamimura's reaction is also fascinating. while i do find the concept of him having a silent gay panic there hilarious, i think his silence has a lot more to do with his own relationship to his sexuality. i think he was astonished that hasegawa could just say it so easily.) it's the contrast between hiroaki's hesitancy and hasegawa's casualness. it's the contrast between yanagi's immediate acceptance and kamimura's awkwardness. it's about how this contrast displays their vastly different relationships with their sexualities!!!

[feelo-fick]

I WANT ENDLESS BLISS!!!

HALF-AWAKE, HALF-DEAD, HALF-LIFE CRISIS

ALL NATURAL POMEGRANATE PULP.

FERMENTED TO PERFECTION, SAVOUR YOUR SAVIOR.

Q: What's your favourite food? A: THE ALE THEY SERVE AT THE TAVERN!

other versions : )

[dailyjevil]

hello!! hope you're having a good day :D

since you're doing the pride flag challenge, I hope you don't mind me requesting the lithromantic/sexual flag!

left is lithsexual and the right is lithromantic, idm which one you pick :]

(it means to feel romantic and/or sexual attraction to someone but doesn't want the feeling reciprocated or stops once it is :>)

Day 297 of posting Jevil every day