#like he's not HAPPY about it. and there are too many reasons to object to acknowledge mal has a point

[lovetrouble123]

What Is Taking Over Me? Jealousy.

Synopsis: In which Dick is jealous that his girlfriend is in love with Nightwing

TW: y/n has an unhealthy obsession with Nightwing

A/N: guys i promise pt2 of Kindergarten Crush is coming but I have no idea how to do the imbedded link thing😭 can yall tell i never use tumblr despite having my acc for almost 10(?) years🫡

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A whole two years and Dick Grayson still hadn’t told his girlfriend, Y/N, about his night time routine. One year of them sharing an apartment in Blüdhaven, and he still kept his mouth shut. Of course, ever since he rented the apartment across the hall under a different name, it’s begun to be easier separating his vigilante life with his personal life.

But just because all his things were stored in the apartment across from him, it didn’t mean he hadn’t left small clues around. One night he had left his domino mask lying around, and another night he left his gloves, and soon after one of his escrima sticks.

And while most people would grow suspicious about random objects appearing and disappearing out of thin air, it only made Y/N happy. You see, Y/N was fascinated and deeply in love with the masked vigilante in Blüdhaven, Nightwing. She had no clue her boyfriend was Nightwing, but that didn’t stop her from having a shrine dedicated to him on her side of the bedroom—from posters, to figurines…she had it all.

The first time Dick found out that she was in love with his vigilante persona, he immediately felt an ego boost. But now, hearing Y/N talk on and on about how much she loved Nightwing, how hot he was…it was all growing annoying.

He felt stupid, being jealous of himself.

Dick sat on the couch, Hayley curled up beside him asleep. He was looking through some files that Oracle had sent him, and since he was home alone, he didn’t see the reason to leave and go to the room across the hall.

But then the front door busted open with Y/N, wearing a large and excited smile. Hayley woke up, started barking and jumped down before hobbling her way to the front door to greet her second owner. Meanwhile, Dick fumbled with the case file in his hand and quickly shut it and looked over at Y/N.

“B-Babe, you’re home early.”

“Dick, you won’t ever guess what I found for my collection!” Y/N exclaimed as she reached into her bag and pulled out box labeled ‘Nightwing Figurine,’ with a picture of the figure on the front. “I found it at the store, isn’t it cute?!”

“Don’t you think you have too many?” Dick asked, straightening up on the couch some as Hayley circled Y/N who was currently taking her shoes off.

Dick was annoyed, angry…he was Nightwing! He should be the one making them happy, not some plastic figurine!

“Ever heard of impulse buy?” Y/N sassed, petting Hayley on the head as she made her way toward their shared bedroom.

“It seems like that’s the only thing you’ve been doing,” Dick said with a sigh as he stood up and followed behind Y/N and Hayley. Y/N had abandoned her bag on the bed, and had already begun to open up the figurine box. She discarded the box, and gently took out the figure and set it on the shelf that held her Nightwing collection.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. But last I checked, I’m the one making any real money for us,” Y/N sassed as she took a step back, her hands on her hips as she admired her vast collection.

“Sure, but that doesn’t give you the right to spend your whole paycheck on Nightwing stuff,” Dick huffed in annoyance.

Y/N glanced back at Dick with a raised brow, “why’re you so against Nightwing?”

“I don’t have anything against him. I just think it’s stupid that 90% of the time you’re giving your attention to him, and the other 10% is me,” Dick explains.

“Oh please,” Y/N turned her whole body to face her boyfriend. “He doesn’t even know I exist. My obsession is justifiable.”

“I don’t really understand your obsession toward him,” Dick retorted, his eyes glancing away from Y/N and over to her Nightwing collection. “He’s just some guy…and it’s a little creepy.”

Maybe Dick was past the stage of ‘oh wow, my girlfriend has a crush on my vigilante persona,’ and now he was on the ‘oh wow, my girlfriend is obsessed with my vigilante persona, and if I see one more piece of Nightwing merch, I’m going to end it all.’

“What’s there not to like?!” Y/N exclaimed, “he’s pretty, and he has a good personality,” she listed. “He looks really good in that suit…honestly, I could go on for days.”

“Keep it up and you’re sleeping on the couch,” Dick threatens.

“Again, for someone who claims that they don’t have an issue with Nightwing…you sure do act like you do,” Y/N said.

“Fine. You know why I have an issue with him?” Dick finally snaps, “it’s because he’s all you ever talk about! I’m your boyfriend, and yet you act like you’d rather date some masked vigilante than me! He’s not even that special!”

Y/N stared at Dick in silence, taking in his words. But now that he had started, it seemed like he couldn’t stop.

“All you do is talk about him, day in and day out. I know everyone has their own obsessions, but Y/N, sometimes you don’t have to buy Nightwing merch! You have too much, and it’s starting to get creepy. Don’t even get me started on how annoying it is too.”

“It just,” he trailed off, running his fingers through his hair. “It just feels like I’m competing for your attention. I can’t compete with a hero, and I’m sick and tired of constantly being reminded that I’m not Nightwing…I’m just…Richard Grayson.”

Dick knew it was stupid. His ranting that was. He was seriously standing here and complaining that he was constantly being measured up to Nightwing, being measured up to himself. But what would Y/N do if she knew the truth? If she knew he was both Nightwing and Dick Grayson? Two sides of the same coin.

Dick held his personal life dear and close to his heart, and it’s the reason why he had a separate place to keep all his vigilante things. When he was in the privacy of their apartment, he could drop the vigilante persona and just be Dick Grayson. But now, it was like he couldn’t separate the two…all because Y/N wouldn’t allow him too (even if she wasn’t really aware).

“Dick, I didn’t—,” Y/N trailed off. “—I didn’t know that you felt that way.

“Forget I said anything,” Dick said as he turned on his heel. “I’ve gotta meet up with someone from work.” Dick walked out of the bedroom and back into the living room. He grabbed the folder from off the couch, and disappeared into the apartment across the hall.

•••

Dick returned the following morning at around 2am. Patrol had been slow in Blüdhaven, and the case he and Barbara had been following had concluded.

Dick slipped through the window, his boots silently landing on the wooden floor of his spare apartment. The first thing he did was pull his mask off and set it aside on his messy computer table where there was a singular laptop that hooked up to Oracles computer, as well as files, pens, papers…and a framed picture of Y/N.

He knew it was dangerous to keep a picture of her at the spare apartment. What if a villain found out this was his base of operations and kidnapped Y/N? He had debated with getting rid of the picture, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

The picture was a few months old, and one of his favorites. It was a simple picture of her holding Hayley…her first time holding her. The two had just adopted her and brought her home when it was taken, and Y/N looked so incredibly happy.

Dick sighed and pressed the comm in his ear, “Babs, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Let me guess, Y/N again?”

“Y-Yeah,” Dick hesitated. “We got into a fight before patrol, and I’m just…should I tell her that I’m Nightwing?”

“You know that I’m gonna say yes.” Barbara stated, “Bruce might not like it, but she’s gonna find out eventually. Plus, keeping it from her seems a bit unfair.”

“Unfair?” Dick repeated.

“I know how much it bothers you that she’s…strangely obsessed with Nightwing. And I wouldn’t doubt that that was what your fight was about…again.”

“This time I let her have it though.” Dick admitted, finally settling down in the office chair that sat at his desk.

“And you said what to her?”

“That I was tired of being compared to Nightwing, which is, ya know, ironic.” Dick sighed out, running a gloved hand through his hair.

“And you know that when she finds out, she’ll be more obsessed, right?” Barbara slowly asks. “I know you can handle yourself, but do you think she’ll completely lose her mind? Like put you in danger?”

“I don’t think she would. I think she’d just be highly pissed at me, and awkward.” Dick says, “pissed because I kept this secret from her for so long, and awkward because she’s practically talking about me when she praises Nightwing.”

“Let me ask you this, does she ever wonder where you go at night?”

“She’s always asleep by the time I leave. I don’t even think she even knows I leave,” Dick admits.

“Dick, she can’t be that oblivious.” Barbara laughs, “the girl has a whole shrine dedicated to you, at least from what you’ve told me.”

“But she never acts like she knows, never even questions me.”

“Yeah, I’m going to choose to believe that she knows that you leave in the middle of the night.” Barbara states, “but since you’re choosing to take the stupid route instead of telling her who you are up front, I’ve got some suggestions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you could always talk about yourself in the third person.” Barbara suggests, “next time she goes on about Nightwing, you could always act as if you know him personally or something.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then leave some of your equipment over there—.”

“—Already did that a few times. She just got excited and thought that I bought replicas for her collection,” Dick said as he shook his head.

“Dick,” Barbara firmly called. “Do you plan on staying with her your whole life?”

“What?”

“If you don’t tell her now, you’re going to be living a lie for the rest of your life.” Barbara states, “you have to tell her if you plan on staying with her.”

Dick knew Barbara was right. He knew that he had to tell her the truth. But there was a fear in telling Y/N everything, a fear that Bruce undoubtedly instilled in Dick since his Robin days.

“What if she leaves me?” Dick quietly asked.

“If she leaves you for telling the truth, is she even the one to begin with?”

•••

Dick opened the door to the bedroom to find Hayley and Y/N curled up beside each other on the bed. The left side of the bed was noticeably empty, the spot where Dick slept (whenever he actually was able to sleep).

Hayley raised her head and began to bark at Dick’s presence. He put a finger over his mouth, trying to indicate to Hayley to be quiet so that Y/N wouldn’t wake up. But it was no use because Y/N let out a soft groan and sat up rubbing her eyes, “Hayley…what are you barking at?”

The moonlight that came in through the half pulled curtains illuminated the bedroom, casting everything in a soft white hue. And for Y/N, it only made her all the more beautiful, especially with her tired and half asleep state.

“Babe, can we talk?” Dick softly asked as he walked toward the bed.

“Huh?” Y/N hummed, “Dick, why are you still up?”

Dick shuffled over to the bed, taking a seat on his side of the bed as Hayley pressed her head against his arm, desperate for his attention. “I couldn’t, uh, sleep. Can we talk?”

Y/N hummed out an ‘mhm’ before shifting to face her boyfriend, “what’s up?”

Dick began to pet Hayley’s head in an attempt to calm his nerves about telling Y/N the truth—that he was Nightwing. How would she react? How would she take the information? Would she think he was joking? Would she—god forbid—leave him?

“I need to tell you something important, and I need you to promise that you won’t freak out on me,” Dick slowly said.

“Alright, I promise,” Y/N yawned.

“I love you, Y/N…and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Dick calmly said. “But for that to happen, I need to tell you something…and you can be mad at me, but I need to tell you this.” He took a deep breath, “I’m Nightwing.”

Y/N only stared at Dick before sleepily smiling, “yeah, okay. And I’m Batman.” She yawned again, “you’re so sleepy Dick…you’re beginning to be delusional.”

“Y/N, I’m being serious.”

“So you’re telling me that you’re Nightwing,” Y/N repeated. She then glanced over at her Nightwing collection, more specifically the picture on her wall that someone had taken of him when he wasn’t looking. She slipped out of bed and walked over to the collection. She grabbed the picture and walked over to Dick, holding the picture beside his head, her eyes darting back and forth.

She then let out a small audible gasp, “you really are, huh?”

“Yeah, I am.” Dick agreed, “and I’m…sorry for how I acted earlier—.”

“—You’re sorry?!” Y/N exclaims, “I’ve been saying weird things about Nightwing and it’s been you this whole time?!” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “I am so sorry for the things I’ve said to you!”

Dick couldn’t help but laugh at her behavior. “Some of the things were weird, but I couldn’t exactly get mad. I mean, it was just my girlfriend talking about me, even if she didn’t know it.”

“You can’t get mad, but you can get jealous of yourself?” Y/N asked, crossing her arms with a raised brow. “Does that even make any sense?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Wait, why tell me now?” Y/N suddenly asked.

“I had a talk with Barbara about it, and she said if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, it was best if I told you now,” Dick admitted. “I’m sorry for being stupid and not telling you.”

“Dick it’s…fine.” Y/N says, “we both messed up…especially me for obsessing over you like I do. I now realize how weird it was and how uncomfortable I must have made you. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you if you forgive me?”

“Deal.”

[finniestoncrane]

Would u do yandere/obsessive themes for all the riddlers?

Literally was staring at that in ur request info cuz I fuckin WISH they were obsessed with me like I am with them :) hehehehehe especially YJ Eddie my ass can't shut up about him HELP xD

Riddler Headcanons hnnnnnng i love to imagine a world where every one of these little freaks is obsessed with the object of their affection to the point where they gotta keep them SAFE AND PRESENT lest their ego suffer 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: yandere themes, obsession, threats, violence, kidnapping, imprisonment, desperation, so many sexual things omg

arkham

ok his obsession is. unhealthy. and guess what? he deals with it in an even more unhealthy way!! and it was never for a moment anything close to being sweet...

maybe at the beginning, when he was trying to lure you in, trying to convince you that he wasn't about to murder you at any given moment, but that ended pretty quickly

but then he realised that he enjoyed your company and GOD!!

how dare you remind him of his pathetically human nature, his needs and desires that he was so sure he was above given his superiority

it's a fine line between love and hate, and he's straddling it so hard his balls are in agony

could you just do him a favour and either die by his hands so he can stop thinking about you or have the decency to be his dirty little secret?

literally cannot stop thinking about you, but while those thoughts give him a tent in his horrid cargo pants, they are incredibly violent in nature

btaa

hello!! you are now the lucky recipient of at least 50 "secret admirer" gifts every day! each one more absurd and impractical than the last!

it's got the the point where every time you hear a plane, you panic about what he's written in the sky for you this time

he'll never reveal himself though, because he's stuck in a cycle of trying to impress you but failing miserably and then convincing himself he can make it right with just one more gesture

so you have an apartment filled with plushies and chocolates and your doorbell gives you hives when it rings these days

it's just a precaution, because he needs to mark his territory. he has to ensure that any potential rivals in love can see that you have someone willing to do THE MOST

and anyone who tries to outdo him will suffer the swift consequences

young justice

he's always thought of himself as superior to everyone, intellectually of course, so there's never been much of a reason for him to be jealous of anyone

until he met you, and he realised that there were a lot more areas for a rival to compete with him than just intelligence

trying to figure out a way to keep them away from you, to have you all to himself, took a LOT of his brain power. and it's not exactly great when huge brains and a paranoid mind come together

i mean, if you thought you were surprised when he kidnapped you then just imagine how it felt for him when he suddenly realised what he was doing. and by that point, he'd already gone too far

but this could work!! now you're with him and you're his, all his!!

dano

oof, he's like "they won't treat you right!!" was dressed up in a big jacket with cling film on it's head

he's so happy to pretend to be your shoulder to cry on, the one that you go to when the world just seems to be cruel and unbearable

he'll be there for you, to comfort you, to dry your eyes and cheer you up. because it is unfair to you! how can you have been through so many dismal relationships? each one of them ending with you being completely ghosted?

it's fine, none of them were right for you clearly, they weren't good enough for someone like you. someone he thinks is perfect

he never has to reveal to you the lengths he went to in order to get rid of them, that he's the reason they never called back. pretty difficult to do that when your hands aren't attached to your arms and your arms aren't attached to your torso and your torso isn't attached to your head

no, you'll never know, just keep crying over them and eventually you'll realise that he's the one who's always there for you

gotham

you'd think he was just the usual soft boy with an adorable little crush, but he's actually the incarnation of "if i can't have you, no one can" and he is so more than willing to prove this frequently

all of that time spent doing favours for you, ones you didn't even know you needed!! organising your files, making sure your office smelled nice, putting your favourite hand soap in the bathroom closest to you, breaking into your apartment and leaving you fresh milk for your coffee

you would think you would be more grateful, but you weren't, at least not enough for him, your attentions were still with other people

being polite to them, doing little favours for them instead of returning them to him, laughing at their jokes

it's a little bit unfair how you think you can be nice to everyone around you instead of focusing every bit of your attention on him

so he really has no other choice but to eliminate them, one by one

and if that fails? he'll just get rid of the problem at the root, which means that unfortunately, you'll have to disappear...

zero year

horrid little man, he's learned everything he knows from shitty pick up artist videos and thinks he can keep you by "devaluing" you

so expect a lot of backhanded compliments, the kind of thing that makes you think you're not good enough for him in a way that keeps you very close and actually lowers you to his level rather than the pedestal you deserve to be on (which he is aware of)

but when you realise that he's not actually being nice, and that he's really just a bit of a waster? and you stop letting him treat you ilke that, and grow a spine, and threaten to leave him?

i mean, OBVIOUSLY he's going to have to think of a way to take away that choice!! he can't have you able to just get up and go whenever you feel like it

he has to have you, because that's what you are to him: a posession, a trophy, a reward for his efforts in "chivalry"

[tamsiblings]

daddy issues.mp3

dsoshshs ok that's not actually JUST what this is about (but it's not not what it's about)

i don't have the words but like. something something defiance of authority and fear and hope and the indomintable human spirit that is simon tam all rolled into one

[jestiamy]

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but Venera's name actually means venus. which, while not seeming overtly necessary information at first glance, actually is something I was losing my mind over yesterday because. the three brightest objects in the sky, in order, are the sun, the moon, and venus.

[devswritingcornerorsmth]

Dorian Relationship Headcanons

binge playing tf outta this game and found out some stuff bout our favorite door. as someone who also dated a manipulator no wonder our poor boy is hesitant to love until you find every door and show him you'll always be there

also havent finished the game fully BUT i love my boy too much and now very much hate keith. yes i saw the content warning but forgot about it which is how they get you wwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

these are just my personal headcanons, if you don't like them or agree, make your own :D

spoilers! and door puns

= Dorian was very hesitant to let someone into his heart after what happened in his last relationship. He's smart, but sadly, someone will always be smarter. He keeps his more affectionate emotions closed off, hidden deep within him, while putting on his professional front. Despite this, you still flirt, pursue, and visit him when you can. Dorian ends conversations quickly, only giving a quick 'hi' or 'hello' before leaving, even if it does hurt when he sees the upset expression on your face.

= He's surprised when you keep coming back. Dorian already told you who was in the bathroom, bedroom, office, etc. You even found his horizontal form after a few days of searching. You had a genuine smile on your face when greeting his many forms, asking him how he was, or just saying hi when in a hurry. It was a completely different feeling when he was with Keith.

= You didn't force him to open up, respected his boundaries, and surprisingly didn't get mad when he didn't let you into the attic. You also didn't tell everyone about Trap Dorian, which he greatly appreciated. (under the rug in the boiler room btw).

= Dorian became a little hesitant when you brought Keith to open him up, but figured the key had changed and no longer lied or used their past relationship to get him to open up about things or do things he was uncomfortable with. He knew that was a lie as soon as he saw Keith manipulating you, lying to your face with such confidence, and even trying to get you to earn SPECS points to Realize him first.

= You looked so happy when you found the last Dorian, running to your favorite one the next day (we all picked trap dorian when we fell in love let's be honest babes) and proclaiming you had found all of him. He was... happy. Genuinely. You had taken the time out of your days just to look for him, to spend time with him. After all of that, Dorian was finally ready to open up.

+ It was slow at first, little hugs here and there, warm smiles, and greetings. Dorian gave you a little peek inside his life, about his drawbridge days, how he learned nine languages, and his tattoos. Opening up slowly but surely.

+ He was now a little more playful, opening up with the word 'squeak' to make you smile and giggle. 'Cheeky,' he says while opening the bathroom door as you go to take a shower or use the restroom.

+ 'Sweet dreams,' Dorian murmurs when you enter your bedroom to sleep for the night. He wishes he could join you, cuddle up next to you, and hold you in his arms to protect you from the outside world... but Skylar could only do so much. And he didn't even want to think about what Betty would try.

+ Dorian doesn't get jealous, trusting you entirely not to date another human. He doesn't mind you dating the objects. But, he is very protective, looking at people who come to your door, up and down, judging them heavily. Both Bedroom Dorian's lock up when you fall asleep, along with Front and Back Dorian, knowing that the only way to you was through them now.

+ If you try to make him jealous, he gets upset more than anything. Dorian will ask you not to do that again, knowing exactly what you're trying to do. Apologizing and avoiding trying to make Dorian jealous is the best thing to do. If you do try again, he'll be done with you. He had boundaries for a reason.

+ Dorian knows he's handsome, and so do most of the objects in the house. He assures you that he only has eyes for you, rejecting everyone if they try anything. Reggie teases Dorian about it from time to time.

+ He doesn't like cars and gets nervous when you leave in yours or someone picks you up. Dorian knows the damage they can cause, cringing at the feelings his car door selves might have gone through.

+ He doesn't really like music either, finding it to be distracting and annoying when he's trying to work. Bathroom Dorian does not complain when he hears you singing in the shower though.

+ Dorian has been through a lot due to being a door, but that also means he's very smart. Listening and learning throughout the ages have only gotten easier for the door. He helps you when he can or if you just wanna learn something.

+ He will give you the most bombastic side eye if you make fun of his accent or the fact that he's British. Will give you a whole history lesson about how the British people did something. It's honestly fun watching Stefan and Tiny Dorian bicker about food while both know damn well most British food is terrible.

+ Will listen to you talk for hours about your favorite subject or hyperfixation at the moment. He may not understand a lot of things from it, but keeps them in mind. He'll ask Mar or Lyric to look up the subjects when he doesn't understand fully. Dorian would also ask Mac and Phoenicia to keep an eye on your socials and DM's just in case. He needs to protect you everywhere he can.

+ (quick note! at the time of writing, i have not realized dorian yet so apologies if this is incorrect and i will fix anything when i do realize him). Dorian is ecstatic when you Realize him, finally being able to properly hug and kiss you without those glasses. He doesn't leave like the others, staying with you until you're ready to Realize Skylar or everyone else. No, he's staying with you until the end, just like you did with him.

----

once again, these are my personal headcanons and if you don't like them, make your own :)

apologies for any mistakes or errors the time I'm publishing this is 6am and I'm running on boba and a chicken sandwich.

i will most likely make a part two cuz i have so many thoughts and ideas on our boy

[daenysx]

tangerine x fem!reader, fluff/comfort ♡

-tangerine has this habit of crawling back to you.

cw; soft!tangerine, this man yearns and he's not ashamed of that, tangerine being a bit dramatic, exes to lovers (?), title is from do i wanna know by arctic monkeys, kissing many many times, my first time writing for him- please let me know what you think

wc; 1.5k

CRAWLIN' BACK TO YOU

It's not healthy to do this every night, is it?

No, because Tangerine doesn't know how to stop and it bothers him. It bothers him more than Lemon's insistent talks about Thomas the Tank Engine, so this is serious. He's a strong man, but- you sigh in content and he's glad to be witnessing this.

He really should stop watching you sleep.

You look peaceful like this. Happy, blissfully unconscious. Your pretty lips let out tiny breaths and he swears he will collapse. Something squeezes his poor heart. He wants to be closer, you look warm but are you really warm? He wants to drag his fingers on your skin, to touch you like he used to. Stained fingers, red with blood. He washed them before coming here, but it doesn't matter. He'll never be pure enough to touch you.

"Pretty girl," he whispers in the dark. You don't hear him. He gets encouraged by that.

He takes a hesitant step towards your bed.

"Look at you, sleeping so deep," Tangerine whispers again. "Always in peace when I'm not here, aren't you?"

Technically he is here, but you don't know that, and that's all he cares. He doesn't try to be a creep, he's just in love. He swears this is the only reason why he keeps coming back to his ex's apartment. He promises this is the only reason why he lies to his brother as he crawls back to you.

His fingers ache to reach out and touch you.

If he could be a better man, he'd be in your arms right now. He'd be kissing your collarbones and his rings would collide nicely with the soft fabric of your tank top. He's a coward, really. He's glad you're the only one who knows this side of him. It would be terrible for his job options otherwise.

You take another breath. Tangerine watches the softness of your cheeks move when you curl your lips in your sleep. You must be dreaming. He hopes you see him being good for you in your dream. Being the man he never could be in reality.

He really should stop using the keys you gave him months ago.

"I wish I could be-" he starts saying some stupid shit again. Oh, come on. He rolls his eyes at himself. "Pathetic. I'm being pathetic."

"You really are," you turn to your side. Fuck. Tangerine flinches.

"Wha- Fuck me-" he takes a step back. You were sleeping two seconds ago. He's shy all of a sudden as if he's not the man who keeps coming back to his ex after breaking up with her by saying 'you deserve better, love'.

You blink, looking so exhausted as you do that. Leaning on your elbows, you look up to him. His hair is messed up, his blue eyes are wide open. It's a good look on him. Objectively.

"You really did think I wasn't aware of you coming back here every night, didn't you?"

"Um- then why did you-"

"You really are being pathetic, Tangerine," you say. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No, of course not-"

"I know you still have the keys," you say. "I knew you'd use them at some point, you never offered to give them back."

Tangerine finally manages to close his mouth. Clever girl, aren't you? He feels poorly, now that he can't call you his.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks.

You blink a few times. "I waited for you to say something first."

"Sorry to disappoint, love," he says, genuine this time. "I've been acting too cowardly around you."

You sigh, you really want to sleep. You wish he could just stop with this pity party and come to bed. Silent promises ring in your head, you want him back. He kept saying he's doing it for you, breaking up because he doesn't want you to get hurt. He swears even telling you what he does for living was the toughest shit he'd ever gone through. Who wants a guy like him anyway?

"Will you please- come here? Let's just talk about this in the morning, I'm so tired."

He blinks a few times. You have a death wish, don't you? Why the hell would you want him to get close if you don't?

"It's 'cause I know you still love me," you answer. Shit, he asked it out loud. "I know you're trying to make a stupid decision for both of us, still, but tonight I want none of that. Come here."

You pat the empty spot next to you and Tangerine obeys. He has no choice, his entire body feels like it's on fire with the distance between you. He takes off his suit jacket, lets himself be bare in front of you just like how you always want him. No unnecessary clothes in bed, you once said. I want to know you're here.

He lies next to you hesitantly. For a brave man, he's acting pretty fearful tonight. You wrap your arm around his chest, your fingers touch his skin as you draw a small circle right there.

Tangerine takes a breath. It's good, being here. He finally feels like he's where he belongs. You snuggle closer to him, always the bold one in the relationship. Many would expect it to be different, he knows, but he feels entirely yours and this is something he can't explain. He'd let you do anything you want, if you want to cuddle him, kiss him in public, or snuggle to his chest like a cat, so be it. He wraps an arm around you.

"Oh," he breathes. You smell wonderful. "My girl."

Fuck, he missed this. He melts right there, how can he be stupid enough to let you go? He turns to his side to hold you better, you put your head to the curve of his neck. His cologne hits you like an old memory, but that's nonsense. You never let him go.

"Missed this," he says. "Missed you."

"You're an idiot."

"That's what I am."

You tangle your legs with his, he kisses his way on your neck all the way to your shoulder. You close your eyes, let yourself be okay now that he's here. He can finally admit that he never left, he couldn't do that if he tried. He yearns for this, for every bit of affection he can have.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He doesn't think he can wait until the morning to tell you this. You must know how sorry he is for even trying to go out of your life, how desperate he's been since the day he told you he wants to break up. How angry he made Lemon (even Lemon) because he's been a restless bastard and he doesn't even know what he's doing. "I'm so sorry."

You lift your head to see his eyes. Under the soft moonlight in your room, they sparkle. Just a deep blue, you've always loved his eyes. He's genuine and he's only a man. He looks like he can beg for forgiveness on his knees.

"It's okay," you say gently. No need for arguments, the bed is warm and he's here. You'll find the right time to talk about this. For now, though, you choose to put your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

Tangerine kisses your head. You like having shower before bed and he can smell your shampoo. He holds your hand under the covers and slides his hips to get closer to you. The pillows are soft and inviting beneath his head, he closes his eyes.

"Will you stay for breakfast?" you ask. He can stay forever if you want. Fuck, yearning turned him into a fucking romantic.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asks instead.

"Yes," you reply, getting closer to his pulse point. You put a small kiss on the tiny spot under his ear. He lets out a quiet hiss when you bite there playfully.

"Or maybe I should crawl back here with flowers in my hand," he says, adjusting his neck to give you more space to kiss. He can feel you smile against him.

"You really should," you tell him. "Later. Not tomorrow."

Your sound unsure. Hesitant with your loving as if he scared you. He did, though, didn't he? Tangerine is a man of sin and he really needs to atone for some of them.

"I'm not gonna leave," he promises. "Not again."

You nod, his loving girl. You could give him hell, but you're exhausted. He tightens his arm around you and lets you settle down on him.

Your breath is nice to feel against his neck. Tangerine relaxes. You fall asleep in the next minute or so, he isn't sure when. He just knows that this feels like home, and he'd been the biggest fool in the history for trying to leave it as if he actually could. He has to get you those flowers just as soon as he can.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

another childhood friends to lovers believer???? YES YES YES!!!! can i please request bakugou and reader moving in together, and reader shows him a memory box she's kept since they were kids...like photos, random trinkets he got her, pressed flowers, birthday cards...and he's like one second away from bursting into tears, because this is 2 decades worth of love (and many more to come) 😭🥹💗 thank you, mwah x 💖

memory box !

you take a trip down memory lane..

a/n : OH. MY GOD. I literally Had to write this this is genuinely adorable anon you are SMACKING. i lub this

cw: literally all fluff, CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TORAGAHAHEHG, katsuki gets emotional quickly and i live by this, lmk if i missed sum !

“oi !” katsuki calls out from behind you “do i throw this out or not ?”

you look back, only to see a little red box in his hands. your little red box.

you shoot up, dropping the clothes you were stacking in your shared dresser. “no, don’t!” you reach out and hold your arms up, katsuki looks even more confused, eyebrows furrowing harder.

he shakes your box around, bringing his ear to it to hear the rattling and clinking of the objects inside. “what the hell is in this thing ?”

“don’t shake it around like that !” you shriek, ripping the box out of your boyfriend hands and leaving him shocked. you smile to yourself, slowly sitting down on the wooden floors of your new apartment. your new apartment with katsuki.

“i never actually showed you this, huh.. ?” you watch as he follows you after a moment of looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, crouching down next to you with eyes fixed on your little shoe box. you remove the lid and immediately a sense of nostalgia shoots through you, you hadn’t looked at this for a while now.

“this is my memory box, i’ve had it for years.. i think since i was..what, seven ?” you wonder out loud, you’d definitely had it for a long, long time. katsuki sits next to you silently while you excitedly look through it.

“oh yeah, definitely seven—look this is the friendship bracelet i made for us !” you exclaim excitedly. it’s definitely more than a bit worn, that was the main reason you put it in this box, it was the first item you’d put in there.

you’d made one for you and one for katsuki, using your precious loom band box set you’d gotten for christmas. you’d used up all of your orange and black for it and worn yours until it started fraying. you almost cried when one of the bands snapped and you’d gotten too big for it, or it had just gotten too little for you. you refused to throw it away and found a random empty shoe box to put it in, and the rest was history.

“oh, and these are left over tickets from when we went to the fair, my keychain you got me from the aquarium—i remember you begged your mom for it.” you laugh, begged was an understatement. you remember how mitsuki pulled him away because he was causing a scene, you didn’t understand why he was so insistent on getting a souvenir, you had a good day as you all walked around looking at fish and katsuki dragging you around by the hand like he built the place himself. you remember how excited he got when you got to the shark exhibit.

you didn’t get it, until he stopped you when you were ready to leave with your own parents, grabbing you by the back of your shirt and avoiding your gaze as he stretched his little arms out and wordlessly offered you a little penguin keychain, mumbling something about how you looked happy when you saw them, ears pink while his mom smirked behind him, his father smiled down at you both kindly.

that was the first present he’d ever bought for you. with his mom’s money of course, you giggle at your own thoughts. but he’d still gotten it for you because he thought it’d make you happy. it was your treasure and you wore it on your bag for years until it started getting dirty, and you’d hid it in your shoebox to keep it safe.

you suddenly realize your boyfriend’s been awfully unlike himself for the past few minutes, silently blinking at the contents of your box and now at your little keychain.

you suddenly feel a bit self conscious, maybe he thought it was weird..

you blink in surprise when he reaches for your penguin chain and you offer it to him. it’s a bit brownish now, having lost its shine over the years. he runs his thumb over the fuzzy faux fur.

“thought you forgot about this..” he mumbles to himself.

your eyes shoot wide. “wha—no way ?!”

“ya stopped wearing it on your bag so i thought you got rid of it.” he doesn’t look angry, simply observing the chain, letting it dangle in the air.

“i just didn’t want it to get any dirtier than it clearly already is” you joked. you’re in deep now, shuffling around for more items in your box. katsuki joins you this time, pulling out an old picture.

“holy shit.” he breathes. you catch a peek at what he’s looking at only to see the both of you.

“woah, we were so small !” you giggle. it was a picture of your grade school entrance ceremony. you remember katsuki stubbornly refusing to take it and it took his mom about ten minutes to get him to stay put and take the shot. you’re all smiles, waving at the camera like you’d been instructed to and gripping katsuki’s hand. said little boy had an angry, angry frown on his face, sticking his tongue out at the camera.

“you’re cheeks were huge.” you laugh, katsuki sits down properly to nudge your shoulder with a huff. “shaddup,” he says, though there was no real bite to his words. “you weren’t any better than me.” you laugh some more and continue to pull things out. “where’d you even get this ?” he asks.

“your mom gave me a copy.”

“fuckin—of course she did.”

there’s a blurry picture you’d managed to take of katsuki when you’d gotten your first polaroid camera, and some pictures from when you’d convinced him to get in a photo-booth from your first date at the fair. dozens of birthday cards he’d written for you, you’re tempted to read them all right now but you worry katsuki might get embarrassed and actually throw the box out, so you’ll do that later.

the flowers he’d plucked out of the ground one random afternoon at his house, a rock he'd given you because it looked cool, a couple of seashells you found at the beach together, a dried up four leaf clover he claimed would bring you good luck, the container of the lip balm you were wearing when he kissed you for the first time. years worth of memories all in your little shoebox.

“fuck, you really kept all this stuff..” you hear katsuki mutter. you turn to see him still with that elementary school picture in hand, staring at it thoughtfully.

“course i did.” you hum, leaning against his side. “i spent all of my childhood with you suki, that’s unforgettable to me. i wanted to make sure i wouldn’t ever forget how much you mean to me.” katsuki’s eyes fix yours as you continue talking. and you realize how they slowly turn glossier. he realizes when you do and quickly ducks his head, scoffing to himself but a sniffle slips out.

“hey..” he shakes his head, you don’t continue, only reaching to hold him in your palms. he shoves his cheek against one, chuckling to himself.

“shush.” he mutters, voice cracking, his eyes remain shut to not let anything slip. he presses a kiss to your skin, grabbing at your wrist. "you're gonna be the fuckin' end of me, y'know ?" you laugh, rubbing your thumb against his skin, you feel him sigh against your palm.

"love you."

you smile "i love you too" you whisper back. "so, you still wanna throw it out ?" you joke, katsuki's eyebrows furrow.

"fuck, no." he asserts "it's staying here, an' i'll give you more shit to fill it up with."

and you truly couldn't be more excited, starting a new chapter of your life with the boy that had shared it all with you. you want your shoe box to be filled to the brim with more and more memories of you both, all of them just as close to your heart as the last.

"hmm," you hum "can't wait."

taglist :

@napbatata @andysdrafts @queenpiranhadon @jastoo46 @cecelia77

@katszumi @m-inluv @monchurie @the-hangry-otter @starlostlaiba

@moonshuul @erenstitanweave @katsus-mistress @dondeh-zedonutqueen @liluvtojineteyam

@aspiringwriter1111 @sugurusmoon @redvelvetstan1

@niktwazny303 @nemisimp @kit-katsukii @alphasage @milktea-academia

[ellewritesx]

final clause

(final part of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: Rules are made to be broken.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, fingering, protected sex (we cheer), praise kink if you squint, lots of feels

A/N: brb i'm gonna go cry about the series ending. somebody send me requests for bonus parts/check-ins asap!!! i can't believe it's finally here, wow :,) i'm really happy with where the story went though, and i'm so honored so many of you have stuck around this long. enjoy lovelies, let me know what you think x

Word Count: 7,154 (you're welcome)

...

The words hang between you like smoke lingering after a wildfire. I'm in love with you. You blink. It's the only thing your body remembers how to do. Everything else, breathing, thinking, speaking, collapses under the weight of those five words. I'm in love with you.

Harry stares at you, eyes glassy under the rooftop lights, jaw tight, fists trembling at his sides like he wants to reach out to you but fights the urge. Like he's afraid you'll shatter if he dares to move.

For once, there's no trace of confidence or arrogance. No trace of the man who always had the upper hand. He looks... terrified. And gut-wrenchingly sincere.

''I don't expect you to say anything,'' he says quietly, the tremor in his voice so vulnerable and defeated that it nearly knocks you over. ''I just needed you to know.''

For a long, suffocating moment, you don't say anything. You can't. Not because you don't have anything to say, but because you don't know where to start. Your heart is screaming too loud for you to so much as hear yourself think.

You're flooded with disbelief, distrust, with all the reasons you should walk away right now. But you're anchored in the ground.

''You hurt me,'' you say, gaze hardening as you stare at him, your voice low but steady. ''So many times.''

He looks injured, like you've ripped out his heart and set fire to the shredded parts. But you don't take it back. You can't. Because this is what he always does, he takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and you're the one left behind to pick up the pieces.

But he just nods. No defense. No excuses. Just pain behind his eyes.

''I know,'' he murmurs, swallowing hard. ''I thought if I kept you at a distance… I could control it. But I couldn't. I never could. You were under my skin before I even realized I'd let you in.''

You look down for a second, jaw clenched, trying to fight the sting in your chest. ''You were cruel, Harry.''

''I know.''

''You used your money like a leash.''

''I know.''

''You made me feel like I wasn't good enough unless I followed your rules. You treated me like an object, like a toy you could play with and throw away when it was convenient for you.''

His voice cracks. ''I know. And I hate myself for it.''

''You kicked me out like I meant nothing. And now, what, you say... that, and I'm supposed to jump into your arms?''

''I know, Y/N,'' he repeats, louder now, voice laced with desperation. ''I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I swear to God, if I could take it back, if I could undo what I said that night, I would. A thousand times over.''

You want to look away. It's easier, when you can't see the way he's looking at you. Like you're some kind of lifeline.

But you don't. You hold his gaze. Because he needs to see that you're not tolerating the way he's been treating you, not anymore.

There's a silence that follows, heavy with unspoken thoughts, unnamed feelings. He runs a hand through his hair like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

''I wanted safety,'' he blurts, eyes locking with yours. ''Because I never got that. Not growing up. Not ever. Love was always transactional to me. If I was good, I'd get affection. If I failed, it'd be taken away. So I learned to control everything. To be the person with the power to take things away, so it couldn't be done to me.''

You stare at him, heart clenching.

''But you…'' he continues, ''you got past all of that. And I didn't know how to handle it. So I pushed you away before you could do it first.''

He takes a careful step forward, testing the waters. You don't stop him, but you don't move toward him either.

''I miss you,'' he says. ''I miss your voice. Your laugh. The stain of your lipstick on my coffee mugs. The way you always steal the pizza crusts off my plate. The way you look at art like it's telling you a story. I miss you. Everywhere, all the time. I miss us, whatever we were.''

You close your eyes. It hurts. So much.

''I've been a coward,'' he admits, voice breaking. ''But I'm not scared anymore. So if you want me to beg, I will. I'll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. Want me to get on my knees? I'll get on my fuckin' knees, Y/N. Want me to apologize every day for the rest of my life, spend the rest of my time proving to you that I'll never hurt you again? I'll do it. I'll do anything. You name it and it's yours.''

You don't answer. You just stare at him, taking him in. His voice trembles with every plea, with the effort of lowering his walls, of revealing everything he's hidden behind them, bare and awaiting your judgment. He's bleeding honesty, messy, raw, real.

The rooftop feels too quiet, too still, like the city's holding its breath, too, bowing down to the weight of the moment.

He takes one last step, barely a breath away from you. ''Please,'' he begs softly, barely audible.

You finally whisper, ''Why now?''

''Because... I lost you. And it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.''

That does it.

Something breaks, relents, and you crash your lips to his before you can think it through. He lets out a choked gasp against your mouth like he was suffocating and you're a breath of fresh air.

Months of miscommunication, longing, heartbreak, it all crashes to the surface like a tidal wave. You press against him, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt. It's desperate, urgent, but the way his hands come up to delicately brush a strand of hair behind your ear and cradle your face is the exact opposite.

It's gentle. Testing. A question mark. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his shoulders are still slightly slumped, a heavy, deep-rooted guilt that seems to be pulling him down.

You wind your fingers through his hair, and he pulls you close like he doesn't care if the world ends right here, right now, as long as you're in his arms. There's a soft frown on his face, a deep crease between his eyebrows you used to press kisses to until he smiled, even if it was forced, even if it was just for a second, just for you.

You know what it means. He's worried. He's worried you're kissing him for one last time, for closure, a silent goodbye. He's worried the moment will end before he's committed it to memory.

He's terrified of being relieved, of being happy, because it's fragile. It never lasts. Because you can take it away, and he couldn't stop you if you did. He's powerless in this situation.

Your heart aches, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him impossibly closer, wanting him to feel your presence, your affection, your love. A wordless ''I'm not going anywhere''.

But just as your hands brush down his arms, as your pulse starts to race with something deeper, something needier, he stops.

His hands come to your waist, pushing you back and holding you there, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. ''Wait.''

You freeze, tilting your head in confusion, squeezing his biceps in an attempt at getting him to look at you. ''What's wrong?''

''I can't,'' he whispers. ''Not here. Not yet.''

''What?'' You blink once, twice. He's never denied any of your sexual advances before. Your stomach drops, but he seems to know exactly what you're thinking, because he's quick to reassure you.

''Hey, I want you. Christ, I want you so bad it physically hurts.'' He presses his palm flat against your cheek, breathing hard. ''But not like... like this. I want to do it right.''

He looks at you like he's trying to memorize you. Like he still believes that you're going to turn around at any given moment and this will be the last time he ever sees you. ''I don't want the next time I have you to be like this. Not rushed. Not because it's a habit,'' he continues, fingers affectionately brushing against your jaw.

Your brows pull together, heart pounding. ''Harry…''

''I want to take you on a date,'' he says with conviction, voice steady. ''A real one. Just us. No strings, no games. I want to hold your hand and show you off and not worry if someone sees. I want to walk you home and kiss you on your porch. And when we… if we make love, I want it to be something we both remember. I want to give you the love story you deserve. I want to be the man you deserve, Y/N.''

You stare at him for a long moment.

''You've never turned me down before,'' you huff out a quiet laugh in disbelief.

A small, almost pained smile tugs at his lips. ''I've never been in love with you before, either.''

Something cracks open inside you, not in pain this time, but in awe. This isn't the man who bought your time and your body and called it business. This is someone else entirely.

Someone who wants you to choose him because you want to, not because it's expected of you. Not because you're getting paid.

Someone who's in love, maybe for the first time ever, and doesn't shut you out or run scared. Someone who stays.

So you nod. ''Okay. Take me out, Styles.''

He laughs, breathless and stunned and almost disbelieving. His mouth opens and closes, like he'd had this all planned out up until your inevitable rejection, and now you've flipped the script and given him a second chance he never thought he'd get, and he's speechless, his heart taking a moment to catch up.

You smirk, already walking back toward the elevator. He follows you, his fingers brushing yours like he can't help it.

You don't pull away.

...

You've never been on a date with him before. Not really.

Sure, you've spent evenings wrapped around him in the velvet shadows of his penthouse, tasted expensive wine from the edge of his lips, worn dresses he bought you to glittering galas just because he liked the color against your skin, but never like this.

Never with the intention to impress you, to please you.

It's a museum, of all places. Quiet and sunlit. Not a flashy one either. There's no red carpet grand opening, no boring CEO's or politicians cutting ribbons, no pretentious auction.

Just a local gallery hidden in a narrow street in your neighborhood, with squeaky floors and handwritten placards. It smells faintly of old paper and lemon wood polish. Harry meets you outside the entrance, hands in his pockets, wearing soft brown trousers and a button-up that gives a glimpse of his tattoos, making your stomach flutter.

He doesn't touch you at first. Just greets you with a crooked little smile, like he can't believe you actually showed.

You walk through the first exhibit in comfortable silence. He stays close, not crowding, but present. Your shoulder brushes his once or twice, and the air shifts each time.

You watch the art. He watches you.

It takes you longer than it should to realize he hasn't looked at a single painting.

''Harry,'' you say sternly, tilting your head as you eye him suspiciously, ''do you actually like museums?''

His mouth twitches. ''I like this one.''

You arch a brow.

He shrugs. ''I like how your nose scrunches when you read something interesting. And how you get this little crease between your brows when you're trying to understand something abstract. You're the most interesting thing in this building.''

You roll your eyes, but your bashful smile gives away the butterflies in your stomach. ''So you invited me here just to stare at me?''

He looks at you, and for once, there's no teasing in his tone. ''Yeah. Kinda.''

You forget how to breathe. He's trying.

There's a moment, later, when you're standing in front of a moody oil painting of a forest, observing the black shadows and eerie stillness, that he suddenly says, voice hushed in the quiet museum, ''I used to be scared of the woods when I was little.''

You blink up at him. ''Really?''

''Yeah. My dad used to take me camping. Said it would toughen me up. I hated it. The sounds, the dark... It made me uneasy. Still does.''

You nod softly, but say nothing, just let him share. He keeps going, in small pieces, as if testing how much you'll let him unravel before you realize he's more than you can handle.

He tells you he used to draw, when he was a kid. He stopped because he feels like he lost the imagination to do anything creative, like he lost the privilege to pick up a pencil because he knows it won't be good. You encourage him to try again, without the pressure.

He shyly reveals that he loved watching 2000s romcoms and once cried during 13 Going on 30. His dad had scolded him for it. ''Boys don't cry'', he'd said, and that Harry should ''grow a pair and toughen up''. He never watched it again. You suggest a movie night for your next date, and he smiles in relief when you look away.

Next date.

He tells you that he can't listen to Springsteen without thinking of his mum humming along to the radio in the car. He misses her. You frown and ask him if she's gone. He shakes his head. She's not, but he doesn't elaborate, and you don't push.

He tells you that he has a small scar on his left hip from falling off a bike at thirteen and never telling anyone because he didn't want to look weak. You mention you noticed it once, in bed together.

All of it seems ordinary. But to you, it's everything. Because he's never talked like this before. Talked at all, really.

Afterwards, you wander into a tiny market tucked between cobblestone alleys, all pastel awnings and mismatched booths packed with scattered trinkets. It smells like roasted almonds and sun-dried fruit and lavenders. There are hand-painted postcards, rows of cheap rings in velvet trays, someone selling resin earrings shaped like various fruits, someone else selling pocket-sized poetry books with uneven bindings and ribbon bookmarks.

It's chaotic and colorful and bizarre, and you love every second of it.

Harry lets you lead. Watches you point out porcelain dishes with intricate flower details and antique mosaic lamps and glass candle holders he wouldn't even have noticed if it wasn't for you. He smiles fondly at your taste. You're the polar opposite of him. Where he only sees flaws, you see beauty. Just like you do with him.

''You should redecorate the apartment when you move in,'' he says thoughtfully, his eyes widening when his brain finally catches up with his mouth, blood rushing to his cheeks in record speed.

''When I move in?'' Your eyebrows raise, a smile tugging at your lips.

He's an idiot. You've given him a second chance he didn't deserve to begin with, and now he's already gone and screwed it up. He didn't mean to say it, he didn't even mean to think it. But you were walking around the market in that sundress, a skip in your step, and his mind just wandered to a future where this could be his regular Tuesday, where he could wake up next to you and press soft kisses to your skin and suggest going on a spontaneous date just to see you smile.

It's the first date. He shouldn't be thinking of this yet. He's in love, and he's doing it all wrong. God, he sucks at this. He's terrible at it.

His stomach tightens like he's bracing himself for your disgust, for the moment you realize he's new to this and he has absolutely no idea what he's doing, and running the other way.

He wouldn't blame you if you did.

He frowns, eyes flitting over your face, memorizing every feature while he still can. This is it.

''Harry,'' you say pointedly, snapping him out of his spiral. ''I'd like that. Decorating the apartment, I mean,'' you say soothingly, brushing your fingers against his and intertwining them slowly, tentatively.

''Yeah?'' he sighs in relief, releasing a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding, studying your face to make sure you're not just lying in a futile attempt to let him down easy.

''Yeah. C'mon, let's keep walking,'' you smile reassuringly, hoping to get his mind off his slip-up.

He nods, letting you tug him to another booth. The tension dissipates quickly when you spot a stuffed animal, discarded on the table in a way that tugs at your heartstrings painfully.

Carelessly tossed into a corner is a turtle plushie, colors slightly faded, a comically grumpy frown on its face.

''Holy shit, I'm in love with him,'' you pout, picking up the stuffed animal and holding him out with both arms to show Harry, who's leaning against a pole and watching you with a dopey smile.

''That thing?'' he scoffs in disbelief when his gaze drops to the scruffy turtle. It's wearing a pink tutu, yellow rainboots, and holding a purple umbrella, clearly moping over the imaginary rain.

''Hey, he might hear you!'' you defend him passionately, covering the space where his ears would be.

''Of course you would get attached to something like that.''

''What's that supposed to mean?'' You squint at him when he takes a step closer, almost daring him to say something that'll offend you.

''You take pity on the ugly ones, baby.''

''Probably why I agreed to this date.''

He snorts at that, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment, before tugging his wallet out of his pocket and lifting up the turtle's foot to read the scribbled price tag on the underside of its boot.

He hands the vendor five pounds and tells him to keep the change. When he turns back to you, you're grinning from ear to ear, overjoyed you get to keep this worn piece of fabric you call a plushie.

''Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm going to name him Greg and keep him forever,'' you press a firm kiss to Harry's cheek.

He blushes. ''It was only two pounds, love. No big deal.''

''It's a big deal to me. Thank you, Harry,'' you smile gratefully, clutching Greg to your chest and grabbing his hand again.

He grins, and God, it's so easy right now. He's not the man who took his frustrations out on you and slammed the door in your face. Who dragged you out of bars by your arm in fits of jealousy, who treated you like nothing more than territory to mark.

He's just Harry, the guy who smiles nervously when you hold his hand a little tighter in public, who smells like cedar and orange peel and whose face is full of reluctant hope.

You stop for drinks at a stand in the shadows beneath a weeping willow. Lemon soda for you, black iced coffee for him. He insists on paying, and for once, it's not a power play. Just a gesture. Small. Thoughtful. He doesn't offer to buy you anything else, no bags of gifts, no diamonds, no showy purchases to stake a claim.

It's weirdly perfect.

You sit beneath the tree for a while, just talking. About anything and everything that comes to mind. Books, music, life. Sometimes about nothing at all, just quietly enjoying eachother's company.

It's when you're both getting up to leave, brushing off your hands and grabbing your empty cups, that he turns to you with a soft voice.

''I used to hate silence.''

You glance at him.

He looks at the ground. ''Grew up in a house where silence meant someone was mad. Or something bad was about to happen. So I learned to fill it. With noise. Music. Sex. Anything.''

You stay still. Let him keep going.

''But with you…'' He looks up, vulnerable. ''It never feels scary. It just feels... normal. Safe.''

You don't know what to say to that, so you just wordlessly slip your hand back into his.

He walks you home as the sun sinks low. The streets are bathed in that glowy haze of the golden hour, and your fingers are still loosely laced together, even through the bustling crowds. Everyone can see that you're together now, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

Women usually ogle Harry. You don't blame them, but your stomach still dropped every time. Your arrangement had been exclusive, but that didn't stop him from smirking when women practically fell at his feet. He'd politely decline them if they actually made any advances, which you respected. But it killed you nonetheless.

Now, women eye him and smile giddily at you, almost like saying ''you go, girl'', before looking away respectfully. You squeeze his hand softly, and he squeezes back, a little shaky.

When you reach your building, he stops at the steps leading to your door. Doesn't assume. Doesn't push.

''I had a really nice time,'' he says, smiling, his eyes soft and content. ''Thank you for coming.''

You smile back. ''Of course.''

There's an awkward silence.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, like he's gathering his courage, and clears his throat. ''Would it be okay if I kissed you?''

The question is so gentle, so hopeful, it nearly breaks you.

You nod once, and he leans in like he's afraid you'll vanish if he moves too fast. The kiss is slow, sweet. He kisses you like you're the most precious thing he's ever been trusted with.

When you part, you lean your forehead against his and whisper, ''Do you want to come up?''

His breath catches, eyes searching yours. ''Are you sure?''

You step back and smile, swallowing nervously. ''Yeah.''

And that's how he follows you through your front door, his fingers brushing yours, both of you silent but pulsing with something warm and electric. You're not thinking about rules anymore. Not about contracts or fine print or keeping your heart in a box.

You're thinking about him.

And he can't think of anything besides you.

...

You lead him through the narrow hallway of your apartment, past your shoes kicked off by the door and the coat rack that leans slightly to one side. It's dim inside, because one of your ceiling lights has been out for weeks and you haven't cared enough to replace it.

You watch him take it all in, how small it is, how cluttered. There's a pile of laundry you forgot to fold in a basket on the table, a blanket your friend knitted as a Christmas gift strewn across the couch, a mug from this morning's tea still sitting on the coffee table.

The walls are littered with mismatched frames: photos, postcards, dried flowers flattened behind glass. It smells like your favorite candle, half-burnt and sweet, and maybe something faintly citrusy from the cleaner you used earlier.

It's not curated like his place. It's not neat or sleek or polished.

It's not just a space someone has lived in, it's a space someone has loved.

And he looks like he might cry.

His fingers brush the edge of a bookshelf that bows under the weight of your books and various knick-knacks. Lingers on a chipped pot with a small plant on your windowsill. Runs across a Polaroid tacked to the wall, one where you're posing with a group of people, big smiles on your faces, blurry but joyful.

He follows you into your bedroom with a reverent slowness. It's chaotic, full of color and soft textures. Your bed isn't made, and there's a pile of clothes on the chair in the corner. One of your posters is curling at the edges where the tape has loosened.

But his eyes don't scan the chaos with judgment. He absorbs it like he's learning about you for the first time all over again.

It's the opposite of his pristine penthouse, the opposite of the control and dominance that seems to be etched into the walls there. Maybe that's why he doesn't quite know what to do with himself now, more intrigued by your room than the museum you were in earlier.

Then he turns to you.

''It's cozy,'' he points out.

''Messy, you mean,'' you tease, kicking off your shoes by the bed and tossing your jacket over your desk chair. You carefully place Greg onto the crumpled blankets on your bed.

''Like you,'' he grins playfully, taking in the space with a curious glint in his eyes. ''Do you live alone?''

You nod. ''For a couple of years now.''

He hums, still looking around. ''Your place is so...''

You smile. ''The complete opposite of yours?''

''Yeah,'' he says, almost sheepish. ''Mine never felt like a home. Except for when you were there.''

That settles deep inside you. But you don't say anything, just step closer and put your hands on his chest, making him look down at you. And when he does, it feels like the whole world fades away, and it's just the two of you in your tiny apartment.

Instead of pouncing like he usually would, he waits. You nod, breathing out ''Come here,'' soft as a breeze.

When he presses his lips to yours, it's tentative at first, a hesitance lingering between you, a fear of ruining the second chance you've given him. He holds your face with both hands, delicately cradling your skin like he's afraid you'll break otherwise. His thumbs stroke the apples of your cheeks, slow and reverent.

You lean into him, pressing your palms to his chest a little firmer and sliding them up around his neck. He groans, low and pained, like he's coming undone just from being so close to you. He doesn't hesitate then, kissing you like the tension of everything that's ever passed between you is finally, finally, melting away.

He's warm. Solid beneath your hands. He smells like bergamot and linen and something darker, something that's so him, it nearly makes you want to burst into tears.

You kiss him harder.

And he lets you. He matches you.

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. His mouth opens under yours, sighing against your lips, and everything deepens, slows. It's no longer hesitant. It's want. It's need.

Your hands fumble with the buttons of his jacket, both of you huffing out a laugh between the kisses when you struggle to tug it off, until it finally slips off his shoulders like silk.

He blindly walks you backwards toward your bed, bumping his knee into your desk chair, letting out a low, startled ''Fuck,'' and you giggle into his mouth, grabbing onto his biceps to steady him.

''Sorry,'' you breathe against his lips.

''Should've worn shin guards,'' he mutters, lips brushing your neck.

Then you're undoing the buttons of his pants slowly, carefully, like it's an ancient ritual. His fingers ghost over your waist, the curve of your hips. You move back toward the bed, tripping over your own bag in the process, and he catches you with a quiet ''Gotcha,'' pulling you closer with both hands splayed against your lower back.

''Jesus. Is this a hazard zone?'' he chuckles against your skin. You simply kiss him again to shut him up.

Your bedroom is barely big enough for the two of you. The bed is small and the sheets are rumpled and your bedside table is cluttered with lip balm and receipts and a cheap alarm clock that never works.

When you finally collapse onto your bed together, it lets out a loud, groaning creak that makes both of you freeze.

''Oh my God,'' you whisper, mortified.

Harry stares at you, deadpan, but his lips are twitching. ''That the sound it always makes?''

''It has… character.''

He snorts, and the sound turns into a surprised belly laugh when your mismatched bedsheets get tangled around his ankle, causing him to frantically try to kick them off, but to no avail.

''Jesus, this bed is a fuckin' death trap,'' he curses.

''Want me to call a cab?'' you tease, breathless and grinning.

He presses his forehead to yours. ''No. I want this. Want you.''

Then you're kissing again, slower this time, your fingers sliding up under the fabric of his shirt. He lifts it off with a practiced ease, baring all the skin you've missed so terribly, the smooth planes of his chest, the ink etched over his ribs. His cross necklace brushes your collarbone as he leans in, and when his lips drag down your throat, you sigh and let your head fall back. You've missed him.

It's not smooth, not like it always was at his place. He's taller than your bed is long, and one of your pillows gets knocked to the floor when you move. He tries to shift his weight without sinking the whole mattress, and the frame creaks dramatically again under the weight of him, tall and broad and out of place in your little world.

You throw your head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he laughs along with you. But he just kisses you again, deep and passionate, like he's chasing a high he can only get from your lips.

He's gentle when he undresses you. Reaches under your shirt like it's a science. His fingers skim your ribs, your hips, your spine. He kisses every inch he uncovers, worshipping you, and murmurs things you can barely make out. ''You're so soft…'' ''I missed this, missed you. You have no idea, baby.'' ''Never letting you go again.''

When your shirt falls away, he pauses.

You hold your breath.

He brushes a hand over your bare chest, thumb hesitantly tracing a smooth line across your sternum. His gaze is adoring. No jealousy. No possessiveness. Just awe.

He watches your face the whole time, taking you in with the softest expression, other hand brushing up to cup you, thumb grazing the swell of your breast. He leans down to kiss your skin.

''You okay, love?'' he whispers against your jaw, pressing kisses to every stretch of your skin like he's making amends, voice low.

''More than okay,'' you reassure him quickly.

''Tell me if I do anything wrong, anything you don't like. I mean it.''

You look at him, heart nearly bursting out from behind your ribs. His curls are falling onto his face, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast. And yet, in his eyes, there's patience. A gentleness and intimacy you've never quite seen from him before.

''I will,'' you say, and mean it.

''Can I?'' he asks, vaguely gesturing to your body.

You nod. ''Please.''

He dives in and kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest, your stomach, careful and slow. Every touch feels like a confession. Every sigh is a promise.

''You're so beautiful,'' he whispers, voice wrecked.

You drag him down to kiss you again, moaning into his mouth as he presses you into the squeaking mattress. His hand slides lower, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of your pants.

''Off,'' you request softly. ''Want them off.''

He gets the message. He helps you, pulling and kicking and shifting until your clothes are in a pile on the floor, your body bare beneath him. He sits back on his knees, mouth slightly parted as his eyes trace over every inch of you, like he still can't believe this is real.

Then he stands, toeing off his boots and undoing his belt. Your heart stutters as he drags his trousers and boxers down, thick cock already hard and flushed, resting against his stomach. You bite your lip, thighs rubbing together involuntarily at the sight.

He notices.

''You want me?'' he asks, low and hoarse, but it isn't a demand for an answer. He's asking, secretly insecure, needing the confirmation.

You nod, determined. ''I do. I want you.''

He leans over you again, bracing on his forearms as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. You gasp when his hand finds its way between your thighs, fingers parting your folds, collecting slick.

''So fuckin' wet for me already,'' he whispers. ''You're so perfect.''

You whimper as he rubs slow circles over your clit, back arching. ''Harry, please.''

''I've got you. Gonna make it good, baby. Gonna take my time.''

He slides a finger into you, and you keen, hips lifting. Then a second. His mouth finds your nipple, sucking gently as he works you open, curling his fingers just right. He knows your body better than you do. It trembles under him, hips rocking, thighs beginning to shake.

''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' you gasp, head thrown back onto the pillows, your hair sticking to your skin.

He pulls his fingers out, smirking when you whimper. ''Not yet, love,'' he says soothingly. ''Wanna feel you around me.''

When he crawls back onto you, you take your time. Run your hands over the familiar lines of his body, the softness of his stomach, the freckles you love so much, the little scar on his left hip he told you about earlier today. You kiss him hungrily. He sighs deeply.

You reach for the nightstand, fumbling for the top drawer to grab a condom, but he catches your wrist and brings it up to his lips to press soft kisses to the sensitive skin there.

''Let me.''

You blink up at him. ''Okay.''

He rolls it on, slow and careful. Then he looks down at you, hovering above, his arms caging you in but not pinning you down.

''Are you sure?'' he asks.

''Yes,'' you breathe. ''Are you?''

He leans in, face softening, and kisses your nose. ''More than I've ever been.''

When he sinks into you, it's not like before. There's no rush, no game. Just intimacy. His hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers, and presses it to the mattress as he puts his weight on his arm.

You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you slowly, gently. Inch by inch. It's overwhelming, the feel of him, thick and hot. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your neck.

Your legs curl around him like you never want to let go. He curses softly under his breath, rests his forehead against yours, and stays there. Doesn't move. Just feels. Lets you adjust.

Your free hand finds his back, his shoulders, the curls behind his ears, breath stuttering as he bottoms out with a shudder. And he breathes, deep, like he's letting himself exhale for the first time in months.

It's not frantic. Not greedy. It's not about release or dominance or performance. It's about love, about two individuals coming together and sharing something intimate.

''You feel so good,'' he rasps. ''So fuckin' good, love. Don't ever leave me again, fuck.''

His words make your chest twist, your hand tightening in his hair. ''Then don't push me away again.''

He stills for a moment, temple pressed against your cheek, as if the weight of your words just crashed into him. Then he kisses you again, deep and remorseful, but grateful. A silent promise.

He starts to move slowly, carefully, like he's worried that you'll break. Or that he'll break. But it'd be worth it. He'd die a happy man.

The bed creaks loudly beneath you both, springs groaning under the weight. You both freeze for a second, then burst into quiet laughter. It makes something twist in his chest. You're laughing in his arms. Naked. Wrapped around him. You're his. And he's yours.

He moves again, languid, deep thrusts that make your toes curl, make your walls flutter around him. His hips roll against yours, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.

Every drag of him inside you is like poetry, like punctuation to every word he never knew how to say to you before now.

''You feel so good,'' you whisper, kissing his shoulder, his jaw, his lips. ''So fucking good, Harry. You're so good to me. So perfect''

He moans when you praise him, heart bursting at the seams, picking up the pace slightly, still controlled, still taking his time. He kisses you like he means it, like he's pouring all his feelings for you into it.

He whispers things into your neck between thrusts, soft and shaky. ''I'm not going anywhere.'' ''I'm so in love with you.'' ''You changed my life.'' ''You're my whole world.''

You almost cry at his words, so heartbreakingly genuine, falling from his lips without a second thought, walls tore down.

For once, he's not calculating his every move, not carefully picking out his words. He's not focused on you surrendering control to him. Instead, he's devoting himself to you, whispering ''I'm yours,'' into your skin over and over again like a broken confession.

Your bed squeaks with every movement, the mattress dipping and shifting beneath his weight. It's too small for both of you, but you make it fit anyway by puling your bodies closer to eachother. Neither of you are complaining, legs tangled, hearts pressed close.

His pace stutters when you moan his name, soft and breathless. He grips your hips tighter. His eyes close.

''I love you,'' he chokes out. ''I love you, Y/N. I love you so much.''

You crash your lips to his, love flowing between the two of you, whispering a soft ''I love you, Harry'' into his mouth.

His hand slips between your bodies again, fingers circling your clit while he fucks you, murmuring praise into your skin.

''You're doing so good for me,'' he pants. ''So pretty. So perfect. Can't believe you're mine. I'm the luckiest man alive.''

You cling to him, nails digging into his back as the pressure builds, your body spiraling. He's so deep. So thick. You're so full. His body clinging to yours. His breaths of pleasure in your ear. The way he looks at you like you're everything to him.

It's too much.

''Harry, I'm gonna—''

''I know, love. I got you,'' he whispers. ''Come for me. Let me feel you.''

And you do.

You unravel with a content sigh, clenching around him as your orgasm crashes through you, thighs trembling. There's no theatrics. No screaming. Just a slow, building pressure that crests in your chest and spills out with a soft cry against his mouth. He groans, fucking you through it, thrusts growing erratic.

''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' he growls.

''Come for me, Harry,'' you whisper, dazed and desperate. ''You're so beautiful. God, I love you so much.''

That's all it takes.

He spills into the condom with a broken sound, gently biting your shoulder to muffle his moans, body shaking. You feel every pulse of him, warm and thick, your bodies joined and your hearts racing. His broad frame collapses on top of you, a grunted 'oomph' leaving you, his arms shaking from the exertion.

He doesn't move. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck. The room is quiet. Still. For a moment, you just breathe. Wrapped up in each other. Quiet. Content.

You're the one who whispers, a breathless chuckle escaping your lips, ''This bed's gonna collapse if you roll over.''

He laughs heartily, twisting his neck to press a quick kiss to your temple. ''Then I won't.''

You go quiet at that. Bury your face in his hair.

And when your heartbeat starts to settle and the warmth lulls you into a sleepy daze, he shifts slightly with a contorted face, groaning as he reaches for something under his hip.

''Ow, what the hell—''

You blink as he pulls something out from under him, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling.

Greg.

The shabby secondhand stuffed animal he got you at the market this afternoon.

Harry holds him up by one leg, squinting at him. ''No fuckin' way.''

''Greg,'' you say solemnly. ''The horrors you've witnessed. I'm so sorry. I'm a terrible mother.''

Harry snorts softly, which quickly turns into full-blown laughter that shakes his shoulders and makes him drop his face into the crook of your neck. He kisses your bare shoulder. ''This is ridiculous.''

''Better get used to it.''

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you, eyes soft, kissing you again. You've never kissed in a way that wasn't followed by him ripping off your clothes. You've never kissed, not out of lust, but just to kiss. It was a nicety, a thing people do before they have sex.

But now, he does it just to make sure his affection for you sinks deep into your bones and settles there.

You pull the blankets further over both of you from where it pooled around his hips. He pulls you close, his head resting on your chest, and lets out a long, quiet breath.

There's no satin sheets, no floor-to-ceiling windows. Just you. Your way too tiny bed, your colorful sheets, your mismatched pillows, and a turtle named Greg. He's certain it's the best night of his life.

Besides, of course, your wedding day, sometime in the near future. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the thought. Don't get ahead of yourself, Harry. God, he's smitten.

He never would've guessed that meeting you would've flipped his life upside down. He's not sure if he would recognize the man he was before he met you. And he's not sure if that guy would recognize the person he is now, because of you.

He strokes your hip gently. ''I meant it, you know.''

You pull back a little to look down at his face.

''All of it,'' he says. ''The date. The sex. This. You... Loving you. I don't want to control you or own you, not anymore. I just want to know you. Be with you. However you'll have me.''

You press a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his favorite shampoo clinging to his curls. ''Okay.''

His sighs in relief.

And in the dim glow of your room, on a bed that creaks every time you shift, with love soaked into the sheets, you finally believe him.

It's just you and him now. Raw and real and brand new.

And for the first time in his life, he thinks that maybe love doesn't have to be a transaction. That it can be unconditional.

And messy, and complicated, and absolutely terrifying.

And perfect.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet @caynonmoondreams @matildasatellite @ilovezaynmalik08 @looney-goose-19f @call1800coochie @nostalgiainmybones @billweasleyswife @hailiex @lichi-dunkera @tchlamqtsgf @kiszkas-canvas @trixilove257

general tag list @2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk

...

[lilacxquartz]

Can you write a homicipher fic with Mr crawling where Mc is deep cleaning their apartment and he's confused on what exactly they're doing and just like doing domestic stuff? Thank you!💜💜💜

in an attempt to clean;

mr. crawling x reader/mc

plot: you do all sorts of curious things but mr. crawling still can’t quite understand some behaviours — a/n: i hooope this is what you wanted!! like my mind ran with mr. crawling perhaps being sentimental about the stuff you cleaned up, so i went with it, aha, mc is in the real world here and mr. crawling is like, a live-in guard ghost — themes: gn!reader, domestic fluff, character study — w.c: 1.1k • ao3 • masterlist ✮⋆˙

Even if he didn’t quite understand the order of the world that you came from, Mr. Crawling still tried his very best to adapt to you and your way of living. He was perfectly happy just living in your home and existing within your space, finding every nook and cranny to be deeply fascinating. Every other surface had a hint of your scent, with other places, like the bedroom, signaling your once lingering presence—like a signature.

He traced around the areas where such things were left behind, from empty bowls from where you had breakfast to where your dirty laundry was thrown off to the side after a long day. This often led you to pause and tilt your head at such odd behaviour, but you also didn’t quite mind. He did many odd things, after all, such as hovering around in the corners of your home, watching you from a distance while you worked on… whatever it was that needed doing.

Had this been any other situation, you would have probably tried to flush him away with the help of a local shaman, but it was all fine. You brought him back with you for a reason. He wasn’t malicious at all, at least not to you. If anything, he was a little like a guard ghost—determined to keep you safe—no matter what.

However, at some point, too much of your ‘presence’ was left behind and you had to talk yourself into committing to a deep clean. You had admittedly put it off for his sake, finding his almost, enticed state of wonder to be endearing, but a clean space meant a clean mind, or however the saying went.

And things had to go.

At a glance, the apartment was a complete mess. Dust clung to the walls and tables, and there were dirty socks in every other direction. Trash was also becoming something of a problem and for it to not get any worse than it already was—something had to be done—before it was past the point of no return.

Just as you were about to dive in towards fulfilling your task, however, you felt Mr. Crawling’s presence materialise right behind you like a sudden, looming shadow and sure enough, when you turned around, he was right behind you. He was now Mr. Standing more like, you internally tutted, given that he no longer took the liberty to pad around on his hands and knees anymore, instead filling out the whole stretch of room. From the floor to the ceiling, he made himself known.

“What… you… doing?” he asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion. He had his finger pointed towards the bin bag in your hand, seeming almost alarmed.

“Cleaning…?” you replied, demonstrating taking some trash from the coffee table and dropping it into the bag. As you did so, his hand flinched away and he seemed rather upset.

“Object… away?” he asked.

“Yes,” you nodded, quickly filling up the bag with more and more pieces of trash that were otherwise littering the surfaces, all the while he seemed to twitch at the very sight, as if he wanted for you to stop but wasn’t sure how to ask you of such a thing.

And before you could continue on your spree any further, Mr. Crawling took a step forward, confiscating an empty crisps packet right from your hands. In turn, you raised an eyebrow, jumping up to grab it from him, but he kept it purposefully out of your reach.

“Give it back,” you huffed, unsure what exactly has gotten into him.

“No,” he shook his head, his tone sounding rather petulant, “I keep.”

You blinked a couple of times, sounding exasperated. “W-why?”

“Treasure,” Mr. Crawling could only reply, clutching the piece of trash to his chest like it was the most sacred item.

You withdrew a deep sigh. Of course, Mr. Crawling had gained some sort of attachment from the things he saw you use. It was actually sort of oddly sweet if it didn’t have the possibility of attracting bugs and potentially growing mould.

“I’m not throwing everything away,” you tried to reason, gesturing at what got put into drawers and what didn’t, “just the trash, the…” you trailed off, trying to find an appropriate word that you both knew, “the dirt.”

Mr. Crawling hesitated, looking at the crisp packet in his hands. “D-dirt… bad?”

Finally, it clicked. At last! You were finally getting somewhere. Oh, how you loved to see him understand you. It was so rewarding, but also, you almost felt bad at just how upset he sounded, but it had to go. “Yes, very bad. Dirt makes… people… sick,” you tried to charade out next, performing a show of you clutching your stomach and looking nauseous.

“Sick?” he asked, trying to understand before looking even more alarmed than when he had first seen you pick up the trash to begin with. “Sick, bad! Sick, bad!”

Before you could respond however, he was in the process of obliterating that poor crisp packet into nothingness, so you warily had to approach him, pluck it right out of his wary hands, and mime out the rest of your intent. When you took hold of the package, you feigned sickness, and then when it entered the bag, you acted right as rain again. All healthy while looking very much alive.

At first, he was horrified at your display but then seemed to get the memo, glancing around at what could potentially make you sick and what was fine to hold onto and so, over the course of the next hour, you slowly but surely got through a deep cleaning session while he kept bringing you all sorts of objects—perhaps missing the memo as to what counted as clean and what counted as dirty—but at least you were finally, actually getting somewhere.

Things like broken mugs were brought to you, along with more empty packets and forgotten socks alike. Some things he was much more defensive about throwing away, but you let him keep the stuff that you were certain wouldn’t actually bring strange things into your home, like that torn and tatted baggy hoodie you had—he refused to let that one go.

“Why do you want to even… keep that?” you asked, watching him cosy up to the piece of clothing.

“Smells… you,” he gleefully replied, taking a deep whiff of the fabric before towering over you, repeating the motion against the crook of your neck, “smells… good.”

“Ah,” you smiled a little, not protesting a single bit, “yeah, you can keep that.”

You supposed that life with Mr. Crawling, after all this time, was still a messy sort of affair, but that much was fine. It was moments like these that made it all worthwhile, reminding you of why you wanted him to stay in the first place.

Even if it did mean that things took forever to get done now.

[whokilledsamara]

I love your Homicipher hc, they are so good! Would you be willing to do some N/ SFW for Mr. Chopped too? Like you did for some of the others? I understand if you don't want to or if it makes you uncomfortable, thank you anyway!

MR. CHOPPED N/SFW HCS

a hc list of Mr. Chopped x reader {an: SORRY GUYS IM POSTING MAINLY HCS RN,,, fics for me take a lot longer than usual so im just posting hcs to atleast get some reach.}

warnings! : smut, cunnilingus/blowjob, idk,,, cuckhold

{an: freaky shit,,,, like hes just a head so its kinda hard to fuck. did give him a section for IF he had a body.. MAINLY HIM GIVING HEAD,, i didnt rly know how to write this im sorry!! def will write more tho,,, im into him ngl}

SFW

what it would be like to be in a relationship with Mr. Chopped.

it would be relatively hard to be in a relationship with him for obvious reasons, though not impossible!

the thought of you makes him happy, and especially when you hold him.

he would have Mr. Silvair help most of the time. usually for the romantic aspects of things though.

while Mr. Silvair doesnt quite understand the relationship, he is glad to help.

being a talking head will obviously raise a few insecurities, so just reassure him that you indeed do love him! he gets his feelings hurt easily.

he absolutely loves when you play with his hair. if you put bows in it or decorate it, that will make it all the more special for him.

the first time he bit you when he was sleeping, had him crying for hours. he felt so bad that he harmed you in any way, and it took a while for him to "recover"

he loves kisses! he always shouts things like "Up, Up" or "Desire, Carry!" just so he can kiss you.

if you manage to get a hold of make up or something, he would absolutely love for you to do his makeup. {he likes to feel pretty}

he is a very sensitive boy, also a crybaby. how cuuuttteee...

if Mr. Silvair gives him a body, {ignore that one ending... we dont talk about it} then he wpuld be even more excited to see you.

the moment he gets a body would mean so many hugs and affection as a thank you for saving him.

he gets picked on a lot by the others so he usually tries his best to come to you.

NSFW

sex...?

sex is definitely a hard concept with him.

while yes, it is possible, just not in the way intended.

you could see him more as a pure object for your pleasure honestly, and he wants that.

whether you are amab or afab, he is perfect for the situation.

ive seen this referenced by another writer, but he would be like a "rose toy" or a "fleshlight" as people call it.

its a secret pleasure to watch you go at it with someone else. {ex: Mr. Silvair or someone.}

if he is gifted a body though, he definitely will pay you back for saving him in the first place.

personally he would be a soft and sensual lover with his new body, rarely going rough unless specifically asked to.

he is more of a giving top. definitely not dominant but is a top. he cares more about your pleasure than his. though, he does get all giddy when you wish to go down on his or something.

he is open to literally anything you want, he would have very few limitations on what he would do, but everything is open for discussion.

again, definitely either wants to watch you have sex with someone else, OR wants someone else to watch you and him go at it. {he would prefer Silvair.}

he definitely likes when you pull his hair or use him. will be submissive sometimes.

he is the type to cry during sex...

omfmg i love him sm

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Murder, Love, and Destiny: An Eridan Ampora Character Study

Warnings for things from Homestuck, like discussions of child abuse, mental illness, murder, suicide, etc. etc.

Because there's a huge wall of text after this point, I'm going to summarize what I hope to convince you of in bullet point format, and then hope you'll actually read the rest of the text before arguing with me about it.

Eridan is the least casteist highblood, if you ignore all the slurs.

Those are his emotional support slurs.

Pale EriKar was not only canon, but set up to be endgame.

Eridan is incredibly plot-relevant, thematically relevant, and was definitely originally intended to be brought back to life, alongside the other dead trolls.

He's Sad.

The first thing we have to establish is what counts as "canon" for the purpose of this essay. I am only counting the original comic up to Game Over, after which there's a general consensus that Hussie kind of gave up on his original planned ending, and slapped together something that most people hate. So I am immediately disqualifying Pesterquest, supplementary material, fanworks deemed canon, the epilogues, and Homestuck^2.

Moreover, we are taking Hussie's commentaries with a grain of salt, for two reasons. The first reason is that I firmly believe - and will be arguing - that the original plan was to bring Eridan (and the other dead trolls) back; therefore, Hussie (who has a track record of playing coy with future plot twists) can't speak too fondly of him, lest he give it away. The second reason for de-emphasizing Hussie's words is that, post-retcon, Hussie isn't very well going to say that he had plans for a better ending, and then didn't execute on them; to save face, he has to act as though his trashing of several prior plot threads, including but not limited to Eridan, was the plan all along.

Therefore, this essay will not be putting too much emphasis on Word of God, and will instead be relying on textual evidence from the comic itself, of which there is plenty. So without further ado:

Eridan is a Consummate Murderer.

The reason I'm starting with this point is that, far more than any other, this truth lies at the core of his being. Eridan is formally introduced to us with a murder, and he's haunted by an overpowering genocide complex. He outright describes to Rose at one point that "killin is all i evver done practically," and uses "murder" as an expletive (ie "swweet stinkin murder"). With a conservative estimate of 5 kills per week for 4 sweeps (Vriska looks VERY young when she has to start killing, and Eridan was likely a similar age when he began), both Eridan and Vriska easily have bodycounts above 2000 - the real number is probably even higher.

At this point, many raise an objection that Eridan is only killing lusii, but I believe we need to count his kills as troll murders, for three reasons: first, a dead lusus results in the orphaned troll being culled; second, one has to assume he has had cases of trolls trying to defend their lusii, or coming after him for vengeance; and third - and most importantly - Eridan HIMSELF is thinking about the orphaned trolls.

Compare Feferi: Go Home:

That should keep her happy for a while. At least until she dies.

To Eridan: Go Home:

That should keep her happy for a while. And make a freshly orphaned troll somewhere very sad.

So Eridan, to a much greater extent than even Feferi, is thinking about the orphaned trolls he's leaving behind, and considers his own actions to be murder.

Now that we've established the facts regarding his murders - a rough bodycount, and the fact that, by his own admission, he barely had any hobbies outside of it - we can move on to the effect that it's had on him. It's not very good!

Vriska's manipul8tions and murders had to be done for her own sake - if she ever stopped, she died. Therefore, much of Vriska's personality revolves around justifying her own actions so she doesn't have to reckon with her softer feelings, like guilt or kindness - which she expresses would be viewed as scandalous by others of her caste.

But if Eridan ever stops feeding Gl'bgolyb, everybody dies. The stakes he has riding on his shoulders are, at all times, the fate of all trolls, including all his friends. Given Dualscar's title was "Orphaner," it's implied that killing lusii for Gl'bgolyb has always been a violet blood's duty, and is seen as such by the others, which is why nobody expresses gratitude for his hard work even a single time.

Which brings us to our next point:

Eridan is Crushed by Anxiety.

If Eridan stops killing lusii, everybody - especially his friends, but everybody else, too - dies.

If Eridan ever shows guilt or kindness, he'll be considered "weak" by the standards of highbloods - he shares this with Vriska.

Eridan is expected, by aristocratic tradition, to take on the mantle of his ancestor Dualscar and finish his work. Dualscar met a comedically cringefail end, so this is a massive undertaking.

Before finding out that god tiering is an option - so, for nearly his entire life - Eridan has had to live with the expectation that he will outlive all of his friends. The lowbloods from culling or dying on the battlefield, the highbloods from old age, and Feferi from being killed by the Empress when she gets old enough.

(This is reflected in who he talks to the most - Feferi, who's the only one with a natural lifespan longer than his, Vriska, who's a highblood, Kanaya, who's practically guaranteed to survive into adulthood, and Karkat, whose anonblood allows Eridan to give him the benefit of the doubt.)

Also if he can't land his concupiscent quadrants he'll die from that too, but that seems pretty secondary to the rest of his concerns.

He can't even make friends with the other highbloods, because sea dwellers are expected to hate and antagonize them.

He had a free ticket into adulthood, but would almost certainly be expected to join the army and serve as a commander. That is to say, his fate of performing the role of a vicious, murderous sea dweller seems dreadfully inevitable to him.

NO WONDER he can't stop having emotional breakdowns. NO WONDER his chatlogs swing wildly from relentless self-aggrandizement to traumadumping. NO WONDER he's obsessed with murder and death and genocide.

Doc Scratch calls him a "vengeful boy on the path of nihilism," and it's not hard to see why: Eridan's entire life has been about living up to the role imposed on him by society, sacrificing his own time and sanity for everyone else, which he "nevver got any appreciation for anywway." And all he had to look forward to was more of the same, all his friends dropping dead one by one before him. For Eridan, there has never been any hope.

SGRUB could have been a way out for him, but a combination of his own terrible choices, spurred on by his anxieties, and his teammates' unwillingness to knock some sense into him, meant that he only wound up mired even deeper in his hopelessness.

We all know about how Eridan wouldn't stop killing the angels on his planet, provoking their aggression and turning it into a ball of death. How he was definitely not supposed to be doing this, and how his stubborn insistence on it led to his further ostracization from the rest of the group. The thing is, when we look at his angel-murders from the point of view that Eridan's entire life has been about murdering things or else Something Bad™ happens, it actually starts to become... kind of sad.

KARKAT: BETWEEN A TRIGGERHAPPY PRINCE WITH A GOD WEAPON BLASTING ANYTHING THAT TWITCHED AND A MILLION CRAZED ANGELS HE DELIBERATELY ENRAGED, IT WASN'T WHAT I'D CALL AN IDEAL SOCIAL HUB. KARKAT: IF YOU WERE LONELY WHY DIDN'T YOU VENTURE OUT MORE OFTEN? ERIDAN: wwell i wwoulda but nobody else wwas vvolunteerin to pick up the slack on angel killin duties

Killing the angels is something he feels like his has to do, because his entire life has been about killing things he doesn't want to kill. He's unable to break out of that mindset on his own, and his unpleasant personality has scared off anyone who might want to help. No one on the team tries to understand his thought process on a deeper level, not even Karkat, who just tells him it was an idiotic thing to do without addressing his underlying anxieties at all. Indeed, "nobody understands."

And this is really the root of why I think so many people get the wrong read on Eridan - Eridan is constantly contradicting himself, constantly denying his own feelings, constantly pushing an image that he doesn't actually believe in, and constantly insisting that he's fine with all the horrible shit in his life - that he likes it, even. After all, he can't admit to his guilt for his murders, or how much he doesn't want to watch his friends die, or how scared he is about the future - that'd be weakness!

CC: I can't look after you anymore. CA: I DIDNT EVER NEED ANYONE TO LOOK AFTER ME CA: i was totally fuckin fine my ambitions were noble

You see his contradictory nature with his stated love of history, which he only ever offhandedly mentions - because he's not actually that interested in history, it's just something that's expected of someone of his station. And you see it with his wavy accent, which he himself calls "weird" and drops when he's trying to be emotionally sincere. And you see it with his dumbass outfit, which is very clearly an imitation of Dualscar (with the only exception being the wizard-ass scarf, because wizards are his actual interest. I don't believe he likes fashion. I genuinely believe - and Eridan himself says so - that he basically has no hobbies outside of murder).

Even being proud to be a sea dweller is pretty much an outright lie:

CC: You can't )(ave t)(e sort of affinity for "our kind" t)(at you profess if you've only spent, w)(at... CC: A few days underwater, maybe? IN YOUR W)(OL-E LIF-E!

One that he tells because he's SCARED OF THE OCEAN. Because he knows what lives in the ocean, because he's been feeding it his entire life. I see a lot of people who give Eridan an interest in marine life, and I'm telling you, that's just got no basis in canon. He's fucking TERRIFIED of the sea.

And for that matter, land dweller genocide. Eridan doesn't want to do it. Both Feferi AND his internal narration call him out for not actually wanting to do it. He outright states he wouldn't kill his friends.

CA: wwell CA: im not goin to vvery wwell kill you am i that wwould be fuckin unconscionable CA: wwhat kind of friend wwould i be

But he feels like he HAS to want it, HAS to believe in it, HAS to be talking about it constantly, because that's what's expected from him as a sea dweller, and a sea dweller is ALL that he will get to be. The mutation that puts a violet streak in his hair is damning. It's a fate he feels like he can't escape. Which brings us to:

Eridan is Not Actually Casteist, Well He Is But Not Like That, It's Complicated

Secondary title: Those Are His Emotional Support Slurs, Okay

In the exact same vein (haha) as secretly not wanting all the land dwellers dead, Eridan also genuinely doesn't feel like he's better than lower blood castes. Vriska and Equius obviously put quite a bit of stock into being nobility, and both have acted superior to Karkat for it. Feferi actually revels in her high status, and while she is genuinely well-meaning, she's not as interested in abolishing casteism as she is in changing the meaning of "culling" specifically (the hemocaste, aristocracy, and casteism still very much exist in a Beforus under her rule). Gamzee MIGHT be the only highblood less casteist than Eridan, but then again, as soon as he snaps, he does say a lot of casteist stuff to Equius, although it's unclear how serious he is, and he also proceeds to get really into his weird highblood clown cult.

Meanwhile, Eridan - despite all his slurs and talk of genocide - does not actually try to "pull rank" on a lowblood for being a lower caste than him with a single exception. That exception is Sollux... after he's already shown having entirely caste-neutral opinions on Sollux:

CC: But Sollux finally came t)(roug)(, and now I believe t)(e full c)(ain is complete! CA: man that guy CA: hes a fuckin drama machine it is fuckin pathetic CC: YOUR STUPID FIS)(Y FAC-E IS T)(-E DRAMA MAC)(IN-E T)(AT DO-ES NOT)(ING BUT W)(IN-E AND GLUB. CC: 38P CA: fuck SORRY CC: Anyway you s)(ouldn't say t)(at about )(im, )(e is a )(ero and )(e saved my life. CA: yeah sorry

CA: my feelins seem petty and meaninless noww CA: she had better things to wworry about than my ovverwwrought bullshit CA: like the dead guy wwho savved her CA: so forget it thanks anywway

It's only AFTER he's mad at Sollux for dating Feferi that he starts going in on Sollux with casteist rhetoric... which is treated as unrequited flirting and not serious casteism:

ERIDAN: hey finless this doesnt concern those wwith mustard sludge slippin through their vveins ERIDAN: its a matter for royalty only ERIDAN: so keep your mouth closed or ill slit you open ovver my next meal SOLLUX: w/e bro, not iintere2ted. FEFERI: -Eridan, please! I don't want to see any more dueling. FEFERI: Don't try to provoke )(im. It's not like I don't know w)(at you're doing! You keep trying to spark a rivalry wit)( )(im to get me to auspisticize between you two, and pull us out of our quadrant! FEFERI: It is t)(e oldest and lamest trick in t)(e book. It didn't work t)(en and it won't work now!

THEY don't even think he's being casteist.

In fact, directly contradicting this earlier argument he has with Feferi:

CC: T)(is is t)(e last time I will say t)(is. CC: W-E AR-E NOT B-ETT-ER T)(AN ANYBODY!!!!! CC: GLUB. >38( CA: pshh CA: hemospectrum begs to differ

He OUTRIGHT states his real feelings here:

CA: im the biggest fuckin idiot who ever lived CA: i cant BELIEVE i just opened up to you like a chump when i knew what was comin CA: i am one sad fuckin brinesucker CA: overemotional sappy trash youre right im not better than anybody CA: im worse than anybody CA: EVERYBODY CA: all the bodies

So the question of "is Eridan casteist" has an answer of "kind of, but also no." Eridan DOES espouse the rhetoric; he's constantly saying stuff that a casteist sea dweller "should" be saying. However, if you look at his ACTIONS, and the way he actually treats people, he doesn't actually care about blood color. He'll hit on anybody, and he's rude as fuck to everybody. The real problem with him is that he's terrible to talk to, not that he's discriminatory.

That's the thing about Eridan. Understanding him means looking past the way he presents himself, the lies he tells to himself, and even, at times, the way the narration presents him. His "overblown emotional theatrics" seem a lot less overblown when his problems ARE so real, deep-seated, and constantly causing him an unimaginable amount of anguish.

The problem is, the main people he has to bounce those problems against are Feferi, Vriska, and Kanaya, three of the people most comfortable with their privileged positions, for whom Eridan's genuine emotional distress seems like needless melodrama. Feferi loves being a princess, Vriska enjoys her noble privileges, Kanaya doesn't need to worry about culling. But for Eridan, his noble status, and the duties and expectations placed on him for it, have caused him nothing but pain - of course he would feel like nobody understands. Most of his closest friends genuinely don't, nor do they try to.

Because that's what he is at his core - a traumatized fucking child, who doesn't see any way out. Eridan is not a casteist genocidal sea dweller... he just wishes he was one, and tries to be one, because if he actually was one, he wouldn't feel so awful and scared and sad all the time. He'd be normal, like his friends.

The reason he constantly spouts anti-land dweller rhetoric and uses casteist language is to assuage this cognitive dissonance. That's why he has to come off so strong, present himself in such an aggrandized way, act like such a douchebag. They're his emotional support slurs. He doesn't actually believe what he says, which means he's a Bad Sea Dweller, which means he's Failing, which means Something Bad Will Happen, so he'd better get his ass in line and say something casteist!

And it's all made worse because:

Eridan is Dumb of Ass (and True of Word)

Oh my god you guys he's so stupid that it hurts.

Okay, that's not entirely fair. Eridan is clearly well-educated and book smart; he has some of the most elegant prose out of the trolls, and he's prone to going off on insane rants with it. (Actually, his language gets more flowery and showy when he's trying to impress a stranger, and gets progressively more laid back, chill, and even kind of "bro"-y when he starts talking to people he doesn't feel like he needs to impress.)

CA: at this point i find all her adorable black pixie dabblins to be prime kiddie playtime shit CA: all of her FRAUDULENT MAGICS cannot come close to posin threat to my mastery ovver the TRUEST SCIENCES CA: an wwith my empiricists wwand i servve as the righteous hope that wwill incinerate delusion and the deluded alike CA: my holy fire is the wwhite fury bled from the wwrath-wweary eyes of fifty thousand nonfictional angels CA: and wwhen theyre finished wweepin they wwill boww before their prince GG: wow what are you talking about

What I mean is this: his brain is so full of anxiety and cognitive dissonance and murder and death that he struggles to care about other people, which has devastating effects on his social skills. I go really in-depth on how his though process informs his behavior here. The question may have popped up in your mind already: if his casteism stuff isn't actually real, then what is Eridan actually like? The answer is, overwhelmingly, and discomfortingly, SINCERE.

This boy is gunning at 100% emotional earnestness 100% of the time, and it's deeply uncomfortable for others to deal with. He'll swing wildly from insults and derogatory language, to stating a desire to kill all land dwellers, to awe and amazement at his friends' prowess, to demanding that they do things for him, to traumadumping and venting, without missing a beat. Often in the same conversation.

CA: kan its hard GA: What CA: being a kid and growwing up CA: its hard and nobody understands

He's also specifically terrible at parsing hostility. Functionally, he interprets all hostility aimed AT him as either pitch/ashen flirting or "ironic repartee," and similarly views his own hostile words as verbal jousting, pitch/ashen advances, or even just factual descriptions of the world around him (ie calling Nepeta a "kittycat shipper cavve girl"). Hostility and aggression are just kind of his baseline, default state of being, and he basically has no ability to differentiate between good and bad attention. I talk more in-depth about his emotionally bereft upbringing (and shitty lusus) here, but suffice to say that our boy isn't getting any emotional support at home, and as a result, craves attention, no matter what kind.

This also means he's insanely gullible. For example, Rose calls him an idiot to his face, and then blows up his computer, sarcastically calling it "your first lesson in showmanship." Eridan proceeds to literally considers it that, blowing up Jade's computer after he's done talking to her. Furthermore, Kanaya sees him as a burden, insults him to his face, and pretty much just bullies him along with Rose for fun.

So she trains Eridan to become a powerful white wizard of hope to challenge her, as a joke.

And yet, in spite of all that, Eridan still has nothing but gratitude and praise for Kanaya:

ERIDAN: kan i been meanin to thank you KANAYA: For What ERIDAN: for all that trainin you did ERIDAN: i wwouldnt be the incredible holy wwizard i am noww wwithout your help KANAYA: But I Didnt Even Really Train You I Just Made You A Wand ERIDAN: yeah wwell thats all i needed i guess ERIDAN: i just needed for someone to showw a little faith in me so im sayin thanks i owwe ya KANAYA: Okay Then Youre Welcome KANAYA: I Hope You Use Your Magnificent Powers Of Light And Hope For Goodness And Purity And Lets Not Forget Science ERIDAN: dont wworry im all ovver that shit you dont evven knoww KANAYA: Uh Oh I Hope That Didnt Come Off As Too Sarcastic ERIDAN: wwhat KANAYA: The Thing I Just Said KANAYA: I Didnt Even Realize How Sarcastic I Was Being Its Starting To Become A Problem I Think KANAYA: Please Dont Take Too Much Offense ERIDAN: haha damn kan if thats your idea of offense bein made then i honestly gotta fuckin wworry for you ERIDAN: tell you wwhat ill givve you some lessons in dealin out the dark umbrage to repay you for your tutelage in the wwhite science

Like, he's in the middle of genuinely thanking her for believing in him, she makes fun of him to his face, and his response is to laugh it off and offer to teach her how to properly insult someone. It's honestly... kind of sad. Not that he doesn't deserve the ridicule, but what we're seeing here is a traumatized, emotionally neglected boy trying to communicate the best that he can that he loves and appreciates his friends, and receiving nothing but mockery in return.

It's really not a surprise, then, that he goes off the deep end. His entire life prior to the game has been shit; he got broken up with as soon as he entered the game (by someone who didn't even care enough not to use fish puns while doing it); he's ostracized and avoided for the game's duration; and then he spends the rest of his time on the meteor being bullied. He feels deeply hopeless and anxious about their situation because he literally doesn't know how else to exist, and his concerns are dismissed and mocked at every turn. When Feferi turns on him with intent to kill, that's his breaking point.

I see a lot of people say he goes grimdark, or succumbs to external influence somehow, but I don't think that needs to be true (nor is it) - he's just a deeply traumatized kid with almost no support network who's finally been pushed to the edge, despite displaying every possible warning sign and making multiple cries for help. Yes, ultimately, he's guilty for his own actions, but his killing spree - alongside Gamzee's and Vriska's - represents a cohesive failure as a team to address very clear problems in their midst.

So Feferi and Kanaya are sick of his ass. Sollux hates him platonically, Equius doesn't like him, and Nepeta thinks of him as a creep. Vriska is his awkward ex, and Terezi agrees with him when he calls himself pathetic. He never interacts with Tavros, Aradia, or sober!Gamzee. Is there anyone that treats him nicely?

Uh, okay, so I swear this isn't shipping goggles -

Pale EriKar Is Canon And I Can Prove It

So, I'm going to start this with a disclaimer: you can ship what you want to ship. I don't mind. I don't care. Headcanons are valid, death of the author, etc. What you do in your free time is up to you.

What I am attempting to argue in this section is that an Eridan/Karkat moirallegiance was heavily foreshadowed, one of the most heavily foreshadowed things in the entire comic, and - assuming that the original ending of Homestuck included all the dead trolls being brought back and redeemed - was going to be endgame. There's a torrential amount of evidence pointing to this, and very little of it is acknowledged even by the EriKar shippers, which is a shame.

At the very least, I'll be happy if I can convince some Karkat RPers to be extra nice to Eridans, because they are actually just friends who care deeply about each other. Canonically.

The first thing to note is that Eridan and Karkat, at least prior to SGRUB, talk all the time, to the point where Feferi feels the need to comment on it:

CC: You know, I'm not sure w)(y we never talk about our romantic aspirations. CC: We s)(ould more often. It is kind of -EXCITING! CA: shrug CC: Probably because you fill your gossip quota wit)( your nubby )(orned bro. CC: You leave not)(ing left to talk about wit)( your dear sweet moirail! CC: We are supposed to )(elp eac)( ot)(er wit)( t)(at stuff too, remember. CA: maybe CA: seems kinda CA: odd though

("Can you please stop having an emotional affair with Karkat" "Eh, I'll think about it")

The second thing to note is what the contents of those conversations entail. Sure, they "gossip," but it goes deeper than that, because they gossip about things that Karkat would NEVER gossip about with anybody else, because Karkat usually respects his "VERY GOOD FRIEND"s. For example, here Eridan mentions that Karkat has speculated on Kanaya's love life with him:

CA: you dont wwant to be our auspistice cause you dont wwant to get locked into that sort of relation wwith her i can respect that GA: No Thats Not It CA: yeah it is your real feelins run pretty awwful RUDDY methinks evverybody knowws it CA: especially that assblood karkat he and me havve you so pegged about that its upright silly

And it's not even a one-off thing, because here Karkat is again, mentioning Nepeta's crush on him:

KARKAT: OK, BUT TO BE FAIR, I'M PRETTY SURE SHE'S STILL OBSESSED WITH ME. KARKAT: IT'S A VERY UNFORTUNATE, VERY RED AND VERY UNREQUITED SITUATION I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TIPTOE AROUND FOR A LONG TIME, OK? KARKAT: HER DISINTEREST IN YOUR ADVANCE WASN'T A REFLECTION ON YOU AT ALL. KARKAT: COME ON, WE TALKED ABOUT THIS.

It's a situation he's been trying to "tiptoe around for a long time," and he tells ERIDAN, of all people? MULTIPLE TIMES? (AND HE ALSO TELLS ERIDAN THAT THE REJECTION WASN'T HIS FAULT???? WHAT??????)

So we've established that they talk frequently and about some pretty seriously sensitive topics. But did you know that they also talk about... their feelings?

See, the thing is, Karkat has always been weirdly nice to Eridan. Here he is in a memo near the very beginning of their game, when Karkat is at his most "rah rah, I'm the big bad leader":

FCA: i got a problem FCA: wwith feferi FCA: and im really kinda sittin here in bad shape about it emotionally speakin CCG: OK, WELL CCG: I GET THAT, I HEAR YOU BRO CCG: BUT THIS IS STILL NOT THE RIGHT PLACE FOR THIS SO I'VE GOT TO BAN YOU. CCG banned FCA from responding to memo. CCG: BUT SERIOUSLY JUST GET IN TOUCH WITH ME IN PRIVATE ABOUT IT, OK MAN? CCG: WE'LL GET YOUR SHIT STRAIGHTENED OUT.

Compare that to Tavros asking for advice later down in the same memo:

PAT: sINCE i DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE NOW, bUT MAYBE HELP ME, PAT: aBOUT A THING THAT HAS TO DO WITH A GIRL, PAT: lIKE, PAT: a ROMANCE THING, yOU MIGHT KNOW ABOUT, CCG: YOU PEOPLE ARE IMBECILES. CCG: ALL OF YOU. CCG: I AM NOT POSTING THESE MEMOS TO COUNSEL YOU ON YOUR PAST AND FUTURE DATING PROBLEMS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CCG: WHY ARE YOU ALL SUCH BASKET CASES. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY ANYMORE. PAT: sORRY, CCG: SHOULD I BAN YOU? WHAT'S EVEN THE POINT ANYMORE! ONE OF YOU STOOGES WILL BE RIGHT ON THE LAST ONES HEELS WITH ANOTHER SOB STORY. CCG: JUST CCG: HURRY UP AND TELL ME WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS BRO.

He then proceeds to dispense no actual love advice; he just points out that Vriska can totally read this memo too, and then mocks them both when she shows up - thus making it clear that he is giving Eridan special treatment.

You see it again in his discussion with Eridan in [S] Kanaya: Return to the Core, where Eridan invokes a "pact" between them, and Karkat immediately plays nice with him, despite himself being extremely high-strung and stressed out:

KARKAT: RIGHT, IT'S POWERED BY SCIENCE, I FORGOT. KARKAT: OR HOPE. WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT MEANS. ERIDAN: i dont fuckin need this from you i take enough shit as it is from the rest a you dirtscrapers i thought you and me had a kinda pact or wwhatevver KARKAT: OK FINE, SHUT UP, I APOLOGIZE. I KNOW IT'S TOUGH BEING YOU.

That's definitely pity, which Karkat states to be the basis of all relationships besides pitch. But, sure, okay, Karkat is sometimes nice to his friends. He is, after all, the Friendship Troll, so that's not necessarily out of the ordinary. But how about the fact that it goes both ways?

That's right, Eridan "100% aggro 100% of the time" Ampora is actually really considerate toward Karkat's feelings, and basically nobody else's. Upon hearing that Karkat is distressed that Sollux has died, Eridan actively puts his own meltdown about his breakup with Feferi on pause:

TC: BeCaUsE OuR GoOd bRo sOlLuX JuSt kIcKeD ThE WiCkEd mOtHeRfUcKiN ShIt CA: wwhat the fuck do you mean by that CA: are you sayin hes dead TC: YeAh :o( CA: oh fuck CA: oh god fuck noww i feel like an asshole

He then goes on to chastise Gamzee for his shitty advice, demanding to be given the chance to comfort Karkat himself instead:

TC: BuT I ToLd hIm tO Be cHiLl TC: BeCaUsE ThErE Is a mIrAcLe cOmInG, i cAn fEeL It CA: that is the wworst fuckin advvice CA: wwhat an awwful thing a you to say CA: MAGIC ISNT REAL STUPID STOP BELIEVVIN IN IT TC: i'Ve gOt tO BeLiEvE At wHaT My hEaRt tElLs iN Me, EvEn iF It's a fAkE ThInG TC: HoNk CA: this is a lot a pointless fuckin rubbish and isnt no emotional help to him or me either for that matter CA: put kar on

Before finally giving up when Gamzee insists he's "too scared of Jack" to help, drinking some Faygo, and trying to ask past Karkat for help, because past Karkat isn't sad yet about Sollux dying. So, to recap,

Eridan's first instinct when in emotional duress is to go to Karkat.

Eridan feels like he knows Karkat well enough to know that Gamzee's advice would be useless (and is proven right by the fact that Gamzee and Karkat's moirallegiance fails for similar reasons).

Eridan is willing to shelve his own emotional meltdown for Karkat's sake.

Eridan demands to be the one to provide Karkat with emotional support.

And this is, again, not a one-off thing. In the memo Karkat opens right after Eridan and Gamzee have both turned murderous, after he's spent several minutes making death threats toward Eridan and insulting him directly, he goes:

CCG: I'M SO UPSET, I'M JUST COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT IN EVERY WAY POSSIBLE. PCA: yeah i knoww wwhat its like you wwanna talk about it

Eridan spends this entire memo under the belief that it's a completely run-of-the-mill conversation they're having:

PCA: i mean yeah obvviously i kneww you wwerent serious PCA: i guess i appreciate the effort youre puttin into cheerin me up PCA: i can alwways count on you for some good ironic repartee kar nobody else really gets our sense a humor CCG: UGH, NO PCA: are you busy PCA: you said youd try to make it to lowwaa soon wwell howw about it

Which implies that offering to listen to Karkat's feelings is also a completely regular thing for them.

But something magical is ALSO happening within this last memo, and to really explain it, I'll first have to be a little mean to the GamKar shippers (sorry).

So, canonically, GamKar doesn't work out for them, despite also being somewhat foreshadowed. In fact, they feature on Nepeta's shipping wall, which is actually, in my opinion, foreshadowing that it WOULDN'T work out. (Nepeta's ships being wrong, and shipping being something she needs to learn to outgrow, is a whole essay on its own, that I'm not getting into here.)

But the thing is, the seeds for them not working out were also planted in the first - and only - real post-moirallegiance interaction that they have with each other, where Gamzee tries to calm Karkat down... and FAILS:

GAMZEE: naw brother, i was just about to all say for you to try and get your settle down on, maybe. GAMZEE: :o( ... KARKAT: OK KARKAT: OK YEAH KARKAT: I GUESS YOU'RE RIGHT. KARKAT: NO, YOU'RE RIGHT, I SHOULD RELAX. KARKAT: AND BREATHE. KARKAT: I MEAN, WHAT ARE MOIRAILS FOR, RIGHT? KARKAT: THIS IS HOW IT WORKS, I STOP YOU FROM KILLING EVERYBODY, THEN YOU RETURN THE FAVOR AND CALM ME DOWN AND I JUST KARKAT: BREATHE KARKAT: LIKE KARKAT: THIS... KARKAT: SNIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFFFFFUCK, THAT SUN IS BRIGHT. KARKAT: CALL ME CRAZY, BUT IT'S KIND OF HARD TO RELAX WITHIN A STONE'S THROW FROM, OH, I GUESS ONLY THE BIGGEST FUCKING STAR ANY MORTAL HAS EVER LAID EYES ON. ... KARKAT: BUT I MEAN, CAN THIS BE HEALTHY? KARKAT: AREN'T WE GOING TO GET BURNED OR HAVE OUR RETINAS SCORCHED BY LOOKING AT IT? KARKAT: OH GOD I THINK I'M HAVING A PANIC ATTACK.

But let's go back to that memo where Karkat is freaking out in every way possible. This is how he starts that memo - so upset about the deaths of his friends and terrified by Gamzee that he can barely string together a coherent thought:

CCG: WE ARE SO SCREWED. CCG: OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK. CCG: GUYS, I AM TERRIFIED, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. CCG: I'M IN A ROOM FULL OF BODIES, AND I THINK I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO TURN MY BACK ON THEM? CCG: OH MY GOD, I JUST HEARD A HONK. ... CCG: FEFERI, I'M SORRY. CCG: IT WAS MY FAULT, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. PCC: Sorry for w)(at?? CCG: FOR CCG: I CCG: I CAN'T DO THIS CCG: IT'S TOO MUCH FOR ME, I'M SORRY.

In fact, he's so distressed that he bans Past!Feferi and Past!Gamzee almost immediately after they come in. But then Eridan comes in, and... I mean, first of all, just compare how long it takes for him to ban Eridan:

But more interesting are the contents of their conversation. Over the course of talking to Eridan... Karkat completely calms the fuck down. Like he's entirely forgotten that he's shitting his pants with fear. In fact, he even starts critiquing Eridan for his dumbassery:

PCA: evven if i wwasnt compelled to think you wwere still bein flippant and ironic wwith me you cant exactly outright reject me can you CCG: WHY NOT PCA: cause youre future you PCA: doesnt count unless its present you til then its all fair game CCG: IS THIS REAL, ARE YOU BEING IRONIC OR SOMETHING, I CAN'T EVEN TELL ANYMORE CCG: THE PROBLEM IS, I CAN'T PUT THIS SORT OF BEHAVIOR PAST YOU AT ALL, SO I DON'T KNOW. ... CCG: YOU'RE KILLING ANGELS NOW, AREN'T YOU PCA: no CCG: YOU ARE KILLING FUCKING ANGELS, RIGHT NOW, IN THE PAST, WITH YOUR SHITTY GUN. I JUST KNOW IT. PCA: wwell uh PCA: therere just so damn many kar and theyre not gettin any less bloody pissed is the thing CCG: THIS IS WHY IT WOULD NEVER WORK BETWEEN US, MAN.

It's extremely funny. Over the course of talking to Eridan, he goes from:

CCG: OH GOD OH GOD OH MAN OH GOD CCG: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

To:

CCG banned PCA from responding to memo. CCG: ANYWAY CCG: THAT'S IT I GUESS.

Eridan isn't even trying to calm Karkat down. He still succeeds in doing so. This is because they are soul mates. And I mean that in the sense that the comic literally calls being moirails soul mates, which it doesn't do for the other quadrants:

A reasonable human translation would be the concept of a soul mate, but in a more platonic sense, and with a more specific social purpose.

That "social purpose" being that an even-tempered troll calms down a more hot-tempered one, and vice versa.

It also goes on to note:

But some pale pairings, as the one above [referring to a picture of Nepeta and Equius], will be strikingly obvious to all who know them.

But what's really interesting is the next page.

And yet others will seem to have been hatched for each other.

Did you catch that? Let me zoom in.

(Also, the blue and red cuttlefish to represent Sollux - Feferi and Sollux spend the whole game together, and even wind up talking about their feelings constantly in a pile - more on piles in a sec.)

In fact... in Eridan's first visual appearance...

The crab has always been there for him.

It's also important to talk about the bottle of Faygo that's been photoshopped to be candy red, Karkat's blood color. The path that it takes actually directly mirrors Karkat's relationships with Gamzee and Eridan - it's initially something that Gamzee has, but winds up being ejected out of his life, and washes up on Eridan's shore. In fact:

TC: SnAtCh aN IcEcOlD, dOg TC: MoThErFuCkIn cHuG ThAt sHiT LiKe yOu aNd tHe bOtTlE WaS ReUnItEd lOvErS CA: are you recommendin a bevverage to me or somethin CA: is that wwhat this is TC: YeAh mAn SlAm A FaYgO CA: i dont havve a fuckin faygo you stupid fuck wwhy wwould i keep that disgusting shit on hand TC: ArE YoU MoThErFuCkIn sUrE AbOuT ThAt? CA: oh CA: oh god youre right i do CA: i totally forgot about it TC: YoU SeE MaN TC: MoThEr TC: FuCkIn TC: MiRaClEs TC: :o)

When Gamzee and Eridan discuss this exact bottle, Gamzee even likens it to "reunited lovers"; it's something that Eridan has had this whole time (after all, he was cheating on Feferi with the guy), but never realized.

There are a few miscellaneous things that don't really mean anything on their own, but put next to all this other stuff, is worth considering, so I'll list those now.

First, they both do the bonk:

Second:

CG: ARE WE NOT FRIENDS ANYMORE BECAUSE OF STUFF I SAID. TA: eheheheh you LIITERALLY a2k me that every tiime are you jokiing. TA: ii cant even tell anymore. CG: IT'S A JOKE MORON. CG: HONESTLY I'M JUST GLAD NOBODY ELSE IS PRIVVY TO OUR CONVERSATIONS.

Third, Karkat muses to his future self about how he misses his friends, especially the assholes, two pages before staring at a dead Eridan's ass (joking, he's definitely looking at WV, but it's still significant that this thought is being associated with Eridan):

CCG: I MEAN, DON'T GET ME WRONG. CCG: I MISS ALL OF MY DEAD FRIENDS A LOT. CCG: EVEN THE ASSHOLES! I MISS THEM TOO. MAYBE EVEN ESPECIALLY THEM, IN SOME PERVERSE WAY. CCG: AND I SHOULD BE RELIEVED THAT THEY ALL SEEM TO BE HAPPY IN SOME WAY, EVEN IF IT'S BY FLOATING NEBULOUSLY THROUGH DREAM PROJECTIONS WITH THEIR FREAKY BLANK EYES. CCG: AND I GUESS I AM RELIEVED ABOUT THAT. CCG: BUT AT THE SAME TIME IT'S LEFT ME UNSETTLED.

Fourth, in the same conversation, he bemoans his failed relationship with Terezi, before Future!Karkat chastises Past!Karkat for his instability and mixed signals. Going back to the page on moirallegiances, an explicit function of a proper pale relationship is stabilizing a troll's other relationships:

The two partners in a strong pale relationship will serve to balance and complement each other's emotional profiles, and thus allow their other relationships to be more successful.

Of course, I don't need to tell you how messy and unstable Eridan's relationships have been.

And finally, Piles of Stuff™ are associated with moirails, and directly stated in-comic to cause an outpouring of emotion:

Standing near this pile stirs powerful emotions. The closer you stand to piles of stuff, the more freely the feelings flow. It is a law of reality.

So here's a seven-word tragedy for you: For Sale, Shitty Wand Pile, Never Used:

ERIDAN: at least i got the upright basic decency to hide my shitty wand pile somewwhere in the lab you wwont find it dont evven bother lookin KARKAT: WHY DO YOU ASSHOLES HAVE PILES OF THINGS, JUST STOP.

(Which he specifically tells Karkat about.)

So, yeah, what I'm saying is, there's just, like, a weirdly large amount to read into here. That Karkat and Eridan are probably soulmates or whatever. And that this is important because...

Eridan Is Plot Relevant (Well All The Dead Trolls Are But This Is An Essay About Eridan)

So. Now we are going to talk about themes. Yes, like we are in schoolfeeding again. I'm going to keep it simple, because "The Themes of Homestuck" is a whole essay on its own, and this one about just the shitty fish boy is already way too long.

I think it's fairly non-controversial to posit that the main theme of Homestuck is, "children should mature, care about each other, and throw off the shackles of their old society, because they will be responsible for a new world one day."

Up until Game Over/the Retcon, this is so prevalent and well-established that SBURB/SGRUB's coming-of-age themes will outright be commented upon by the characters, and the main villain is a child who deliberately stunted his own growth so he could go around kicking over other peoples' toys forevermore.

So, the thing is, with that being the theme of Homestuck, if ALL of the Alternian trolls don't survive to the end, the ending is thematically unsatisfying, because the message suddenly gains an addendum of "well, some kids just need to die," which totally sucks. Like, sure, Eridan was a violent, crazed murderer even at the best of times, but his permanent death within the canon ending kind of means that the comic is saying that people in his position don't deserve kindness or second chances. That position being a traumatized, emotionally neglected child, who was being bullied by people he considered his friends. It's a pretty terrible message.

It's even worse when you consider what other trolls don't make it to the end - Nepeta, the most outspoken troll against the hemospectrum (and Davepeta does NOT count, don't try to tell me the final culmination of Nepeta's character arc is being combined with some guy she barely knows and a bird). Feferi, who genuinely wanted the best for others, even if she was kind of a privileged princess. Aradia and Sollux also stay behind in the bubbles, even though their lives have pretty much been endless parades of suffering and being used by other people. Even Equius doesn't deserve it - he was kind of a casteist freak, but not irredeemably so, and the fact that he became kinder to Karkat over the course of SGRUB proved that he had the capacity to change. And Tavros, allergic to himself and being insulted by Vriska, is a terrible way to end his arc.

It's also really clear that, since half his friends are dead, Karkat just doesn't really have anything to do. His title is the Knight of Blood, and Blood is about bonds - romance, friendship. And yet, he ends the comic having never figured out what Blood was about, with no confirmed filled quadrants (sorry DaveKat likers, but within the comic itself, DaveKat is never confirmed), and most of his bonds nothing more than ghosts in the bubbles. It's a terribly unsatisfying ending for the most narratively important troll.

I think, then, that even if you don't agree that Homestuck should have ended with full revivals and redemption arcs for all the trolls, the essay is going to proceed on like you do, so, sorry, I guess.

The thing with Eridan, specifically, is that he's actually tied deeply into the plot and themes, and his return means more than just Karkat finally getting a date (although that's important, too). Eridan is directly intertwined with a prophecy to kill Lord English; he's set up to mirror Caliborn and Calliope; and thematically, his redemption would be the most clear instance of the "interrogating society" part of the theme of Homestuck, because Eridan is kind of the Society Troll. And also, he was definitely supposed to be Roxy's wizard boyfriend.

Just gonna get that last one out of the way real quick because it's a fast one, Roxy fucking loves wizards and is a hipster. Eridan is a wizard and is also a hipster. Roxy has a crush on a prince. Eridan is also a prince. Roxy wears a purple striped scarf. Eridan wears a blue striped scarf. Roxy uses rifles. Eridan uses rifles. Momlonde's introduction includes a passive-aggressive fridge battle that features a cameo of Eridan's quirk.

Using the colorful MAGNET LETTERS, you recently left a succinct message, which may or may not have been directed toward anyone in particular. But you couldn't find the letter W, so you just stuck two V's together. Your mother then purchased a fresh pack of W's and left them there for your convenience.

Yeah. So. Uh. Not only did Eridan need to be brought back to date Karkat pale, but he also needed to be brought back to date Roxy flushed. Can you imagine how funny it would be. They'd get together within 5 minutes of meeting for the first time and Rose would lose her shit. Anyway.

Him being a parallel to Calliope and Caliborn is also a quick one - Caliborn uses Riflekind/Sceptrekind, and Calliope uses Pistolkind/Wandkind. Eridan's two weapons are rifles and wands. Lord English is described as an evil wizard and at one point is shown using Calliope's wand. Eridan is also an evil wizard who uses a wand.

Look, I'm not saying that Eridan is necessarily directly related to these two, nor am I even necessarily saying that he and Roxy HAVE to date, but I am saying that he's got Weird Plot Connections that make him bizarrely relevant to characters that only come into play well after his death - almost like the comic was setting up that he would be coming back. His reaction to Cronus supports this, which I go into detail about here.

There's other strange "Eridan's plot important" things, too - like the fact that he's completely unimpressed by Faygo, considering it to be "just soda," and seems to be the only non-cultist who's okay with it. Or the fact that he's actually been awake on Derse since before the game (but unable to hear the horrorterrors, maybe foreshadowing some psychic resistance?) which he casually reveals to Kanaya and which Terezi is aware of, hence he's included in the people she names are "in" on the existence of the game. Or the fact that the genetic code for Alternia's first guardian was written within the pages of four FLARP books, with the addition of a fifth code Gamzee wrote in Karkat's ~ATH book... but Eridan was the fifth FLARP player in the team, implying that Doc Scratch/LE influencing Gamzee caused him to usurp Eridan's part of the first guardian code, giving LE his way into the trolls' universe.

Individually, it's all kind of nothing, but it just paints a bigger picture of Eridan being weirdly relevant, especially when we get to the juicy stuff:

The Prophecy

ARANEA: The 8ard of Hope may seem a little jaded these days, 8ut he once had a deeply a8iding faith in magic, and dedicated himself to 8ecoming a great wizard. He 8ecame convinced he was hatched to defeat an extraordinarily evil magician, one he swore the angels foretold of. ... [T]his magician once somehow from afar tried to strike him down at a young age, so he would never have to face him. 8ut the evil spell was deflected, sealing the magician's spirit away in a series of unassuming vessels until he could find some other cunning way to enter our universe. ... ARANEA: 8ut at some point he 8ecame disillusioned with magic. If there ever was any truth to his far fetched vision, the legacy of defeating the evil magician would have to 8e passed on to his descendant, or if his descendant proved to 8e as much of a failure as he did, then perhaps on to some other Hero of Hope.

ERIDAN: i slaughtered enough angels to knoww my limits and wwhere i stand against the lord of all angels they prophecized

GG: im pretty sure hes from the future! CA: wwhy GG: because he said hes my grandson CA: wwhat the fuck is a grandson CA: is that some kind of pervverse human familial thing GG: umm yes ... CA: that gun i just gavve you is somethin of a hatchright to the kid CA: happy i could play a role in your dirty stinkin lineage GG: like an heirloom? i guess it could be ... CA: i kinda think thats wwhy i found the gun in the first place CA: but noww im forsakin it because fuck i just found a better destiny than my old crappy one wwhich i nevver got any appreciation for anywway

Jake is supposed to have been the one to defeat Lord English. (No, Jake defeating pre-LE Caliborn right before he gets sealed into Cal doesn't count! He doesn't even get the final blow in that fight, DIRK does.)

But Eridan at one point had that destiny on his shoulders. Aranea turbohealing Jake, and the resultant hope field, summons a bunch of angels, which are heavily associated with Eridan - yet another random connection that Eridan has with future plot events.

Jake was another character, alongside Karkat, who was kind of reduced to a joke by the end, despite the fact that he had literally, directly, been passed the destiny of defeating Lord English. It's hard not to see this as a consequence, at least in part, of removing Eridan from the story. By cutting him out of the fabric of the ending, several plot threads - including this prophecy - are left dangling in irrelevance. And so Jake, like Karkat, now has nothing to do.

Homestuck is generally a series where every prophecy does come true, which makes it kind of startling when several prophecies fail to - Feferi's to "unite the two races," Jake's to defeat Lord English, and Karkat's to bring "compassion, forgiveness, and equality among all bloodlines" in the Signless's place.

That last one is actually relevant to:

The Thematic Importance of EriKar As Soul Mates

Eridan represents the worst aspects of Alternian society. He's a sea dweller at the top of the caste structure, with free reign to murder whoever he wants, soaked in the blood of thousands of innocent trolls. He espouses the casteist rhetoric that their society is built on, calling for the deaths of all land dwellers and the oppression of the lower castes. And while he should be benefitting from his position of privilege, it has also done nothing but hurt him.

Karkat, meanwhile, is a pariah. A mutant who would've been culled on sight, who spent his entire life living in hiding, and most of the game in fear that he would be ostracized or worse by the rest of his friends if they found out about his blood color. He's also the second coming of Troll Jesus, and thus, more despised by the Alternian ruling class than a mutant normally would be. For most of his life, he dreamed of nothing more than finding belonging within the society that had deemed him unfit.

Their friendship is something that "should not be." The highblood and the mutant. The royal-v and the off-spectrum. The empress's sea dweller and the second coming of the signless. Eridan "should" see Karkat as a miscreant to cull on sight. Karkat "should" be terrified of Eridan's very existence.

But in reality, Eridan doesn't give a shit about blood color, and Karkat just wants to be accepted. Eridan just wants someone to care about him, and Karkat loves his friends. Aside from Feferi, Eridan is the only highblood who never comments about Karkat's mutant blood, and they were best buddies even before Eridan knew.

Eridan and Karkat getting together isn't JUST the two most undateable trolls on the team finally landing a stable quadrant. These two, moreso than any other pairing, represent the themes of Homestuck. Children growing up, caring about each other, and throwing off the shackles of their old society.

In the pre-retcon timeline, their team failed to do so. This led to Gamzee falling into his highblood clown cult, Equius letting himself and Nepeta die by submitting to his place in the hemospectrum, Vriska killing Tavros because she couldn't allow herself to show weakness, and Eridan completing his caste's dream of genocide. Karkat spent the entire meteor trip and beyond beating himself up about it, since he considered it all to be his fault.

But with the introduction of John's retcon powers, they have the chance to, one by one, redeem themselves. I believe that's how the original ending would have gone: Terezi would ask John to bring Vriska back, because she only feels comfortable fixing her own mistakes. Vriska would then have asked John to bring back Tavros, whom she regretted killing. Tavros would be there for Gamzee, rendering him an ally. Gamzee would ask John to bring back Equius and Nepeta. Equius would ask John to help him not make the same mistakes with Aradia, and Aradiabot would catch John by the wrist and demand he bring her back in time to before she died, allowing her to circumvent her own death and Sollux's guilt. Sollux would ask John to keep him from provoking Eridan, saving Feferi. And Feferi would be pretty ok with the way things were... but KARKAT would then pull John aside, and drop an entire book of mistakes he made on John's lap, and this would result in a finalized timeline where all his friends are alive and god-tiered.

Because all the trolls SHOULD have survived.

Vriska should've survived because people should be allowed to have second chances.

Tavros should've survived because caring about each other, and being willing to show kindness and mercy, are good things.

Gamzee should have survived because people mired in religious fundamentalism and cults deserve to be offered a helping hand.

Equius should've survived because people should be allowed to grow and change their beliefs.

Nepeta should've survived because she was the anti-casteism troll. Casteism is bad, folks! Not only that, but I'm convinced that she was originally going to give the Ultimate Self exposition, and Davepetasprite^2 had to be contrived in the canon ending in order to shortcut Nepeta's character development, ruining it in the process.

Aradia should've been allowed to stay with the rest of the team and live a life free of the control of evil uncles and shitty ancestors.

Sollux should've been allowed to stay with the rest of the team because we all deserve to heal and be happy.

Feferi should've survived so she could be in a kismesistude with Nepeta, and realize that casteism itself is bad, not just the definition of culling, and then used her Witch of Life powers to even out the lifespans between the next generation of trolls, which needs to happen or else casteism will just happen again as long-lived highbloods inevitably amass power. And, also, it would complete the prophecy Gl'bgolyb gave her that she was intended to unite the two races (dream bubbles don't count, because by that metric, Sollux did more than she did by establishing a connection between the trolls and humans).

And Eridan should've survived, because the harm society has done to us can be undone. We don't have to submit to the roles it imposes, to the laws it wrote, to the abuse it inflicted. We can be free.

I've seen a lot of people who believe that such-and-such character did SUCH awful things that they don't deserve a happy ending. Oftentimes, it's Eridan, but nearly all of the dead trolls have gotten this treatment. So, let me just ask all of you who have gotten this far and still hold that opinion one thing. Do you think that's what Troll Jesus would have wanted?

This is why pale EriKar is so important: for it to happen, Eridan has to make a choice between upholding the beliefs of his shitty society, or pursuing a happier, kinder future, one where he outright rejects the caste system. For it to happen, Karkat has to shake all his insecurities about not being good enough by Alternian standards, and take on the duty of creating something better than what he came from. If pale EriKar happens, it means Eridan and Karkat choose love, not fear. Compassion, forgiveness, and equality.

This choice - this pairing - is the ultimate representation of giving Alternian society one big middle finger. Saying, we don't need you anymore, fuck off! Saying, we reject you at your core; we will choose something better! Saying, we will create a new world, and it will be kinder than the one we came from!

Pale EriKar means LOVE WINS.

Thank you for reading.

[igotanidea]

Stuck: Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader

A/N: seriously, I almost titled this chapter "idiot" , XD (and that's also the spoiler alert XD)

part 1 to too much

part 2 : not enough

part 3 : almost there

***

One year ago

„When will you get those irrational thoughts out of your head Y/N?”

“What irrational thoughts?”

“About marriage out of love. No such thing exist in the world, my dear and if you do not start living in reality you shall become a spinster!”

“Mother!” Y/N’s eyes grew wide at the harsh and unjust words. She was still so young and to almost be called an old maid—

“Do not raise your voice young lady. You shall marry this season otherwise you would be putting our noble house in a very compromising position.”

“But-“

“Ah! Do not object your mother Y/N. You’ll do as I say. I know what’s best for you and you shall follow the lead. And that is precisely why you’ll accept when Lord Bridgerton proposes to you.”

“Lord Bridgerton!? Which one!?”

“The viscount, dear.” Her mother fluttered her fan imperiously. “Lord Anthony Bridgerton.”

“There is no possibility that I-“

“Hush!”

“Mother I –“

“You’ll say yes.” The tone of voice became much more commanding, leaving no space for discussion. It was like Y/N’s fate has already been decided.

“And why shall I? Because the viscount has decided he has enough pleasantries exchanged with modistes and actresses and other ladies free of the burden of the title. Because mighty Lord Bridgerton decided it is time to tie bounds with a young noble lady, who will be naïve and foolish enough to look at his antics without as much as a blink of an eye. Who will – dear lord – bear him an heir to the title and be the perfect little wife he would order around.”

“Y/N Y/L/N!” her mother raised from the chaise longue with cheeks flushed due to her daughter impertinence. “You will accept the proposal!”

“I will not!”

“Your father has already made the appropriate commitments!”

“Commitments!?”

“You shall be courted like a young lady should and get married in the fall.”

“Mother!”

“It has been decided. Now, you go and make yourself presentable. Lord Bridgerton has announced his visit in the afternoon.”

***

The visit was a disaster, to use the light words.

It was clear as day that neither Anthony nor Y/N were fully content with this arrangement and subconsciously tried to discourage the other. That way, when one of them would actually break it off, said one would be to blame for the disgrace, that would undeniably fall on both families.

However-

Despite some many character discrepancies they were both pertinacious and individualistic, ready to go the greatest length to have one’s own way. Neither of them was even thinking of surrendering easily.

Therefore, during his first appointment as a suitor Anthony was met with cold stares, minimum exchange of words and very noticeable distance on his future bride’s part.

Immediately matching the atmosphere and repaying in kind, only doubled in intensity.

Getting burned with the tea in response.

Causing a lot of havoc, many fake words of apologies and even more words of assurance that is must have been an unfortunate accident and he holds no grudge.

For obvious reason the time spend in L/N;s household was cut extremely short and Y/N was send to bed without supper to think about her erratic behavior.

Next few visits were no better.

Especially not the one when Anthony and Y/N were to reveal to a wide audience the nature of their acquaintance by strolling on the promenade, beaming with happiness due to their soon-to-be marriage.

“Dear lord, you are to be enthusiastic.” Anthony hissed in Y/N’s ear grabbing her arm with a bit more force than needed “Smile.”

She put on a fake grin when they were passing by some familiar face, but as soon as the woman was gone she turned to Anthony throwing daggers at him.

“Giving me orders already, Lord Bridgerton?”

“Hopefully you can be tempered if we start getting you used to it this early.”

“Oh! Perhaps it should be you to change the perspective my lord. See the real face of a lady you decided to meet at the altar?”

“And here I though your wonderful mother raised you better.”

“Do not dare speak of my mother the ill way!” she almost yelled, almost yanking her hand free from his grip, stopping the walk and challenging him to do something reckless.

“Forgive me.” He became serious in an instant and the words of apologies actually seemed honest. “You are right, I overstepped.”

“Thank you.” She responded with a deep sigh. God knows how much it took for her to stay calm. Regardless of the on-going conflict and differences in views between Y/N and her mother, the young woman would never let anyone offend her family. Not even Lord Bridgerton. And he should know that straight away.

“Perhaps we have started off the wrong foot, Lady Y/L/N.”

“I believe so. Seemingly we have a way to bring out the worst in each other, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Is that a way to tell me I have already seen you on your lowest behavior?”

“Compliments, Lord Bridgerton, you have endured my greatest efforts to cause you dispiritedness.” Despite herself she let out a chuckle.

“I am known for my endurance even in the least favorable circumstances.”

“I shall keep on my efforts, nonetheless.”

“I am deeply convinced that this will be the case”

***

Dearest gentle reader,

It has come to this writer’s attention that the affection between Viscount Bridgerton and young lady Y/L/N is in full bloom.

Despite the initial misunderstandings and noble behavior, that hasn't deceived any member of the ton, even if have been well played, recent news and observation has shown that maybe there's less pretending and more truth to it. 

Much to the ton’s discombobulation, young pair has been seen laughing together while the viscount resorted to courting in the way that resemble his late father and Lady Violet Bridgerton manner.

This writer daresay that no elite member would have ever do as much as dream of Lord Anthony Bridgerton picking meadow flowers for his chosen one while walking in the fields, away from prying eyes. Neither anyone would ever think about the forever dreamer lady Y/l/n actually so close to fulfilling her dream of marrying out of love. Irrational thoughts, as someone may put.

It is yet to be decided whether the on-going courtship between lord Bridgerton and lady Y/L/N will be a source of impending scandal in the society or whether those two will actually succeed in keeping this lovable atmosphere for following years.

After all – real love is not easily found and even less easily kept once the obstacles arise.

***

Now.

“You are to be enthusiastic.” Anthony murmured taking Y/N;s arm and bowing to the passing nobles “Smile.”

Those words brought back some memories and she couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of the history that was in fact repeating itself.

“What is so funny?”

“Your memory does seem so be failing my lord. Won’t you remember the last situation when you told me to express my happiness and contentment to the ton?”

“I—” Anthony cut off, letting out a deep, frustrated sigh.

“Seem like you do after all.”

“Y/N…”

“Been a while since I had to pretend I was content though, given the fact that I truly was, of late.” The hint of sadness and melancholy was not to miss and did not make it easier for Anthony to pursue on the apologies he was tirelessly pursuing.

“Y/N…”

“Good job on choosing the right name since the person, whose hand you are now holding for display seem to be too much for you, my lord. To say the full truth I am fairly surprised you chased me here instead of focusing on spending time with one of your-“

“Don’t you finish that sentence.”

“Oh, I shall not, god forbid. I shall keep the pretenses as any lady married into a good family will.” She send the brightest smile to some kids that were running around, preached by their parents, holding her walls up.

At this point, mockery and distancing herself from the entire unfortunate events, if not fight, was the only way to prevent the emotional and mental breakdown and falling into tears. She was hurt. She was deeply hurt on a level she never thought existed. Anthony’s behavior hit precisely in all the sensitive spots, leaving her overthinking and wailing inside. Reminding her of all the years in her family’s household, being forced to act according to the standards, which she constantly broke, defying all the rules of ossified society and paying a heavy price for being herself despite the odds.

Being called too much, constantly.

Until she met Eloise, which was freeing. Y/N could finally feel like herself, spending a lot of time with Bridgertons.

And then meeting Anthony.

And actually creating a happy story with him, believing she would once and for all be free of the typecasting and tag putting.

But he started behaving in the same way to which she was exposed her entire life.

Too much.

Not enough.

And it made her angry.

“Please do forgive me for not easily being shaped in the wife you want me to be.”

“Shaped? I never wanted you any different!”

“Is that so?” she raised an eyebrow teasingly and it got her furious glance of her husband’s and the tightening bruising grip on her wrist. “you’re hurting me. Again.” The emphasis put on the last word actually made Anthony realize that he was not made of stone, but the words he wished to say were not coming easily.

“Y/N…” he clenched his jaw. She was mocking and challenging him even now, when he was trying to admit he was wrong and trying to apologize for the wrongdoings.

“Yes, my lord?” she took a step back, smiling in that light way that made him even more furious.

 “I believe you wanted to spend time on an intellectual conversation with my sister. Forgive me-“ he bowed in a distant manner reserved for strangers rather than spouses “-for being as impertinent to interrupt ladies’ time. I shall withdraw and leave you to continue on your – surely important- exchange”

And with those words, much to the shock of not only Y/N, but also Benedict and Eloise, who were still following them, Anthony bowed again and started walking away, raising clouds of dust due to the speed with which he rushed off from the place where he left his beloved wife.

Feeling the weight of failure and heartbreak on his shoulders, without a single way to make up for his mistake and keeping the face of a viscount at the same time.

Convinced that she hated him and there was no way to regain her favor and affection.

next part (finale!) : Just right

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[kneelingshadowsalome]

What about princess reader who falls for Konig? He's a retired royal soldier (Bit of an age gap but I was thinking more like he was so good he was able to retire early) that she saw every once and a while and she does the typical "disguise myself as a commoner so i can sneak into town" routine and he pretends he doesn't know but he used to serve her family so ofc he fucking recognizes her

He tries to be gentle with her but honestly she should just be happy he isn't ratting her out to her family 🙄🙄🙄 (not that she minds)

CW: 18+ MDNI. Medieval AU, forbidden love, mutual pining, virgin!princess!reader x veteran!knight!König. Undefined age gap (reader is of legal age which means she’s "old" for an unmarried woman of this period). Reader is kinda coercive, König is implied to be a virgin too. Bittersweet romance vibes, brooding guy/gentle girl trope, ambiguous ending.

Word count: 6.4 k

You never thought you’d have the guts to slap a knight. 

Violence is unladylike, and even if you’re a princess, it doesn’t mean you should force your status down someone’s throat like that. Far less his, the man you were taught to respect and listen to because he’s a man, and older than you. 

The fact that he was also an anointed knight didn’t seem as important as the simple truth that he possessed a cock between his legs, and it always annoyed you to no end that this was the reason why men ruled the world. As a lady still unwed, you’re supposed to be afraid of cocks, especially if they’re old and gruff. 

But you never were afraid in the presence of your father’s most loyal knight. He was your sworn shield too, and the only time he had been away from your side was when he asked to go on a pilgrimage to some chapel nearby. Said he wanted to seek forgiveness for his sins.

A man like him must have a lot to pray forgiveness for, but knowing that he could split a man in half with that greatsword of his doesn’t stop you from sneaking out one night as you follow him outside the castle walls and into the local inn.

Dressed as a stable boy, you watch with wide eyes how he gulps down three pints of beer and doesn’t turn any dumber from it. His speech never slurs, his shoulders never slump, but when some kitchen wench sits down beside him, your breath gets caught in your throat. 

You look at the odd couple for a moment or two, watch how your father’s knight, the secret object of your silly daydreams, finally loosens the strings of his purse and offers the girl a copper coin. 

It’s more than you can take, so you shoot up from your bench and march to him. The woman looks up at you with lousy disinterest as you ask the man of your dreams if he’d like to have another pint of ale. Your knight recognizes you immediately, even in your too-big tunic and your uncomely hose, even with that dirty felt hat covering your hair.

And he’s mortified, from what you can tell.

Both your eyes are wide now, and the woman beside him is smart enough to leave. She slides herself off the bench and sneaks past your side, and your valiant knight just looks at you, looks at you, looks at you. 

You should be worried that he’ll snitch about your adventures to your father, but right now, all you can do is stare at him like he’s the thief, caught fresh and red-handed. Because he is a thief, and a devil, the worst man on earth when he was supposed to be the best. You snort to let him know how much you despise him—for coming here and bedding women for money when he’s supposed to be a sworn, celibate knight—but what truly hurts here is that he’s bedding someone else than you.

When you march out of the inn, he follows you, even dares to lay his hand on you by grabbing your arm outside. That’s when you turn on your heels and deliver a fat slap on his cheek, lightly stubbled and sweet, something you had hoped to plant a kiss on for many, many years.

“Your grace,” He grunts and rubs his chin, slightly amused. “Have I offended you?”

The slap couldn’t hurt that much, and this man never does amused. Even now, the mirth extends only to his eyes, never to his lips. 

“You know perfectly well that you have, sir,” you clasp your hands in front of you, now entirely his princess even though you’re dressed like a peasant.

“My lady,” he bows both in body and in voice. “I truly don’t know what crime I have committed.”

You’ve never seen him so… jovial.

Usually this knight looks like there’s a stick up his ass, that someone pissed in his porridge and shat in his stew, that there’s nothing but hailstorms and calamity in his life. 

Were you any more clever, you’d leave him be, but God has made it so that you’re drawn to battered and beaten animals. Of course you’re drawn to him too, lonely and spiteful as he is. This man broods so much you sometimes wonder if he’s the reason why it rains so violently up here in the hills. He probably summons dark clouds above the castle with those ponderous frowns alone – but now he’s looking at you as if he just woke up from the dead and walked into the shy sunshine after a long, harsh winter.

“You… You shouldn’t bed women,” you tell him, and he looks at you even more curiously.

“You shouldn’t pay for it,” you mumble next – unladylike, again, especially when your eyes turn to your shoes and away from that hawk-like, calm stare.

There’s a short silence after that, and you almost turn heel and walk back to the castle from the desire to escape the weight of his eyes. Eventually, he shifts his weight to the other leg and clears his throat.

“I sometimes pay for women to hold me. There’s nothing more to it.”

You raise your eyes to meet his, but the mirth is all gone now. It’s replaced by solemn acceptance, some sorrow you never even knew he had. Yes, he’s always silent and looks a bit pissed, but he’s not heartbroken, no, not your brave knight…

“To “hold you”, sir?”

The sorrow is covered with white lashes before you get to the bottom of it. Something tugs at the corner of his mouth—shame and frustration, probably.

“To hold me. Like a mother would. Is that a sin?”

His eyes search for yours from under dark brows, they beg for your consent as if it mattered to him. They’re quite catching, his eyes; enchanting in their intangibility. You know he doesn’t need your acceptance, nor is he threatened by your disgust. He’s unreachable, untouchable, forbidden—a mountain you can never climb because you wouldn't even find it among the mist. And those eyes see everything but feel nothing: they haven’t taken part in the troubles of this world in years.

…

He evades you for the whole of next week. 

Leaves the hall if you choose to dine there, walks away when he sees you at the stables, looks through you if you have the courage to address him. You stand watch by the window every night to see if he slips out of the castle, but it seems your knight has lost his interest in kitchen wenches and copper hugs. 

It burns like hot broth in your stomach, the thought of him in some other woman’s embrace. This mighty giant of a knight, kneeling in front of a girl, paying for her to simply put her arms around him. 

You’re not sure if you’re childish to believe him and his words. To trust that he truly goes to them just to be held. You’re not sure if you’re the worst lover of poor, crippled creatures for not wanting to let him have even that...

Because you wish to hold him yourself, here, in the softest of all beds. Just wrap your arms around him after you’ve unburdened him of that heavy mail and thick gambeson; you’d help him with anything he needs. Let him sigh against you and have those lines of worry on his brooding face smooth somewhat. Maybe sing a soft song for him to help him sleep...

The thought of him being so lonely that he spends his wage on girls just to have a hug is driving you to madness.

It’s tearing you to pieces because he would never, ever have to pay you to hold him. 

It’s forbidden, you know: this love you’ve harboured for years. He’s far below your rank, even as a bannerman, he’s far below you even if he’s taller than the tallest war horse in your father’s stables. He’s older than you too, but that’s hardly the biggest problem: your father took his second wife when he was five and thirty and the maid was seventeen. The match was considered perfectly normal, even healthy, but this would not. This would cause an outrage.

Oh yes, you’re to be wed far away to some sadistic young lord if your father has his way. You’re sure they’re already gossiping about it in the streets: how you should’ve been sold like a horse years ago. How is it that you’re still here, burdening the kingdom with your presence and swallowing up coin? 

If they only knew that you’ve fought against every match with tooth and nail, the townsfolk would work themselves into a small uprising. And you’re not against marriage because you like it here so much... You’re against it because the knight who dresses himself in black mail and makes the servants piss themselves with his heavy footsteps alone makes your heart flutter like never before.

Your father would kill both of you if he knew.

And you wonder… What would he do? Your pale, brooding knight?

Would he scoff and turn his head away if he knew you dreamed of him before sleep, would he be appalled to hear that you’ve touched yourself to the thoughts of him? Would he think you a whore…?

You dress differently that night, the night you catch him escape the dull horrors of the castle once more. Boredom oozes out of the walls here, a poison of nothingness and despair. The stones won’t offer warmth, not even during the height of spring, so it’s no wonder that your knight is headed elsewhere for warmth and a mug of ale. 

You dress accordingly to see what this toughest of knights is made of: with a brown woolen skirt and a white cotton blouse, you look the part of a kitchen maid who forgot half her garments at home. 

People look at you in the streets, but without your usual attire and with your hair styled differently, they wouldn’t know who they’re looking at even if they saw you frolic around like this in court. You know they’re looking at you because you're a half naked woman ripe for taking, stubbornly out at night and dressed so suggestively it’s a miracle no guard rapes you before you reach the inn. 

Maybe it’s the royal pride that keeps them away: you certainly look like you haven’t toiled in the fields or shoveled horse dung in your poor miserable life. There’s an air about you, and he notices it too, far before you’ve sat your pretty bum on the bench next to him.

“What are you doing,” he asks with a slightly alarmed voice.

He has that stick up his arse again, sits so straight that you’ve never seen such a ramrod back on anyone. When you set your hand over his, he only blinks.

“One silver to hold you, sir,” you lean to whisper on his skin, the shaved cheek you’ve wanted to kiss for so, so long. “What do you say...?”

He’s still breathing, even if there’s no sound to prove that he is. You can only see it from the rise and fall of his chest, covered by a stained, cream-white gambeson, that he’s breathing. He’s big, even without his armor, big and strong and intimidating, a tower of strength in one man.

“I cannot bed women,” he talks to the stout logs that make the walls of the inn, refusing to even look at you after one quick horrified glimpse.

“Who said anything about bedding?”

“This is a dangerous game, your grace,” he warns with a low purr when you won’t relent. 

His voice is parched but smooth, and you smell smoke; delicious smoke from the fire that sticks to the clothes of a person who spends too many hours staring into a fire. You smell ham and earth and leather and sweat, horses and metal, the rusty stench of mail gone bad.

You wonder how you smell to his nostrils – is it something sweet? Fresh herbs and lavender oil maybe, or soft, spun wool, some tangerines and summer wine?

“I’m not your grace,” you tell him, nose now touching the bridge of his ear. “Not in here.”

You see from the turned sleeve of his padded tunic that the hairs on his arm are standing on end. His eyes are closed, and you can finally hear his ragged breaths. Desire speaks in them, or then you’re in over your head... Why else would he sound like that, like he’s already making love?

“One silver, sir, and I’ll hold you all night,” you repeat softly, and he swallows with a dry, open mouth.

“I don’t have such money on me,” he rasps, voice drenched in slow, drowsy want. 

He wants this; wants, wants, wants….

“Really? Is my price too high?”

“Far too high for a man like me.”

You breathe a smile upon his skin, the place where his neck meets his jaw. Running your fingers across his wrist, you leave little to the imagination and you both know it.

“You can pay for the room and we’ll see how much you have left after that.”

“Princess, this is–”

“Hush.”

He’s in pain now, you can see it: the sharpness, the distant eagle gaze from his eyes is gone. He can barely keep his lids open, and when you peel the sleeve back with your hand, pet him like he’s one of your cats, press your lips on the spot you know is the most sensitive, he groans.

“You’re going too far,” he whispers, but won’t move. Breathless now, he can’t even speak with dignity. Gone are the distanced grunts and the composure, even the stick in his arse has melted away. 

If a touch of your lips and the softest caress can do this to him, what would happen if you straddled his lap? How would it feel to be pressed against him, naked and entwined in a mutual embrace?

“You didn’t say no to that other girl,” you breathe more kisses on his skin. “Am I so horrendous…?”

“You–” he starts, opens his eyes somewhat. “You are teasing me on purpose.”

“You never were the brightest of my father’s knights,” you smile a little laugh in his ear. 

He grabs his pint as if that could save him; out of fury or lust, you don’t know. And that’s when your little adventure gets interrupted: someone must’ve had enough of this disgusting display of seduction and whoring. 

“Pardon me, lovebirds. The room’s a copper, if it please you,” a tired voice says from somewhere above. “And the ale is–”

“Ja, ja. I’ll pay,” your knight grunts with such annoyance that you’re not sure if he’s mad at you or the poor soul who interrupted you two. 

Everyone here must think that you’re here to make some coin on a lonesome, desperate man. And he’s desperate, by God, he’s desperate… But when you walk upstairs and into your room, he takes a dip in cold waters without you knowing anything about it. When the door shuts behind you, your knight is back to the unbroken effigy he was last week, as he has always been. 

“You sleep there,” he points at the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“There’s plenty of room on the–”

“One more word from that pretty mouth and I’ll tell your father what you’ve been up to.”

You’re sent to your bed without supper, in your silly clothes, and get to watch how he barely takes his boots off before setting himself down on the floor, back turned to you. The innocent question “You think my mouth is pretty?” only gets an irritated scoff for an answer.

From under the linens, you watch him sigh and slowly turn to stone on the cold floor. There’s a big rug there but it’s barely enough to keep the chill out, and the hearth is cold during late days of spring. You’re warm enough here under your sheet, but you would be warmer if your knight was here with you… Warm body against yours as you both hold each other through the night. 

If only he could be enticed here by lying that you’re freezing... His honor would force him to share the bed with you, and your poor knight wouldn’t have to wake up with sore joints. The more you listen to him let out those occasional sighs, the more you want to shake this man. This silly act of martyrdom has to come to an end, now.

Slipping out from the warmth of your bed, you tiptoe to him. You know he can hear you, probably cursing in his mind with that crude foreign tongue of his. Laying yourself down behind him, you snuggle close until your front is glued to his back. 

It must pain him to have a maiden leave the comfort of her bed and trade it for the dirty floor, but you wonder if there’s pleasure in the pain when your touch finds him once more. And it’s not just want and lust you feel when you place your arm around him. It’s not motherly love either, although you do feel like you’re embracing a giant child who doesn’t want to be comforted. You know nothing about how lovers touch or hold each other, you’ve never touched a man other than your father, and those touches were never affectionate and warm, those touches were barely there at all. 

You wonder if you should be scared: you were taught that men will fuck everything that moves when given the chance. If a man of his size chose to take you here on this floor, there would be nothing left of you. Such an outcome seems dubious, however, when your sworn shield acts like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“Let me hold you,” you whisper when he continues to be stiff as a rock in your embrace. “You don’t have to pay me. Surely you know that you don’t have to–”

He moves, and at first you fear he’s about to rise and dart to the door. Make a run for it and slam it shut because you pushed it too far, his dumb, danger seeking maiden. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he turns around and buries his face somewhere in your neck. He does it so forcefully that you’re almost sent to lie on your back, and you barely catch the naked pain in his eyes before a rough arm snakes itself around your waist and pulls you close.

Warm breaths hit your skin, sending all the little hairs in your body shooting up – were he to move an inch further down, his face would be buried in your tits…

And then come the tears.

You’ve never heard a man cry like that – well, you’ve never heard a man cry at all. You didn’t even know they knew how to weep. It’s like all the tears in the world are reserved for women and children because there’s no wetness even now: your knight cries in thick, dry sobs, shudders that shake the both of you, years and years of suffering sighed through gritted teeth and into your hair.

Slowly, so slowly, you place your arm around him once more. Your hand barely reaches the middle of his back, so vast is this man, now only a crumbling mountain in your embrace. But when you won’t waver, when you refuse to turn your tail and run, he slowly melts in your arms like spring snow.

He still breathes as if in pain, the sounds that come out of his mouth heartbroken and strained. You’re not surprised to see that even his crying is an act of violence; he’s a man inconsolable. 

And yet, you console him. Comfort him. Like a mother, you stay and let him cry his fill in your ear as he clutches you, threatening to tear the back of your poor cotton blouse while doing it.

When he’s done, the shakes recede and his body is warm and calm, soft, almost. He pants and swallows, comes down from it with so much shame that you’re sure he has never done this with anyone, not ever before.

And then…

“I beg for your forgiveness, my lady,” he gruffs on your skin. “That was–”

“Shh... It’s alright.”

You caress the back of his neck, sweaty from the toil. He releases the fabric of your blouse only to grab it again in an even tighter fist. The face in your neck is buried deeper, his lips now pressed right over your throat.

“It has always been you, Geliebte... God knows it has always been you.”

You freeze in the middle of his confession, the panting on your skin intolerably thick now. When you swallow against his mouth, he pulls you against him, the body that used to be rigid and cold now like a hot, thick furnace, threatening to devour yours.

“You must know it too,” he whispers. “You must. You’ve seen my torment. Tell me you’ve seen it…”

He’s not demanding more than he is desperate, some dam suddenly being breached by a long-held flood.

If anything, you thought he hated you... You thought you were alone in your anguish, but it turns out he has carried the same soft secret all these years.

And it drowns you for a moment, his want and yours. Hands trying to touch whatever they can, mouth searching yours like he’s about to die if he can’t have a sip. You’ve heard what happens to women who allow themselves to get groped in dark hallways and winding steps; they hardly ever escape a man’s touch with their maidenhood still intact. And yet, this is what you’ve always dreamed of; a hot, blunt, forbidden encounter with this man. 

Now that he’s finally on fire for you, you’re not so sure though. What if you’re about to mate with a beast?

“Sir…” you whisper when he plants trembling kisses down your throat. He thinks you’re only moaning his title in the throes of pleasure, and squeezes you against him so hard that a tight little whimper is squished out of your mouth.

“I’m–I’m untouched,” you tell him before he sends his face between your tits, and it finally has the effect you feared and hoped for.

He freezes too, in the middle of tearing down your blouse. A shivering hand releases the fabric slowly, reverently; it rises to cup your face as your flushed knight meets your stare with shame.

“Of course you are,” he hushes upon your lips, strokes your cheek softly. “I cannot bed you. I know. But let me…”

He blushes while searching for the right words. That’s the moment when you start to suspect if he’s ever even been with a woman. What kind of a womanizer would blush when they’re about to make love to a lady?

“Let me make you feel good,” he finally suggests. “I’ve heard… of a way.”

He almost stutters when he says it, and you wonder if this is what he’s prayed forgiveness for. If he’s been thinking about different ways of wrecking you so much that it’s enough to send him to hell…

“And then,” he continues, “we’ll never speak of this again. You’ll become my lady, and I’ll become your sworn shield once more. We’ll be as we always were. As it always was...”

You’re not sure if you like that – returning to your status quo, becoming who you were before clutching each other on the floor like mad animals about to mate. But you nod. 

Whatever he wishes to do to you, it must be something good, and you trust him. Even after he showed you a side of him you’ve never seen before, you’d trust this man with your life.

Your valiant knight carries you back to bed, and delivers on his promise. He never undresses you, he never defiles you. He just lifts your ankle to his lips and gives it a soft, reverent kiss, grazes your shin with his mouth before starting to worship you like a pagan idol of old.

You don’t know where he heard about it–at the stables, or the kitchen, at the barracks or the taverns–but the way with which he makes you squirm doesn’t require a cock, not even a hand. His lips are gentle, but his mouth is hungry, and you don’t know how to feel shame when he’s buried under your dress like that. You can’t even see his face when he makes you his, claims you with his mouth alone. 

It must be a sin to not take you like a man takes a woman on a wedding night; it must be a sin that it does not hurt at all, what he wants to do to you. But you don’t care. Love is much better and far messier than how they depict it in the songs, and no one ever talks about the noises a man can make when they pleasure a woman.

He groans like a beast, but moans like a whore – it sends a flush of hot blood up your cheeks to hear him so utterly needy and vile. Your knight who barely gave you a grunt as a greeting in your father’s hall now whines with a broken pitch between your legs. His hot sighs drown your own, and you thank Saint Mary and all the angels that there’s loud music and booming laughter downstairs. It’s still there, the dirty tavern, even if you’re being sent to heaven on this bed...

He gives you mercy only after you break upon his mouth with a series of tight cries. Spends a lengthy amount of time under your dress too, licking and kissing you clean.

He doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to get out of there, but when he emerges, he looks like a drowned, happy puppy, this giant, brooding knight… The sight seizes your heart in a flaming hand that you know will never let go: it’s forever engraved in your heart, that drunken, devoted stare. You thought that men had the needs of an animal and that women were put on this earth just for them to have their fill, but when you look at your knight, it appears it’s the other way around... This man has finally found what he was looking for. Between your legs, he just found his Heaven on earth, his Holy Grail.

And so he returns from his quest with a devotion that leaves you breathless. Takes you in his arms like an injured bird, making you feel like it’s summer already, and the world is nothing but songs and tales and long nights of bliss.

“Know that I am yours,” he says. “Until my dying breath and even beyond, I’m yours.”

It’s a pledge, not a statement, and it’s said with so much weight that the vow he swore to your father pales in comparison. 

“Sir... You always say such silly things,” you whisper back while lying in a pool of shimmering love, a heaven on earth indeed. Not even anointed, true to their faith knights talk like this… And he just smiles languidly when you raise a hand to brush his cheek. 

He looks like another hug could save him, like a simple adoring stare from you is all that is needed to keep him going for another year. It irks you that he’s ready to settle for so little when you’re ready to give him everything he’s ever wanted and more. With what just happened, he’ll live on for a thousand, thousand years, he’ll survive even the coldest of nights – but you won’t.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you tell him, and a flash of fresh panic crosses his eyes.

“Süssling…”

He says it with worry, but does nothing when you send an exploring hand to his bulge. Drawing a sharp breath when you sweep your hand over it, he goes rigid again, this time for reasons other than just nervousness.

You’re younger and therefore more impatient, which means you’re at the strings of his pants in no time. He looks at your greed with a slack jaw and a set of furrowed brows, but never tries to prevent you. It only spurs you on that he’s acting so shy in front of an eager maiden when other men would already be bullying their cocks in your unexplored heat.

“This is madness,” he whispers when you pull out the heavy, hard cock that reminds you of the members you’ve seen on horses and bulls. 

Of course the man’s big down there when he’s practically a myth walking… And there must be a way to pleasure him too, some lovely devilry that will leave you a maiden. A virgin for him to take on your wedding night – because you will marry this man, no matter what anyone says. You’ll burn the whole kingdom down before giving yourself to any other man.

You wrap your fingers around him to punctuate it that he’s yours. If he feared you might mirror what he just did to you, he makes no comment about it when you don’t, only whines when his cock is snared by a frail but eager hand.

“Princess,” he warns, slightly out of breath. “I will stain your dress…” 

“Shh. Show me how to please you.”

The worry in his eyes is wild and bright, but the way your fingers mold around him leaves no space for arguments. A broken, stiff sigh is punched out of him when you begin to move: if he won’t show you how, it’s no trouble at all to try and find out yourself. 

But when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of him, he finally brings a trembling hand upon yours. He starts to guide you, adjusts your grip, huffs when you both apply pressure on it. The curious creature that you are, you look down to witness the ugly beauty of it all.

It’s intimidating and rough, the cock in your hand... It looks like a weapon, honestly, a battering ram that leaks heady liquid from the head. Smooth and heavy and ripped with veins, it’s like a too hard muscle about to bludgeon something, and your hand is making it drool profusely. Would that it were inside you, you would be in grave danger, and why is it that you find the prospect so seductive?

His hand is far bigger than yours, and it makes your heart run wild, the way he tries to be gentle while using your grip to get himself off. He can’t even keep his eyes open from the shame, just takes a quick glance at your enthralled face before squeezing his eyes shut once more. 

“Look at me,” you command softly, and he obeys – what else can a sworn knight do? – but you can see that the poor man is on the verge of tears. Shaking and panting, he stares at you while fucking himself with your hand, and when you close the small breath of air between you and kiss him, he melts.

The first thick spurt surprises you completely, you even mewl into his mouth when it shoots to stain your dress. You didn’t expect that to happen, at least not so fast… And because this is the first time you’ve seen a man come undone, you quickly leave the panting, moaning mouth and look down. 

There’s so much of it, and the release is so violent; it looks and sounds like it hurts because the man is shuddering and groaning as if stabbed. Thick, white pulses of seed coat the brown wool of your dress, but it soaks the semen gladly: there’s nothing left of his cum other than dark, damp stains after he’s done.

And there’s no end to his shame. He pries your hand away from his cock as soon as he’s somewhat composed. Does it with a shaky hand, wipes what little stains of hot, wet seed you have on your palm to his pants, and all you’re thinking about is what it would feel like to have this giant trembling and groaning like that above you, inside you… If you could even take all of that thick, brutal length. If he would be able to move away when inside your heat, if he’d let you hug him again, just hold him close so that he’d never ever leave anymore…

“I have soiled you,” he mutters while looking at your skirt.

“Nonsense. You have only claimed me... I’m yours now.”

“Princess… No amount of silver–”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

You actually manage to kiss him silent. Tears begin to run down his face when you show him where he belongs. It’s the final surrender as he pulls you into his arms and finally drowns you in love – at last, you find yourself under him as he takes what's his. What seems like hours later, he breaks the kiss, only to look into your eyes with full-blown adoration.

“How am I to live without you after this?” 

“You don’t have to. Not ever,” you say.

“Princess. If there was any hope for me to have your hand, if there was any hope that your father would give it, I would have carried you away from this place years ago.”

For a while, you fear it’s the fear of sin that burns him. But then you realize it was always only just you. 

He looks so anguished now, even more in pain, when all you wanted to do was relieve his agonies. This was only a taste of what he can’t have. You both took a bite of the forbidden fruit but can’t eat the entire thing – no wonder he looks like he’s cast out of heaven he didn’t know even existed.

“Sir, I cannot do this,” you grab his face with both hands now. “Please don’t make me do this...”

He sighs and looks at the mess you just made. He’s broken every oath he’s ever taken, and the evidence is scattered right there between you. The only thing deadlier than this would’ve been if he pumped all of that hot, fluid sin inside you.

“Sweetling,” he laments. “Look at us. You’ve already ruined me. Ruined us both…”

“It’s called love, silly.”

He breathes a short, shy smile, the first you’ve ever seen on him. It’s cute and makes him look young, the quick flash of teeth between unruly lips, the almost bashful, downcast eyes that are not quite ready to meet the full brunt of your devotion.

“Ja,” he breathes. “Ich weiss.”

Then he brings his eyes back to yours, his smile slowly making way for a more serious expression. He lifts a hand to touch your cheek, and you find yourself soaring in the sky like a bird, a phoenix that has risen from the dead. It’s heavenly, the way you both caress each other, here on the lowly tavern’s bed, covered in salt, sweetness and sin.

“Your father will have both our heads if he finds out,” he tells you as if you needed the reminder.

“I pray our heads will never be separated then.”

He snorts a quick smile again. It makes you heady, that you’re apparently the only one who can make this gruesome giant laugh. 

“You’re dangerous, princess,” he gruffs. “I knew you were trouble… And yet I curse all the years I left you in peace.”

“I know,” you smile. “Never the brightest one, my love...”

When you lie in his arms that night and tell him about your silly little fantasies, he grows hard again. When you tell him you now have new ones—ones where you’d want to feel him inside you—he looks like a man condemned to death. 

The stares he shoots your way make it clear that he’s lost – no matter what he says, he can’t be kept away from you, not anymore. You suppose he’ll forsake even more secret promises and vows before forsaking the pledge he swore to you. Even at the cost of your lives, he’ll come scratching at your door, howling for some quick, hot love in the night, begging for you to give him everything he has denied himself. 

And eventually, you grow more serious too. While lying in his arms, safe and tucked away from all the horrors of this world, you play with the leather strings of his gambeson, tugging them and twisting them around your finger like a child.

“There will come a day when they promise me to another,” you whisper, wondering if he’s already asleep. 

He promised to never leave your side again, he promised. And still… What will happen when the carriage and horses take you to some distant, hostile kingdom, far away from him? What if you only get this summer together, and then nothing no more?

“They’ll take me away,” you tell him, almost without a voice. 

A soft, hearty grumble answers, a man who finally knows what he’s fighting for.

“No one will take you away, sweetling. Not as long as I live.”

[nobodysdaydreams]

My toxic trait is that I think if Elphaba, Galinda, Fiyero, Nessarose and Boq had all gone to the Emerald City together as friend group, they totally would have been able to stop the Wizard and Morrible. Wouldn’t have even been a challenge.

Galinda, Nessarose, and Boq might have been hesitant or afraid to openly challenge the Wizard, but as soon as Elphaba objected and the Wizard and Morrible made their little threats, Fiyero would for sure throw a punch in the Wizard’s direction, at which point the battle is on and the group is running through the Wizard’s castle being chased by flying monkeys like they’re the Scooby Doo gang. Fiyero swinging around on those hot air balloon ropes knocking guards left and right, Boq panicking and accidentally doing some looney tunes style stunt that saves Nessrose, and they all escape on the balloon to Kiamo Ko with the Wizard as a hostage, because Fiyero would for sure drag that pathetic mess on board, tied up and everything to make sure they can escape.

And Morrible wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it because you know that the second Nessa calls her dad to complain, the governor is going to come rolling up to the Emerald City in his ridiculous top hat yelling in Morrible’s face demanding to know “what kind of school she thinks she’s representing here?” and talking about how he wasn’t made aware of this unauthorized balloon field trip, and panicking about Nessa falling out of the sky. Now Morrible has to deal with him, and she can’t pull the “a wicked green witch kidnapped our Wizard and his spellbook” this time, because is she really gonna say the witch was either helped by or succeeding in kidnapping (in addition to the Wizard) a famous prince, the daughter of wealthy upper class, the beloved and favorite daughter of an esteemed governor, and another random student all on her watch? There are only so many people you can throw under the bus before the story is too crazy to be believed, plus now you have all those angry parents demanding explanations. So now Morrible has got to tell everyone some bs story about an “unfortunate ballooning accident, which she is sure the Wizard will rectify in no time” while she figures out her next move.

Meanwhile, at Kiamo Ko, the kids have the Wizard tied up and he’s trying to reason with them but they aren’t having it, and since this is an integration, it eventually comes out that he’s Elphaba’s deadbeat dad. He gets emotional and tries to spin it as a tragic star crossed lovers story rather than a one night stand and Nessa’s not having it because if you found out your parent cheated with a villainous dictator who tried to kill their own child who is also your half-sister and then said dictator has the nerve to try to spin it into a story where you’re supposed to feel sad for them because they “couldn’t be with the woman they loved” (because she was married to your father) and “never knew their child” (because they left knowing full while their actions could have created your sibling) you’d be mad too. And Elphaba is also angry because who would want to be related to someone willing to oppress people for power? Pathetic.

But Boq stops Nessa from angrily doing anything crazy to the Wizard because after he saved Nessa from some flying monkeys, he realized that he loves her and that Galinda doesn’t like him and he has to respect that, and now that the gang has had time to talk, Galinda also realizes Fiyero obviously loves Elphaba and decides to be happy for them, because they all take one look at the Wizard’s fake overdramatic crying for a woman he had a one night stand with who was never gonna leave her husband for him anyway who he never even called again anyway so why is he crying now, and they say “let’s not over complicate our love lives and be mature about our feelings.” Good decision on their part.

Meanwhile, the Wizard tries to start singing about his regrets and offers them all a chance to rule with him if only they’ll untie him, but no one is having it and they send him and Morrible to jail and make Elphaba the new Wizard because she’s the one with the actual power. She can visit her father in prison, and he can do his silly little puppet/figurine shows and song/dance numbers for her then. If he has good behavior, maybe Elphaba can make him her court jester because goodness knows all the Wizard is good for is being a clown. Morrible stays in jail, no parole. Then you’ve Elphaba ruling the Emerald City, Fiyero ruling Winkie Country, Galinda being an elite socialite in Gilkin Country or wherever she’s from and Nessa ruling Munchkin Land with Boq at her side, willingly this time. The whole friend group is running Oz and making it better. The end.

[coffinclownery]

Hot Take Ashley Noticed Andrew Being Horny Weird Around Her

I think Ashley knows about the peeping. It would explain why she assumes the worst of Andrew. I made a post before about how Ashley seems to believe the "men think of sex every 5 seconds" myth regarding Andrew, not realizing how Andrew's focus is on her specifically. I think her realizing Andrew's horny around her doesn't disprove anything I said. Because to her this would actually prove her point. That he's so horny that he'd even lust after his sister, but is too much of a coward to actually say it to her face. And because Andrew never fully explains how down bad he is for her, Ashley's left to assume that Andrew's just that desperate for sex and nothing else. And whenever she tried to explore being more romantic she's pushed away, further cementing that its just lust.

Like the time when they were teens, and Ashley wondered if they could be different. She wasn't fully onboard with being gross together, but she was curious about being a couple. Something different. But then Andrew pushed her away and never explained why he was uncomfortable, so the only conclusion Ashley could come to was that Andrew didn't see her that way. Then in the year and change they don't talk she notices him getting horny, so she's only left to assume that it must just be her body he's interested in, despite already being in a relationship with Julia. He just wanted her body but not be in a "real" relationship like he was with Julia, which I think also contributed to how pissed she was when they became "official." Even without doing anything, it's hard to imagine her not feeling used this way. And also becoming "official" signified the potential to get married, leaving Ashley behind.

Which is exactly what Andrew was planning, running off without even trying to talk it out with her!

There's also the "mishap" on the couch in shots, when after the shotgun she takes the initiative to kiss Andrew back.

She never gave herself the opportunity to explore her own view of sex, but I do think that she genuinely likes being affectionate to Andrew and him being affectionate to her, even when they definitely cross the line. She likes hugs, cuddles and sometimes even the "mishaps," maybe because in those moments she can feel like she's actually loved. The last time she was really happy was joking around on their parents couch and biting him. But once again, Andrew pushes her away, saying she's bad at it.

In the splat ending she admits it hurts when Andrew doesn't think she likes them.

And in the Shots and Such ending she gives up on the soft affectionate side of their relationship altogether, only using her body as a means to an end and even resenting the one time she almost enjoyed it.

Andrew complains about not having boundaries with Ashley, but the sick joke is he never gave Ashley boundaries either. Her privacy was invaded by him without explanation. She was used as an object of desire the way Ashley used "Andy" as a safe object. One of the many reasons Ashley prefers "Andy" is that he would be with her without expecting anything, but "Andrew" has the wants of a man which threatens to separate him from her.

It's also why she's so confused in the cliffhanger route. Andrew gives her "promises" and is affectionate, yet isn't interested in bartering for affection or using her body. It almost shakes that deep-seated view she has of Andrew.

...Then of course Andrew fucks it up right before they separate. And now Ashley's left with the Entity's words about him betraying her until he either returns or she goes looking for him.

Also fun fact, Andrew never says "I love you" back to Ashley. Not once. Because if he did his real feelings for her might leak out. You could say Ashley's similar in that most of her "I love yous" are for Andy, but unlike Andrew I think she extends what she considers "love" to Andrew too, in a different way.

Anyway tl:dr Ashley's assumption of Andrew being horny all the time was possibly contributed to the fact that Andrew kept failing to hide his horniness around her. At this point it'd be healthier for Andrew to just ask Ashley out. Go out to the movies? Have a candlelight dinner with a couple limbs and some wine? Go stargazing? I heard someone had a really good pick-up line to use during stargazing.

[artytaeh]

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

can i disagree with some of this fandom's perception of tom riddle? surely he won't be a sweetheart like lorenzo, but...

┊ i also don't think that he'd be so intentionally rude, so cold towards his significant other. i honestly think that if tom ever becomes infatuated with someone, he would take pride into getting this someone to belong to him. willingly! 🌷

౨ৎ i guess i'll never know the reason why you ♡ ͡

love me like you do; that's the wonder of you . . .

... tom riddle is a smart man, you see. love, romantic feelings, to act like a couple and all of those things— these might be the most confused that tom riddle will ever be, because otherwise, he's an extremely competent, capable young man.

tom riddle does get confused, a little lost on what to do; he'd torture himself by discreetly watching couples at hogwarts interacting, maybe make some research (= read novels. romantic novels. it was a discovery of a new medieval torture for tom, seriously, to waste his precious time reading some sappy crap like that.) to better understand how to handle you.

how to deal with you.

how to cherish you, so that you don't ever entertain the idea of leaving him. you see, tom is a practical man— he'd rather not commit mistakes, because to fail, means to spend extra time fixing his error and doing the same thing twice, so that this time, it's done correctly.

applying this ideology to you, it means: that 1) tom riddle prefers to always keep your heart happy, so that you don't have doubts about him; so that 2) he won't have to take twice the effort to conquer the city of your heart again.

some think that tom wouldn't like petnames. to be fair, tom would frown at many of those, at first— thinking that they were cringe, disgusting or a psychological way to acquire diabetes. however, when tom gets used to this stir on his heart, those loud heart beatings that cloud his rational thoughts...

... it's excused to say that tom's preferred petname to call you by, is 'my love'.

tom reasons that's because it isn't a lie at all. well, you're certainly his— and because of you, because of your existence, of this enchanting aura of yours; that's how tom riddle discovered love. there are few things that tom is attached to. even fewer that he shows to care about, to have affectionate feelings for; one of them is the basilisk. others are his favorite books, all of them first editions that were troublesome, but endlessly worth it, to get. nevertheless, at the peak of the pyramid, there's you.

you. oh, how your name sounds so angelic, so right, so perfect on his lips. sometimes, tom doesn't call you by any petnames, so that he can mouth each syllable of your name, tasting the acquaintance of the name of his darling on his lips.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

he might call you by other petnames, depending on the occasions:

darling; which, in his opinion, is fairly one of the best petnames to be shared between a couple. because you, reader, are endearing to his eyes— a darling, really, whose presence immediately softens (ever so slightly, because tom riddle still is tom riddle himself, and that mask of stoicism of his won't be broken without putting up a fight.) those previously icy, cold eyes of his.

dearest; if tom is trying to reason with you. unlike what many think, tom would take a deep breath, put on that handsome smile of his, and use a gentle tone to convince some words inside that pretty little head of yours. 'dearest', he calls for you— so gentle, so full of affection; as if reminding you that you are the object of all of his affections and desires. you, his dearest, the one he adores the most. the reminder of such a fact easily melts you in less than a few seconds, which tom sees as too perfect of an opportunity to lose to convince you much faster.

doll; if you look rather ravishing to his eyes, whenever you dress up even prettier than other school days, and wear such pretty clothes and many accessories to further optimize your beauty. beautiful, perfect, flawless; like a doll. a carefully made doll. a doll, that sits there quiet and all pretty, obedient, doing as she's told.

( i must warn you, though, that tom won't entertain silly nicknames from you. tom riddle will ignore you, march forward without sparing a glance at you, not even acknowledging your presence should you insist on the matter. tom won't answer you, should you refer to him by such hideous petnames. you could be about to fall from a mountain, and yet tom won't help you until you address him properly. baby? he's not a child, for salazar's sake! pookie bear? now that might make tom riddle himself throw you off from the mountain's edge— call him such a monstrosity like that, and tom will lose every drop of faith on you. you're a lost cause. )

if he had to choose; yes, tom would prefer if you were obedient. contrary to popular belief, tom riddle is quite fascinated with sweet personas. to have a sweet significant other, who's all smiles and considerate words— it's so, so much easier for tom.

between a brat that trashes around for his attention, and a sweet girl who gently tries to indulge (purely out of concern, wanting him to share his problems with her!)— tom would rather choose the latter.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

quite the darling you are. to boldly take tom's hands between your own, with that frown of yours. no, you're not being whiny; yet tom can see that there's consideration, there's time spent on that little brain of yours, that tries to find the right words to speak with him.

then, when you voice your concerns— that tom spends some time alone from time to time, seemingly hiding something from you, as if to shoulder all of those burdens all by himself...

tom takes a deep breath, swallowing his temper. trying to keep his composure, because tom hates having to justify his actions. with a smile, tom puts on a facade, with a too much convincing tone: "oh, dearest, no. i'm flattered that you noticed that i haven't been having the best days; however, your presence makes everything better. in fact, being with you now, makes all of my problems seem insignificant in comparison."

should his sweet words not be enough to keep your nose out of his business, then tom takes a step further. holding your hands, tom squeezes them between his fingers, gently at first, tightly when you're too stubborn: "my problems are mine to solve, my love. i would never put such a heavy burden on you; your smile is too precious for me to ruin."

sweet, sweet words; some that tom mentally grimaces at, but knows that are necessary and effective with you. talking as if he's doing you a favor on keeping you away from his PERSONAL thoughts and goals.

and that's how tom pushes you way. gently, smoothly— so that you'd have to rethink this moment over and over, for you to understand that once again, tom riddle has tricked you; tricked you into doing what he wants. because without a fight, without you daring to bother him further... tom riddle made you go back to your own business, and leave his alone.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

however, when tom is in a better mood and less stressed with his own goals, he'd find it funny, entertaining even, if his darling tried to be bossy. to pout, to want some sort of control. it's hilarious for him.

so, he indulges you. well, sort of— tom tricks you into thinking that he gave in to your commands. to your whims. in a sneaky way, tom makes you think that you're in control!

the one who's in charge is you. yes, darling, of course. he pats your head, gives you that charming smile of his. with such a serene expression, tom briefly raises his eyebrows, mocking you inside that devious mind of his, as he says: you are absolutely right, dearest.

tom riddle doesn't really mind that you aren't consciously aware that the one in charge is him. that's fine; no, seriously, go and brag about it!

because ultimately, tom knows that what he says, goes. that with some sweet words of his, a little touch here and there, that you'll soon see the reason and comply to whatever tom wishes you to say, to do, to behave.

he does is so smoothly, that even for the outsiders, well... it'd be hard to realize that all that tom riddle is doing to you, is nothing but manipulation. and you're oh so easy to manipulate— it was a challenge at first. now, it's more of a chore; tom barely blinks through it. he knows you so well.

however, so that you whining and getting used to think that you're having things done your way, tom throws some praises and compliments here and there.

touching you chin, gently brushing his thumb on your lower lip; tom's gaze intentionally softens, as he praises: 'you're just too good to be true, my love.', whenever you act accordingly. when you do as he says.

brushing a strand of yours away from your face, so that he can further admire the physical features of his beloved: 'i sincerely can't take my eyes of you, darling, when you are so good for me like this. pardon the way that i stare— you're too beautiful.'

and with even more sincerity, tom riddle isn't sure where his manipulation ends and his genuine care for you starts; tom isn't sure, whether his words are now a muscle memory of his, or if he truly means them.

but he never allows himself to discover the roots of this thought. to actually find out if he truly is such an emotionally shallow person, or if his weakness for his darling is deeper than he realizes. no— this is one of the few matters, in which tom would rather remain ignorant about.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

because tom is such a gentleman with you...

opening doors for you. walking two, three steps ahead of you as soon as the entrance is upon sight, tom will open the door for you; his arm keeps it open for you to enter or leave the room first, and so those grayish-green eyes of his watch you, as you pass by. then, tom will enter just behind you, following your lead, quickening his steps to go back to his rightful place by your side. he lies to himself, saying that he only does such a small gesture to effortlessly keep you by his side. tom would be telling the truth, if he doesn't interrupt the thought that he enjoys to escort you— because, deep down, tom genuinely appreciates your company. every step, every minute you spend together. 'here, love. please, continue; what did you tell your housemate, then?'

tom riddle refuses to let you carry heavy books. so, as if it was muscle memory and so smoothly that you can't do anything about it, tom will carry your books along with his, as soon as you leave the classroom. it's not that he finds you useless, incapable; rather, tom riddle perceives you as a... preciously delicate, fragile little thing. most of the times, tom does it so nonchalantly that you don't even notice; you're too distracted by your conversation, to notice how tom carries your stuff, busying his arms. however, should you notice or worry that you're being a burden to tom in any way; tom shakes his head at you, waving off this silly insecurity of yours: 'i know you can carry them, beloved. however, allow me to do it for you. i am your boyfriend, am i not?'

offering his hand for you to take, whenever there's a higher step to be climbed up, or tricky stairs on your way. tom will do it too, to give you some kind of support, should you jump off of a particular high edge. whenever you wear high heels, tom would be specially careful with you— he offers his arm or hand for you to take, walking in a much slower pace than usual, so that you won't overexert your feet. we can't have his darling getting hurt, now can we? no bruises, no pain, no redness on your skin undesired by him, nothing to interrupt the lovely time you're spending together. 'take my hand, my love; it's quite high for you. that's it, darling, good girl.'

whenever you're about to sit, tom grabs the back of your chair, pushing the seat backwards for you to take, then helps you settle closer to the table. only then, will tom take his own seat in front of you. it's something that becomes so, so common between both of you, that sometimes you find yourself taking a few more seconds to sit down, whenever you hang out with your friends; unconsciously, you'd wait for tom to gently guide you to your seat. oh, you're spoiled.

leaning down to get the material you accidentally knocked out; if he's not quick enough to notice, then tom will keep his hand on the edge of the table, so that there's no chance for you to hit your head. 'quite the klutz, aren't you, darling?' — with a lighthearted tone, so that he doesn't come by as mean, tom couldn't help but to tease you just this time, — 'next time, let me get it for you, dearest. now, careful with your head.'

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

... and because he's always so soft-spoken with you, well, how could you listen to your friends, in case they notice that maybe tom riddle isn't as a good guy as he lets on? that perhaps, he is a little controlling. that maybe, he's too overprotective of you.

→ and of course, being the fool you are, you stroll to the lion's cage (or should we call it snake?) and deliver all of this information on a silver platter for him.

SAT SIDEWAYS ON HIS LAP, tom settles your thighs to rest on top of his, while a hand is respectfully kept there; caressing the smooth skin, rubbing circles on the bare skin of your thigh, just inches underneath the hem of your skirt.

tom riddle keeps up a serene expression, sometimes humming in acknowledgement, to show you that he's listening to this ramble of yours. if it's a topic that seems to have bothered or upsets you, then tom will keep another hand on your lower back; he soothes you with small movements of his fingers.

oh, how funny. so this ravenclaw friend of yours, told you that it isn't normal for tom, your boyfriend, to comment whether you roll up your skirt during summer? that such a thing is being controlling? now that's something tom will have to deal with. perhaps, he'll only have to frame this irritating ravenclaw girl; have you ever thought that maybe, she's interested in tom? that must be why the ravenclaw is filling your pretty little brain with such absurd exaggerations of his doings. how lucky you are, to have an attentive boyfriend that easily notices when a friend of yours has bad intentions.

( for obvious reasons, tom despises amortentia. he finds it disgusting, but more than that, tom riddle perceives amortentia has a rather pathetic tool to get someone's affection. tom will never use it on you— he doesn't need to! however, he will get his hands on one, to use it on that nosy, insufferable ravenclaw friend of yours. only to prove his point. so that this nosy girl acts disgustingly flirty around tom, so that you'll come running back into his arms, crying about such an awful friend and that once again, tom was right. you apologize to him, for doubting his assumptions. you end this friendship and cut ties with the ravenclaw girl. and tom, well, tom riddle has once again rid both of you from troublesome outsiders. )

ah, now this is entertaining! so these friends of yours, housemates, have noticed that tom has been keeping an eye on you. now, dearest, that's rather silly, don't you think? so what if you seem to find the same familiar faces in the same space as you? do you really believe your friends' theories? that he sends his followers ''friends'' to follow you around the school? darling, hogwarts is quite enormous and spacious, yet all of you study together in the same castle. it's inevitable, to see familiar faces, here and there.

( however, tom will blame his followers. how difficult can it be, to follow, to stalk a girl like you? and to go unnoticed as they do that? sincerely, tom stares at them with such disgust, such disappointment, that his followers tremble under his gaze— the future dark lord even mentions the idea of getting rid of them. of throwing them away. after all, why would he need such useless, such incompetent boys like them, if they can't follow simple orders correctly? it's excused to say, that you'd never suspect being stalked again. 1) because tom reassured you that such a thought is rather silly; and 2), because these followers of tom riddle do a much better job. out of fear. )

oh, darling, what silly friends you have! sincerely, it seems like you only attract observant delusional friends, or attentive paranoid companies!

in the end, it doesn't matter if your friends tried to alert you about tom's toxic concerning flaws traits. because in the end, at night, he will have you nuzzling on his lap, holding you so tenderly; all of these warnings disappear into thin air, when tom makes you laugh at such accurate ridiculous accusations.

in conclusion: no, tom riddle would never be rude or snap at you; not if he can help it, not if he can keep his temper in check. he believes that the best way to keep you so effortlessly devoted and infatuated, to keep you willingly by his side, is to treat you with care (even if sometimes he has to manipulate his way into it). how lucky you are, to have such a obsessive caring boyfriend!

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— i'm endlessly faithful to theodore nott. however. the first to kick the entrance door to my heart was tom riddle. and what a man (i can't fix him. i would let him ruin my life him tho!), ladies and gentlemen.

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷