#Hippocampus Press

[authortoberecognized]

                                  WRITER’S FORUM

                   WEBSITES HELPFUL TO WRITERS This is a series of posts which, I think, will be beneficial to writers. But first, I would like to include my usual warning about using websites. Whenever you check a website you are, in my opinion and I talk from experience, being put on a list for sale. So, expect the possibility of being bombarded by ads from companies you, perhaps, have never…

[sematarygirls]

   BOYFRIEND!RAFE x ACADEMIC!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ fem!reader, unconventional study methods, fingering, lots of talking, facts about the nervous system

NOTES .ᐟ boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe. this came to me while i was tediously taking notes for my psych class and wishing that i had a sexy rafe cameron in my bed.

You sat comfortably on your boyfriend's bed, your back pressed against his chest as you typed away on your computer, taking notes for your psychology class. His chin rested on your shoulder as he peered at the screen, reading a bunch of words he didn't quite understand while his hand rested on your thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles.

"What are you doing?" He hummed, his fingers dancing slightly higher. He knew what you were doing, but he wanted to hear you say it. He loved how excited you got and how you rambled on and on when you were telling him something you were passionate about. If he was being honest, it was kind of a major turn on.

"I've got a test tomorrow on the biological bases of behavior, so I'm just refreshing my memory on the endocrine and nervous systems," you explained, too focused on your notes to register that his touch was slowly sliding closer and closer to your clothed core.

"Oh, yeah?" He murmured, dipping his head down, his lips brushing against your skin as he began to pepper soft, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His hand continued upwards, his fingers lightly brushing you over your already damp underwear. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Rafe," you gasped softly, biting your lip. You tilted your head to the side, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to find your resolve and tell him to stop, but you couldn't help the way your legs parted for him. "I told you I have to study."

"You are studying. Cmon, tell me all about the nervous system while I touch you, baby. You can do both," he coaxed you, his long fingers expertly pulling your panties to the side and running along your wet folds. "Tell me everything that's in that beautiful brain of yours."

You let out a breathy moan, your breathing quickening as your head fell back against his shoulder. You racked your brain for any piece of information, his touch making your mind go blank. "The brain is um-" you drew in a sharp breath as his thumb nudged your clit. "The exterior brain structures are the cerebral cortex, cereb-bellum, occipital lobe, temporal lobe, frontal lobe, and parietal lobe," you managed to say.

"Mmhmm, and what about the interior?" He prompted, his fingers slowly pushing inside of you. "Tell me every little detail, baby. I wanna know everything." His voice was low and husky as he encouraged you to keep going, his breath hot against your skin.

"Rafe," you moaned, your lips parting in pleasure as his fingers worked expertly inside you. You couldn't focus when you could feel his long fingers dragging against your tight walls.

"Cmon, my smart girl," he cooed, his other hand snaking around your waist and splaying his large hand across your stomach to keep you in place. "You know it. I know you do." He continued drawing his fingers in and out of you as his thumb rubbed your puffy clit firmly.

You did know it. You'd even forced Rafe to help you make stupid flashcards, so you could memorize the parts and all their functions. But, he had a way of making you forget everything and turning your brain to mush when he had his hands on you.

Your voice was shaky and breathless as you spoke, feeling your orgasm building low in your stomach. "The interior brain structures are the-the amygdala, hippocampus, medulla oblongata-" you gasped, your back arching into his touch when his fingers hit that spot inside you that had you practically seeing stars. You hesitantly kept going, trying to focus because knowing Rafe, if you stopped, he would too. "P-pituitary gland, thalamus, basal ganglia, hypothalamus, midbrain, and pons." You were pretty impressed with yourself that you managed to remember all that while your boyfriend was knuckle deep inside your dripping cunt.

He groaned, feeling himself grow harder as he listened to your breathy voice tell him all about your studies. "You're so fuckin' smart," he found that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking gently. "My brilliant girl."

Your walls fluttered around his fingers at his praising words. He was always so interested in what you had to say, never dismissing you or brushing you off when you started rambling aimlessly and throwing random facts his way. He listened intently, showing genuine interest that made you feel so loved and seen.

"Keep going, baby," he rasped, his fingers speeding up in a way that had you gripping his bicep—needing something, anything to keep you present. "What do all those big words do, hm?"

You let out a breathy laugh, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Well, the um- the hypothalamus controls the pituitary gland, which releases hormones that regulate bodily functions," you explained, smiling softly at how fitting that fact seemed to be.

"Mm, like the hormones that are rushing through your veins right now, making you all hot and bothered for me?" He asked, his voice low and taunting, his teeth lightly nipping at your neck. He pushed his fingers deeper, curving them up to hit that spot that always made your legs shake.

"Uh huh," you moaned, your nails sinking into his bicep through the soft material of his sweater. His fingers curling inside you as his thumb continued swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge.

He hummed against your skin, his tongue laving over the spot where his teeth had marked you. "Cmon, pretty girl," he whispered, feeling your body tense up. "You did so good. Let me feel you come apart on my fingers."

Your eyes fluttered shut, back arching into his touch as his words sent you over the edge. A whimper of his name fell past your parted lips amongst a sea of soft moans as you came, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers while he continued to drag them in and out of you, prolonging your high.

He groaned as he felt your velvety walls flutter and squeeze around his fingers, your sweet cries of his name spurring him on. He worked you through it, fingers pumping steadily, thumb circling your clit until you were a boneless, panting mess in his arms.

He peppered kisses along your jaw as he carefully pulled away from your weeping core. "Who knew you could make biology sound so sexy,"

"Technically, it's psychology," you corrected him, chest heaving. You turned your head to look at him as he brought his fingers to his lips, sucking your release off of them with a low groan. You bit your lips at the sight, his lips glistening as he pulled his fingers back.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he flashed you a grin before leaning down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth to let you taste yourself on his tongue.

You moaned softly into his mouth, reluctantly pulling back after a moment. "If you keep distracting me, I'm never going to finish."

"Hm, that's weird because I'm pretty sure you just did," he hummed, feigning confusion as a cocky smirk tugged at his lips.

"Oh, shut up," you laughed, feeling your cheeks heat up at his innuendo. His hand slid up your arm, tracing soft shapes on your bare skin. You looked up at him, seeing the way his pupils dilated and feeling the evidence of arousal digging into you from behind. "Five more minutes and then I'm all yours, deal?" You raised a brow. You figured you had studied enough over the last couple days, and your oh so patient boyfriend deserved some of your attention.

A sly grin settled on his lips. "Deal, but don't think that I'll be keeping my hands to myself during these five minutes," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

You turned back to your computer, giggling as he dipped his head back into your neck, already kissing and sucking at your delicate skin. His hands started to roam your body, and as you tried to focus, you found yourself wondering if you would make it five minutes before you surrendered to him.

[butterznack]

baby, I’m good

Pairing : Hirai Momo x afab!reader

Summary : Dahyun’s latest post on Bubble got the better out of you, but Momo reminds you there’s more than one place for you to sit on her.

Genre : smut, established relationship

Warnings : 18+, fingering, oral (f!reader receiving), face sitting, clit stimulation, nipple stimulation

a/n : a little something for Momo day <3 (better late than ever lol) Dahyun’s bubble post got me feeling something like, make some room for me pls i swear i’ll behave >.<

There is no reason for you to feel jealous over Dahyun’s birthday post to Momo. All Twice members are close to each other, both in body and mind, and it isn’t as if you had never fallen victim to Jihyo’s drunken behavior and her accidental smooches at the corners of your lips, or Nayeon’s sticky fingers on your ass.

The photo isn’t recent, Momo had gotten a new haircut in preparation to MISAMO’s comeback, and so you pay it no mind, taping on the like button below the picture before switching to a different social app.

It isn’t long before Momo makes a grand entrance, waltzing past the entryway and straight to the living room where you are.

“Hi baby!” She chimes, bending down to trap your face in her hands and reach out to your lips, kissing you firmly but lovingly.

“Happy birthday love,” you greet her back as Momo pulls away, dropping next to you on the couch.

“What are you doing?” She rests her head on your shoulder, cheek pancaked onto it.

“Just looking at the stuff the girls posted for your birthday,” you smile, recalling one of Jihyo’s story of your girlfriend sleeping at a restaurant, a napkin tucked in the collar of her shirt that emphasized the comic aspect of the situation.

“You didn’t post anything,” you can feel her pout as she states the obvious, you know it’s not a complaint.

“I’m just keeping the best for last,” you grin. Momo pinches your side and you jerk up a bit without propelling your girlfriend off your shoulder. “Well, if I can do better than Dahyun’s post, that is.”

Your own words hit you only a second too late, and you don’t register Momo’s interrogative oh as she lifts her head to meet her eyes with yours. “What?” You shriek, fainting ignorance knowing damn well Momo is far from stupid and already sees right through your avoidant look.

“What about Dahyun’s post?” She asks.

“Nothing,” you lie, “I liked it.”

Momo is now fully facing you, one leg propped up on the couch and the arm of the same side against the backrest. She doesn’t say anything, but the moment you shoot a quick glance at her Momo huffs. “Are you jealous babe?” she quips.

You huff back at her, eyes not leaving the screen of your phone anymore, but you don’t say anything.

Maybe it was time for you to admit that it wasn’t jealousy, per say, but something akin to possessiveness. The image of Momo’s hand on Dahyun’s bare thigh burned into your hippocampus. You shrank in on yourself, chin nearly merging in between your collarbones as you slowly sank further into the couch.

“Oh my god, baby why?” Momo can’t help but snicker when you dramatically fall down the opposite side of hers. “Come back here,” she leans over and grabs you from under one thigh, pulling you with such force you oblige, soon straddling your girlfriend, facing her.

“Is that what you want?” Momo teases.

“Dahyun was facing the other way round,” you sulk.

“Yeah, but I can see you better like that,” she says, voice dropping an octave lower as she leans in to plant a kiss where your jaw and your ear meet. You hum in satisfaction, hands coming to repose themselves on Momo’s shoulders, her own settling on your waist. “So? Still jealous?” She keeps on kissing down your neck to the vale of your collarbone.

You whimper against her mouth as Momo lightly bites down on the muscle above, “I’m not.”

“Are you sure?” One hand comes sliding down your tummy, untucking your shirt from your pants and reaching back up to your breasts, grazing the underside. You arch at the touch, and Momo presses her hand against your sternum to keep you in place before latching her mouth onto your left nipple through the fabric of your shirt.

You gasp, one hand coming up to grip itself in her blonde bob. You try to push yourself onto her mouth, signaling to her to get more into it, but Momo keeps a strong hand between your boobs. The tip of her tongue flicks at your bud in kitten licks, and her mouth barely closes around it.

Momo is not one to tire from foreplay, she could go at it and tease you for several hours on end, and she has done so in the past. But right now, she’s doing this on purpose, because she doesn’t need a reason to taunt you like that.

You whine in protest, “Momo, please…”

“I’m waiting, love,” she replies, moving to nip at your right nipple.

Of course your girlfriend expected you to concede, to admit you were feeling a little jealous upon seeing that picture. Pulling one last time at her hair, you try to get her to look at you, “I was not jealous,” you say resolutely, “maybe just a little possessive…”

“A little?” Momo stops, fighting the urge to mock you with yet another smirk.

“Don’t push it,” you snarl.

As if to mean that’s enough for me, Momo wastes no time and has you remove your shirt completely, followed by your bra removed by her hefty fingers, and dives back onto your tits, suckling at the nipple again.

You cry out, a sense of relief washing over you, soon replaced by the itchy feeling of your growing arousal. A feeling you don’t have to focus on for too long as Momo is already slipping a hand in your pants and underneath your panties, fingers brushing your clit before sliding down your slit.

At the pace she’s going, you think you might combust on the spot. “So wet, just for me,” Momo whispers in your ear, and it’s not helping, just riling you up even more. She notices and slides one finger in your pussy, all three knuckles in. You let out a lengthy moan, tightening your hold on her shoulder and in her hair.

“Careful, I’m not not planning on going bald,” she scoffs, stopping amidst the process of giving you yet another hickey between your tits.

“Sorry,” you breathe out, “I’m sorry baby.”

“Don’t worry, you’re excused,” she states almost too matter-of-factly as she adds a second finger and starts to pump them in and out of your cunt.

She sets up a fast pace, sometimes rubbing at the spongy spot inside, coating her fingers in your arousal. Momo avoids your clit, trying not to let the palm of her hand touch it. You notice it rather quickly, moans now substituted by whimpers, seeking more of her, more than just her fingers in your pussy and her mouth on your tits.

You believe Momo takes note of the sudden shift in behavior right away. She takes her free hand and brings it to your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. It’s messy and devouring, tongues and teeth meeting and clashing with each other, mouths agape letting out the sultriest moans out of the two of you.

You had been so focused on your own pleasure that you didn’t attend to Momo's. Though she didn’t complain, and never did, you’ve always felt a bit guilty that she would care more about your needs than hers.

“You know where else you could sit for me?” Momo prompts, as if noticing, again, you were drifting off in your thoughts. She let her hands fall to your hips, then lower, grabbing at the soft plush of your thighs. “Where?” You ask, knowing the answer already.

“Take off your pants,” she demands and again, you oblige, moving at light-speed to rid yourself of your clothes. At the same time, Momo lays down on the soft seat cushions of the couch, guiding you back down on her.

Her arms snake behind your thighs, and your knees are on both sides of her head, not too close but apart enough Momo can have you sit on her face as much as humanly possible.

You always hesitate for a second. Despite getting off to the sight of your girlfriend enjoying herself being squished between your thighs, you couldn’t help but need her approval to finally sink down on her face. An approval that came in the form of Momo bringing her mouth to your throbbing clit and pulling you down at the same time, and there’s nothing you can do to keep the moan from coming out of your vocal cords, raw and high-pitched.

One day, that woman is going to literally eat your pussy.

Momo finally gives all the attention your throbbing clit was craving. No teasing needed, she simply wanted, ached, to lose herself into your cunt, tongue switching from lapping between your folds to flicking back at the swollen bundle of nerves above. Anytime you arch your back, you also press harder against her mouth. Momo hums in contentment, one of her hands leaves your ass to relieve herself of some of her own pains and aches.

There is nothing but a symphony of moans and whimpers filling the living room. Pleas run out of your mouth in search of a desperate release, you grind your pussy against Momo’s face and she keeps on sucking at your clit, tongue going back into folds, fucking you relentlessely with it.

“Momo… I’m so close,” you chant her name over, and over, and over again. Momo pinches her eyebrows, as if trying to catch up with you. You take over for her, placing your hand below hers, applying pressure while rubbing her clit in repeated motions, rutting continuously as Momo joins you in your fun, grinding against the palm of your hand.

“That’s it baby, come for me,” she mutters from under you.

That tight feeling in your gut snaps when Momo bites and sucks at your clit again. You cry out your release, and your fingers slip past her folds in one swift motion, making Momo whimper as her orgasm crashes over her as well. Coming down from your high, you lift yourself up, licking at your fingers to get a taste of Momo’s.

You settle over her lap, plopping onto her chest as your girlfriend hugs you, hands running up and down your spine. You raise your head, cradling Momo’s face and kissing her, chaste but longingly.

“Hope the seat was to your confort,” she murmurs mid-kiss.

“You can’t imagine,” you chuckle.

[luxe-pauvre]

Professor Oliver Hardt, who studies the neurobiology of memory and forgetting at McGill University in Montreal, is much more cautious. “Once you stop using your memory it will get worse, which makes you use your devices even more,” he says. “We use them for everything. If you go to a website for a recipe, you press a button and it sends the ingredient list to your smartphone. It’s very convenient, but convenience has a price. It’s good for you to do certain things in your head.” Hardt is not keen on our reliance on GPS. “We can predict that prolonged use of GPS likely will reduce grey matter density in the hippocampus. Reduced grey matter density in this brain area goes along with a variety of symptoms, such as increased risk for depression and other psychopathologies, but also certain forms of dementia. […] Map reading is hard and that’s why we give it away to devices so easily. But hard things are good for you, because they engage cognitive processes and brain structures that have other effects on your general cognitive functioning.” Hardt doesn’t have data yet, but believes, “the cost of this might be an enormous increase in dementia. The less you use that mind of yours, the less you use the systems that are responsible for complicated things like episodic memories, or cognitive flexibility, the more likely it is to develop dementia. There are studies showing that, for example, it is really hard to get dementia when you are a university professor, and the reason is not that these people are smarter – it’s that until old age, they are habitually engaged in tasks that are very mentally demanding.” (Other scientists disagree – Daniel Schacter, a Harvard psychologist who wrote the seminal Seven Sins Of Memory: How The Mind Forgets and Remembers, thinks effects from things like GPS are “task specific”, only.)

Rebecca Seal, Is your smartphone ruining your memory? A special report on the rise of ‘digital amnesia’

[natasailincic]

Nesting Hippocampus, watercolour on hot pressed paper.

The original is currently available through Every Day Original, and an in depth post about its creation will be posted tomorrow for my patrons!

[ryukatters]

def gojo, but also toji and maybe y’all are like competing assassins who run into eachother sometimes

⟡ word count: ~700

⟡ a/n: your brain is so big

⟡ Based on this ask

Your target is right ahead of you.

Just a few more feet, the two of you will be away from any wandering eyes and security cameras— and you’ll be in the clear to take him out with a single blow.

It’s an older gentleman— a local politician, you’ve been told, with connections to the black market. Made a few people working underground unhappy with some new laws passed. So you’ve been ordered to execute him.

You get jobs like this all the time. You don’t necessarily like what you do, but you don’t necessarily hate it either. It’s something that brings food to the table, allows you a roof over your head. Despite your unconventional career, it’s actually pretty stable, given your high success rate and gracious recommendations from satisfied clients.

Stable, as long as you’re the one actually doing the killing.

You blink once and suddenly your politician has a bullet going straight through his skull.

“You’ve gotta be faster than that, sweetheart.”

The politician’s body hits the floor with a dull thud. You hardly pay attention because all you hear is the rush of blood in your eardrums and all you can see is that annoying smirk on that stupid face of his.

Damn him.

You stomp towards Toji angrily, pointing an accusing finger into his (well-built) chest, “That was my target, you freak!”

“Was it? Well that’s too bad. Looks like you’ll have to pick up another job elsewhere,” he sneers. “Think you could make a pretty penny with those tits of yours.” He stares down at them pointedly. You feel your cheeks burn from humiliation.

“Oh fuck off, Fushiguro.”

“I’d much rather fuck you.”

Toji Fushiguro: a quick, money hungry, infamous assassin. Or, as you often call him— a pain in the ass. Your ass specifically, since he seems to have a tendency to sabotage all of your missions.

He’d argue that he simply has a penchant for pretty things, and you’re a high he has yet to come down from.

“You’re deplorable,” you spit, arms crossing over your chest. “A waste of space. Are you really so broke that you feel the need to steal someone else’s kill? Maybe you’re the one that needs to pick up a gig at the local strip club.”

Your words do nothing— they bounce off him as if he were a wall of solid steel. He might as well be. Nothing could ever penetrate Toji, physically and emotionally.

“So everyone can see the scratches you leave on my back?” He sneers, taking a step closer. He smells like sweat and cheap cologne. It’s intoxicating. “Dunno why you’re pretendin’ to hate me s’much with the way you’re creamin’ on my cock all the time.”

“Maybe because that’s the only redeeming quality you have,” you bite back. Toji merely chuckles, as if the venom spewing from your lips lacks virulence. And maybe it does.

“You’re pretty spunky today, baby. You know how much it turns me on when you put up a fight.”

You let out a growl, swinging your arm to punch him, but he’s gone from your sight before you even get the chance to land a blow. That’s the second time you’ve missed tonight.

He appears behind you before you can react.

Toji presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, relishing in the way you suppress a shiver as he leans down to his whisper in your ear, “Gotta be faster than that, sweetheart.”

You hate him. You remind yourself that every single time you see him.

“Bring that attitude with you tonight and see where that gets you,” he murmurs, allowing himself a rough nip at your jugular— a little taste of the inevitable. “You know where to find me.”

The words ring in your mind, each syllable being burned into your hippocampus with every passing second. You make quick work of delivering the corpse to your handler before you’re off to find a certain assassin.

Toji Fushiguro would ruin your life. Yet for some reason, you can’t find it in you to push him away when he calls.

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #27

Boozy Belly 🍺 / Dragon's Hoard 🐉

Marcille and Falin’s housewarming party is Kabru’s first time seeing where his friends live. He’d met Marcille first, at the queer affinity lunch hosted in the university library every month, and then Falin last semester when her schedule changed and she could finally attend the lunches too. They’ve hung out outside the library before, to co-work in cafes and do karaoke in Chinatown and, on one particularly memorable occasion, even went to an on-campus brain dissection Falin was excited about. Kabru and Marcille spent most of the dissection event playing What Would You Rather? under their breath, at least until Falin shushed them and they switched to M*A*S*H*, shaking with silent giggles like they were both in seventh grade again. By the end of the event they’d made a paper fortune teller and transposed all of their M*A*S*H* outcomes inside. 

(“Pick one,” Kabru said to Falin as they rode the train off campus, and she pointed to the flap labeled amygdala. He spelled it out with the fortune teller, then had her pick again. This time she chose hippocampus, spelled it out again, and held out her last options: hypothalamus, pituitary, brain stem, cerebellum. She picked cerebellum, and he opened the corresponding fortune.

“You’re going to live in a shack, drive a scooter, marry Shuro and have eight children with him, and you’ll be working as a forklift driver.”

“Marcille!” yelped Falin. “You put Shuro in there?”

“As a joke!”

“What’s wrong with Shuro?” asked Kabru interestedly. He knew he worked with Marcille at the library, but didn’t know much more about him than that. 

“Shuro’s fine,” said Marcille, though Falin frowned. “He just wildly misread the reason Falin was spending so much time at the circ desk before we started dating and got his panties in a twist about it.”

“I didn’t mean to lead him on,” said Falin, leaning into Marcille as the train swayed.

Marcille rolled her eyes. “If anyone was at fault in that situation, it wasn’t you, Falin. Shuro completely blasted past the insane gay vibe you give off. I just put him in because I thought maybe Kabru would think he was hot.”

Kabru had almost laughed. Shuro was tall and slender, with the kind of waifish, moody mystique people associated with fictional vampires. “No, he’s not my type. Like, the total opposite.”

Kabru is thinking of that now, in Falin and Marcille’s small and charmingly cluttered living room, less than six feet from a guy who really, truly, furiously is his type. He’s got a pretty good guess as to who he is, because he’s the spitting image of Falin and he knows she’s got a brother. Like Falin, he’s built tall and sturdy, lush with extra padding — Kabru knows Falin used to play college rugby because Marcille has swooned about it, and this guy has the same look of an overfed former athlete who hasn’t kept up with his training or diet. His dark red t-shirt is a little too snug, the soft, wobbly flab of his belly pressing at the fabric so that Kabru can see exactly where his navel dimples into his skin and where the fat at the very bottom of his belly softens into a gentle peach cleft. It’s like catnip to Kabru. He can practically feel his pupils dilating even though the room is solely lit by a mushroom-shaped lamp cycling through all the colors of the rainbow. If he weren’t already two of Marcille’s signature extra-strength sangria into the night, he might finagle a more seamless introduction, melt into the existing conversation or accidentally bump hands as they reached for an appetizer on the folding table in the corner. 

But the guy isn’t talking to anyone else. He’s just nursing a beer and hovering over the crockpot of buffalo chicken dip. As Kabru watches, he takes a spoon from one of the plastic cups full of disposable utensils and bends over to eat a mouthful of dip right out of the pot. 

Which, in this state, is all the in that Kabru really needs.

“Mind if I get in there, big guy?” he says, sidling up to the table. Big guy? He has no idea where that comes from. Thanks a lot, Marcille. 

“No, of course!” says the guy, squeezing himself into the corner to give Kabru more room than he needs. “The dip is really good. And so are the mac and cheese bites. And the antipasto skewers. And the —”

“I’m Kabru,” says Kabru, sticking his hand out. “You’re Falin’s brother, right?”

“Yes!” says the guy, pumping his hand. “I’m Laios. Do you go to school with Falin?”

“Sort of. We’re at the same university, but I’m getting my master’s in psychology, so I’m in a different department. But we both go to the queer lunches in the library every month, which is how I met her and Marcille.”

Laios grins. “Oh, you’re queer, too! That’s great!”

“Um … yes? Are you?”

Laios bobs his head and goes back in for more buffalo chicken dip, this time with a plastic cup. Satisfied, he licks around the rim and sticks his spoon inside. “Uh-huh. I just don’t really care about gender. I mean, I care about my gender, at least mostly. And I care about other people’s genders in the sense that, you know, I respect them, of course. But it doesn’t really matter one way or the other to me what gender someone is. I like everyone.”

He chases the words with a big gulp of beer, and Kabru nods slowly, taking it all in. He can’t tell if the guy is chatty, drunk, or both. “Cool,” he says. “I’m gay. Are you in school too?”

Laios shakes his head, spooning out a bite of buffalo dip from his cup. The mushroom light casts him in red, then green, then blue. “No, not anymore! I work at the wild animal sanctuary a few towns over, you know, the really big one? It’s over thirty thousand acres.”

“Oh, wow,” says Kabru. “What kind of animals?”

“Everything! We have a lot of big cats, and a bunch of wolves, and some bears, and almost thirty wild horses, too.” He lowers his voice and leans in closer to Kabru. “I don’t like zoos because they can be so sad sometimes, but the sanctuary isn’t like that! Every animal has so much space to roam and we try to make their habitats as similar to their natural ones as possible. And I handle a lot of the enrichment, which is cool. This week all the big cats and the wolves and bears got pumpkins to play with and eat. They love them.” He beams, and Kabru can’t help but grin back. His hay-blond hair flops over his forehead, and his honey-brown eyes are big and earnest. Kabru can just picture him heaving pumpkins into animals’ enclosures, muscles shifting beneath fat in his plump upper arms.

“That’s awesome,” says Kabru, taking an antipasto skewer and eating it slowly, saving the olive for last. There’s a bit of fuzz or something stuck to Laios’s shirt just above his left pec, and he can’t stop staring at it. It’s not that often that he looks at a guy and thinks, I want to suck his tits, but here he is. He’s gonna blame the sangria.

“Oh, hey — you have something,” he says in an attempt to save himself, plucking the errant fluff from the swell of Laios’s chest with his breath trapped in his throat. 

“Dog hair, probably,” says Laios with a laugh. “I have three of them and they’re all light-colored: a big samoyed-husky mix, a lab-pit mix, and a shepherd mix who’s actually part wolf.”

Kabru’s eyes go wide. “Is that even legal here?”

“Of course,” says Laios, suddenly serious. “I wouldn’t do anything to endanger him. I want him to have the best life possible.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Kabru backtracks. “Yeah, obviously. I just don’t meet a lot of people with wolf dogs.”

“Wanna see?” Laios is already taking out his camera. “That’s Kensuke, the one who’s part wolf. It means ‘strength’ or ‘vitality’ in Japanese, because he had a hard early life but he made it through and he’s such a good dog now! This one, the husky mix, is Chimera, because she has that mane in front like a lion! And the lab mix, this one, is Smok. It’s Polish for ‘dragon’ because she has the worst breath.”

“Are you Polish?” says Kabru, trying to keep up.

“Me? A little, but I really just liked the word. It sounds cute, right? Like a small dragon, Smok!”

“It’s cute,” Kabru agrees. “Hey, I’m going to grab another drink. You want one?”

“I’ll come with you,” says Laios, tipping the rest of his beer down his throat and following suit with his cup of buffalo dip. He burps gently and puts a hand on the curve of his belly. “’Scuse me. I could use another beer. And I heard Marcille say something about cheesecake earlier.”

Kabru lets Laios lead the way, only a little bit so he can check out his ass, which is as plump and wide as the rest of him. His khaki pants are straining a bit, the seams starting to pucker, and Kabru savors the jiggle of his back fat and love handles as he moves. 

Marcille and Falin are hanging out in the kitchen with Namari, who Kabru also knows from the queer lunch group. Namari is short, fat, and butch, and although Kabru doesn’t know them well, he respects what she’s got going on. For a while she was talking about trying to organize an axe-throwing group from the lunch attendees; he makes a note to ask if she ever succeeded.

Marcille sees him first and waves. Laios gravitates to Falin and Namari right away, and Marcille seizes the opportunity to shoot him an evil look.

“I see you’ve met Laios?”

“Yes?” says Kabru defensively, although he’s not sure what he’s defending. “We were talking.”

“Mmm-hmm,” says Marcille. “More sangria?”

Kabru nods. “With ice. How much brandy did you put in there?”

Marcille shrugs. “I measure with my heart. Isn’t he exactly your type? Are you dying?”

“Was this your plan all along?” he asks suspiciously, pieces starting to fall together. “Setting us up?”

“Were we wrong?”

Kabru scowls and slugs from the sangria she hands him. “No. But I think I’m slightly too drunk for the way he talks. I don’t want to be! But I am. Let’s play a drinking game or something so we’re all on the same level.”

Marcille shrugs. “Works for me.”

Which is how Kabru ends up sitting on the floor next to Laios, trying not to ogle his stomach where it flops heavily into his lap, his pants where they strain around his thick hips and thighs. He can always tell when he’s passed a certain threshold of drunk by how he catches himself just staring blankly at things. Luckily, Laios keeps losing at King’s Cup, so he hasn’t noticed that Kabru stares even harder every time he chases a swallow of beer with a belch. 

And then Laios gets up and misses a turn, which means he has to chug when he comes back with yet another beer, which he does, knocking the whole thing back in a few heavy gulps. He sets the empty can behind him and pulls out a paper plate piled with mini cheesecakes, and Kabru catches his breath. It’s not, like, a normal person amount of mini desserts to have on a plate. It’s, like, twenty.

“Oh, my god, Laios,” shrieks Marcille from across the circle. “Leave some dessert for everyone else!”

“I get hungry when I drink!” he retorts, slurring a little as he curls protectively over his plate. “And they’re so good!”

“Okay, well, it’s my turn to decide a rule anyway,” says Marcille, tossing her long blond braid over her shoulder. “I declare that Laios has to play the next three rounds with cheesecake instead of beer.”

Fortunately, and also unfortunately, for Kabru, Laios is so bad at this game that the cheesecakes disappear pretty quickly. He also, Kabru is discovering, is genuinely kind of delightful. He takes everything very literally and has the kind of comedic timing that can’t be learned and probably comes from decades of being the one outside the joke, but Kabru’s charmed by it. So many people he knows are so obsessed with trying to make themselves seem funnier or cooler or sexier they are and it’s so clearly a performance, but not Laios. Nothing about him seems to be anything but what it is, and it’s refreshing. And also, the guy can eat a lot of cheesecake, which is one of Kabru’s favorite qualities in a man.

He refills his plate and comes back with another beer, and when he takes his seat again next to Kabru, he’s panting a little.

“Oh, man,” he says, hiccuping. “You know when you don’t realize how drunk you are ’til you stand up? That’s me right now.”

“Eat something,” says Kabru, patting his pudgy knee. Laios turns a tipsy, beatific smile at him. 

“You’re so right. And I have so much cheesecake.”

Kabru nods. “Eat the cheesecake,” he says, “it’ll help,” and it has to be sangria that compels him to pick one up and feed it to Laios, who accepts it happily and belches after swallowing.

A few more rounds and Laios’s shirt is struggling even harder to cover the soft, swollen roll of his gut. He’s not so bloated that his belly isn’t still wobbling, and between its gentle jiggle and the little huffs and puffs of effort he makes when he moves. He keeps letting out little burps that he’s either too gone to notice or thinks no one else can hear over the general laughter and hubbub of the party, but Kabru can hear. He’s savoring each one, watching Laios’s gut jump and jiggle when he hiccups and appreciating how efficiently he’s putting away his veritable three dozen cheesecakes.

Finally, the game winds down when Falin nods off on Marcille’s shoulder, and Kabru follows Laios unsteadily over to the loveseat by the window. He flops down heavily, his whole midsection wobbling with the impact and his refilled beer almost sloshing over the rim of his cup, and Kabru takes it upon himself to get him some water to recuperate from the massive glut of calories he’s consumed in the last hour.

“Thanks,” says Laios when Kabru presents it to him, and he slugs down half of it in one go and lets out a rumbling belch. “Oh, god, I’m so — hic — full. I never drink this much beer.”

“I think the thirty cheesecakes might have also been a factor,” says Kabru gently, squeezing himself onto the half of the loveseat Laios isn’t sprawled across, big belly hanging out of his t-shirt, pink stretch marks just visible in the rainbow mushroom light.

Laios groans. “And I ate before coming! Some of my coworkers invited me out for dinner and I couldn’t — hic — say no.” He sips at his beer, then his water. “We went out for barbecue and you can’t just — hic — eat a little barbecue.”

“Wait,” says Kabru. “You were in the kitchen eating mac and cheese when I got here! And then when I found you in here, you were eating buffalo dip out of the pot!”

“I have a big — hic — appetite,” says Laios with a sheepish grin. “I could probably eat for most of the day before I got too — hic-urrrrp — full to keep going. ’Scuse me, oof. I need to — hic — unbutton my pants. Do you mind?”

“God, no,” says Kabru, wide-eyed.

Laios pops the button of his khakis and leans back, stomach spilling forward into the sudden space. “That’s better,” he sighs, rubbing at the crest of his belly idly. “Oh, man, I can hear it sloshing. Can you hear that?”

Eyes even wider, Kabru shakes his head. Laios motions him in, and Kabru, suddenly uncertain that he’s not in some kind of kinky feeder dream, gently rests his head on Laios’s stuffed belly. Sure enough, he can hear all the little squiggly noises of digestion it’s making as it tries to process the massive amount he’s eaten. 

Fever dream. Not feeder dream. For the love of god. 

Laios hic-urrps again, and Kabru feels his stomach jump beneath him. He pulls back, but scoots a little closer.

“I could rub your belly,” he offers, barely even sure he’s still speaking English. “If you want. If it would help.”

“Please?” Laios says, his head lolling toward Kabru with puppy-dog eyes so intense he must have learned them from his own dogs. “I feel so heavy. But I wanna finish my beer first.”

“I don’t know if —” Kabru tries to say, but Laios gropes around on the end table until he finds the plastic cup and drains it in a couple of loud, strenuous swallows. He belches once, then again, then angles himself toward Kabru with some difficulty, belly jiggling helplessly as the Jell-O shots one of the other library queers was passing out earlier. 

“Thanks,” he says dreamily, eyes flickering shut as Kabru puts his hand on his belly experimentally. Despite how much he’s eaten, most of his stomach is luxuriously, tantalizingly doughy, and he grabs at it as gently as he can, aware that his force modulation right now is not at its best.

“Mmmmm,” groans Laios, and Kabru splays his hand over the expanse of his gut and begins rubbing circles into the warm skin, noting the sunken threads of old stretch marks and the red rivers of new ones, wondering just how long Laios has been putting on weight since his jock days. Wondering how much he’s put on, to be this soft and wobbly even when he’s stuffed full of fat and carbs. 

“You’re good at this,” says Laios, finding Kabru’s free hand with his own and lacing their fingers together. He gives it a hearty squeeze, more than Kabru would have expected for how drunk he is. “Have you done this before?”

“Yes,” mumbles Kabru.

“Wow,” sighs Laios. He hiccups once more, and then he’s snoring heavily on the couch, belly flopping out for all to see. Kabru tries his best to tug his shirt down to give him dignity, but he’s got a lot of stomach and not that much shirt to work with, so in the end he grabs a blanket from the basket in the corner and just tosses it over him.

He’s in no state to go home himself, so he helps Marcille set up the air mattress for Namari and drags a giant bean bag over by the couch for himself. He dozes off a few feet from Laios, sleepy drunk fantasies about taking him on food crawls and dressing him in tight clothes lulling him off.

He wakes up to Namari picking herself up off the floor, the air mattress having deflated completely in the night. They share a stifled giggle at the absurdity of it all, despite their pounding hangovers, and he helps her roll up the air mattress before she takes off. He follows her out, but not far — he splits off at the coffee shop a few storefronts down, and decides to be the best friend any of them will have this morning and lugs a growler of cold brew, a dozen doughnuts, and half a dozen breakfast sandwiches with varying fillings back up to Falin and Marcille’s. He’s the only one up, so he fumbles around the kitchen and googles their oven to figure out how to put the sandwiches in to warm. Possibly he’s still drunk. There’s actually a very strong likelihood that he’s still drunk. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to be the friend group hero this morning. And more importantly, he’s gonna get Laios’s number when he wakes up, and he is gonna feed him so many carbs.

[cutesyscreenname]

A Cowboy Like Me : Chapter 2

What Must It Be Like

Chapter 1

Series summary:

I've had some tricks up my sleeve

Takes one to know one

You're a cowboy like me

Javier Peña is a playboy, sleeping his way across Bogotá, never settling down. And he's used to being the only one. What happens when he meets his match? A friendly challenge between friends couldn't hurt, could it? Unless that friend is you...

Chapter Summary: Javier thinks over everything that happened at the bar as he and Steve get you home. He shouldn't be feeling like this...

Pairing: Javi Peña x f reader

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: drinking, hangover, language, angst 😉

Notes: So this is turning into a much longer endeavor than originally intended 😂 I thought it would only be a few parts but I capped this bad boy at 3k and we only made it halfway to where I thought we would. The next one will likely be even longer so hopefully y'all are down for it.

Here is the song mentioned at the end (there's no canon for it but I feel like Javi would have a few records from the 70's he brought from home and Santana would be one of them):

And the full playlist:

What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?

With your hair falling into place like dominoes

My mind turns your life into folklore

I can't dare to dream about you anymore

From the moment your eyes closed until you reached the parking lot of your shared apartment building there was no sound but the dull rumble of the engine and a gentle crooning over the radio.

Javier leaned his dark curls against the headrest, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing in front of him.

Steve’s eyes flickered over to his friend with concern but he held his tongue. The man was a million miles away, gears turning so quickly behind his eyes Steve swore he could hear the faint sound of metal scraping over itself in a desperate grind.

A cowboy. Like him.

I do what Javi does.

I'll prove it to you.

I hear it every time I try to sleep.

You're declarations float around Javier's mind in a jumble, a record that someone keeps lifting and dropping the needle onto at random.

You were a tricky one, no doubt about it. It’s why he liked you, why he wanted your friendship. Smart but not pretentious, guarded yet forgiving, sure footed but still a little reckless, and the biggest heart that you thought no one could see. Maybe they couldn’t, but he could.

He had imagined your romances before; tentative coffee dates, sweet kisses shared in taxis, most of your suitors left disappointed aside the select few who manage to be invited up for a night cap.

He had supposed not even these lucky finalists would prove to meet the standard for dating you longer than a week, a month tops, nor should they. The man you would keep long enough to mention, to bring to drinks, to invite for dinner at Steve and Connie’s, he couldn’t build such a human in his mind’s eye.

Javier had posited all of this and a million other things but none of his thoughts matched what you had just divulged.

Entertaining my companions.

Like Javi does.

The evening in review plays on the projector screen of his hippocampus.

Quick like a bunny, sweetheart, or I won't tip ya.

Even though it was for the sake of a deprecating joke, you’d never called him sweetheart before that night. It made his ears burn and he’d practically bolted to the bar to hide the involuntary flush sure to be staining his cheeks.

Pinche mocosa, he’d thought to himself, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. The smart little mouth on her.

Later in the evening you’d groaned when Javi appeared with three tequila shots in hand.

‘Come on, we don’t have to be at the office tomorrow. Plus, Steve is a better conversationalist when I’m drunk.’

With a ‘good point' from you and ‘fuck you both’ from Steve the three of you licked salt from your hands, kicked back the poison, and pressed your teeth into limes like sucking venom from a snake bite.

His gaze couldn’t help but linger on the way your flat tongue slid across the skin between your thumb and forefinger to collect the salt crystals, his breath hitching when your lips rolled over the edge of the citrus rind as you sucked the juice from it’s flesh.

A deer in the headlights, he’d been snapped from his reverie by the man across from him.

‘Ooooo-wee. I’m switchin’ to beer after this. Someone’s gotta get you two geniuses back home later.’

‘Awww, thanks dad.’ You’d said ruffling Steve’s hair.

After your glass had emptied and refilled once and then twice more, Steve started poking the bear to amuse himself, going after the way the drink colored your words with a heavy Texas twang.

Javier relished in it, your lilting voice drawing him in like a moth to a porch light. It felt nostalgic, like the polaroid of his mamá that rested between the pages of the book on his nightstand; intimate, like a secret piece of you, buried beneath the Gulf Coast clay, awaiting your return home.

Ever the co-conspirator, you followed his lead to help him land a crude joke. Not his finest, but enough to make you laugh which was plenty for him. Then something shifted.

‘Oh it’s what they ALL say, I hear ‘em every time I try to sleep at my place.’

You’d tormented the man about his noise level before. Hell, just that morning you'd been playfully ribbing him for it. It’s not like Javier tried to keep it down. He could hear the creak of your wicker ceiling fan when he lay in his own bed chasing sleep.

The paper thin walls between you concealed nothing. Sometimes Javier swore he could hear you thinking too hard on the other side of the studs and drywall. So it stood to reason that no matter what he did to dampen the lewd soundtrack you’d hear it, and if he couldn’t shield you from it he figured it was moot to even try.

The tone in your voice tonight, though, it was different. Still playful, still antagonistic, but there was a rough undercurrent slipping through. If it weren’t for Steve’s uncanny knack for levity, Javi might have gotten caught in the undertow.

‘Girl’s out to catch Escobar all on her lonesome.’

A solid deflection but you spurred on.

I do like Javi does.

A cowboy.

Like me.

I’ll prove it.

His mind was reeling, trying to amend the portrait of you in his mind. It felt impossible. You must have been fucking with them. He was really feeling the alcohol, more intoxicated than he’d been in a long while. He was reading it wrong. Back to the script. Back to the game.

‘I don’t fuckin believe you, cariño.’

If you thought he wouldn’t call your bluff you had another thing coming. With all the cool and confidence he could muster, Javier dug his heels in even more.

‘In fact I think you’re home every night. Ear pressed to my fuckin wall, apparently.’

Yup. That would do the trick. The point goes to Agent Peña. But no-

A wave of anger flashed across your eyes, making Javier’s throat run dry.

I’ll prove it to you.

If his mind had been racing before, it short circuited when you took two of your delicate fingers and pressed them to the exposed skin of his chest. He couldn’t fight the shiver that ran through his body so he just hoped you hadn’t noticed it.

And then you- God. Fuck.

You reached up and tapped his cheek gently with your hand, your determined gaze softening just so as you peered up at him. He almost leaned into the touch. Get yourself together, Peña. She doesn’t see you like that. Goddamn tequila - una idea estúpida. He turned away from you, trying to collect his thoughts, but in his periphery he could see you were on the move.

Too sloshed to walk without stumbling, you’d swayed dangerously when you stood in pursuit of another drink. Acting on instinct, Javier had placed his steady, calloused hands around your waist. The warmth of your skin through your t-shirt seemed to creep up his fingers and send a searing current down his spine.

His hands stay curled around you for what feels like an eternity and he wonders when you’ll slap them away. To anyone that asked he’d say he had kept hold on you because he couldn't let you fall over. Really, though, he couldn’t let go if he’d tried, a man electrified, hands locked in place on the raw, exposed wire of your form.

He'd flashed a pleading look to Steve and nearly collapsed when the man took you by the hand, breaking the circuit.

He trailed behind as Murphy helped you to the car with a strong arm around your shoulders, taking the opportunity to run his hands over his face, trying to calibrate his thoughts. He sealed himself in the front passenger seat and slipped into silent thought as you slid your eyes closed.

The next sound Javi took note of was his friend’s voice.

“Jav- we’re here, man.” His tone was gentle and Javi couldn’t tell if he appreciated the care or resented what bordered on sounding like pity.

“Let’s get you both upstairs, be good to sleep it off a little.”

Javier nods, not moving at first as Steve glances at the back seat where you lay, still lost in slumber.

The man in the driver’s seat reaches back and gives you a firm shake, calling your name a handful of times before sighing.

“I’m gonna need your help getting her upstairs, bud.” Yup that was definitely pity, Javier decided.

Not wanting to prove the man right, whatever he was thinking, Javi exited the car briskly and opened the back door on the side opposite your head. Lifting your calves from the where they hung over the edge of the seat, he hooked his hands beneath the crooks of your knees and pulled you to the threshold.

When he chanced a quick look at your face he took note of how soft, how peaceful you looked. Would you even remember the night's events in the morning?

Steve moved to help but didn’t get the chance as Javier steeled himself and swiftly maneuvered you, first sitting you upright in the seat before lifting to carry you in front of him. One arm beneath your legs, the other supporting your back, and your head slumped drowsily into his shoulder, he steeled his expression and started toward the apartment wordlessly, Steve hustling to catch up and help with the door.

“Can you tell where her keys are at?”

Javi sighed as they reached the landing. Your warmth pressed into his torso and he found himself torn between wanting to hold you tighter, to soak it in, and needing to get as far from you as possible.

“Well her pockets are clearly empty, so I’m guessing she keeps ‘em next to her cash. Not sure about you, Murphy, but I’m not lookin’ to cop a feel of an unconscious woman.”

It was the smart move, keeping your pockets empty and stashing the necessities in your bra, but it was a hindrance at this moment.

“Yeah that’s a game of go fish no one would be pleased with. Alright. She can crash with me and Connie.” Javi gave a quick nod to acknowledge his friend and turned you both toward the Murphys' door.

The lock turned almost silently under Steve’s careful movements but the hushed entry proved unnecessary when they walked in to see his beautiful wife, Connie, standing at the kitchen counter.

“Hey gang.” Her voice was soft and warm, gently welcoming the three of you in as though it was home to you and Javier as well. “She okay?”

“Yeah, honey. Just can’t find her keys and-“

“Say no more.” She waves off the explanation.

As Javier settles you onto the couch, Steve steps into the kitchen to speak with her quietly.

“What are you doin’ up, baby?”

She matched his hushed tone, just low enough to evade Javi’s range of hearing.

“Well when I woke up a bit ago and you weren’t here I figured drinks ran late. I’m about to put the kettle on, I thought at least one of you could use some tea and aspirin.”

“Let’s skip the tea and leave her some aspirin. Javi’s in no shape for company. I’ll tell you later.”

She nodded while Steve went to fill a glass with water for you.

As if on cue, “Not that I don’t enjoy seeing you, Connie, but I’m gonna head out.”

He finished pulling a blanket over your limp frame, slowly turning toward them with apologetic eyes.

“ No worries, Javi. I’m on my way back to bed anyway. Thanks for helping Steve get her inside.” Her knowing smile had him feeling uneasy.

“Anytime.” He replied softly. He and Steve exchanged quick nods and Javier slipped from their dwelling to his own. He locked the door behind him and leaned against it with an exhausted sigh.

What was he even thinking? Why should he be bothered? There was no good reason.

You were his friend, perhaps his best friend, and he had learned a surprising fact about you. That was all. He had no right to be anything but slightly surprised, maybe amused.

He didn’t worry for your safety, he’d seen you take down grown men twice your size on the job. You could handle yourself, no problem.

And so what if you were chasing away your demons? Lord knows he does the same. Columbia was vast and humid. The underbelly of the drug trade held the country in its bloody grip, pressing in on you from all directions. The assignment was full of uncertainty and it left Javier so lonely in the silence of his government issued abode.

He would do anything to fill the empty spaces, to stave off the cold tendrils that would pull at the walls of his chest when he lied awake, freefalling through the dark skies of his mind until morning. He could never fault you for doing the same.

Slumping into the worn sofa, his eyes shut slowly. Nothing is wrong. I drank too much and I'm being dramatic. She doesn't even think of me that way. It's not a big deal.

Still, as the weight of the day sank into his bones, sleep beckoning softly, his mind drifted to your faint sigh as you had nuzzled into his neck in your sleep while Steve unlocked his front door. When he opened his eyes again it was morning.

You awoke with a low groan, a sharp pain throbbing a wild cumbia rhythm behind your eyes. What happened last night?

You cracked open one eye cautiously, then the other, thankful to find the room somewhat dim around you. Only the small lamp across the room from you was on, blinds and curtains muffling the sunlight that tried to peek through the window behind you.

Eyes adjusting quickly, you recognized the comfortable sight of the Murphys’ living room. It was the same exact layout as yours, but Connie’s warm touch made all the difference. The soft decorative pillows, kitschy knick knacks, and framed candid photos transformed the small unit into something that felt like a home.

Okay I'm on Murphy’s sofa. So- Your gaze finds the full glass of water and bottle of aspirin on the coffee table. The puzzle pieces begin to fit together quickly. Just as you start to recall what happened the night before, what you had said, Steve slipped out of his bedroom and noticed you stirring.

“Heyyy good morning. How ya feel?” Thankfully he kept his tone low, guessing the answer to his own question.

“I’ve been better.” You croak, sitting up gingerly.

“I thought that might be the case. You see the Aspirin? Connie made sure to close the curtains for ya.”

“Yes thank you.” You tap two pills into your palm and kick them back with a healthy glug of water. “Is there a chance I could have some-“

“Already on it.” Steve was moving to fill the coffee maker with water before you asked.

“Where is that angel you tricked into marrying you?”

“At the clinic, unfortunately. Somebody called in sick and they’re so shorthanded as it is. She said to give you her best and inform you that you’d better come for dinner soon.”

You raised your eyebrows as Steve raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger, kid. I’m just quotin’. You know she won’t take no for an answer.”

You chuckled in reply.

Once your mugs were filled with rich black liquid, Steve placed them on the table in front of you, taking a seat on the sofa. You both sipped in silence for a few moments before you decided to break the ice.

“So…last night. Um. Did I-“ You did not want to ask but you needed confirmation. “Did I basically tell y’all all about my sex life in no uncertain terms?” You wince when you hear the words out loud.

“Well, my friend, in no uncertain terms… you said that Javi’s lady friends are so loud you can’t sleep so you conduct your own ah – activities – in other venues, namely the homes of your own dates.”

You groaned loudly and covered your face with your hands. It wasn’t a dream. You’d definitely made a tequila shaped mistake and said the in-your-head thing out loud.

“Do ya wanna hear the rest or should I just leave it be?”

“There’s MORE?” You didn’t want to ruminate, better to rip the band-aid off. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. So that, and then I guess Javi thought you were kiddin’ so he tried to push your buttons and you said somethin’ about provin’ it to him.”

The confirmation was all you needed, the words flooding back to you all at once.

Ear pressed to my fuckin’ wall apparently.

Ah yes, the anger. You were remembering quickly. Pendejo. Why wouldn’t he believe that about you? You weren't a delicate flower, some witless debutante in need of safekeeping. You were his friend and his fucking equal. Of course rubbing his nose in it seemed appealing, especially after so many drinks.

Polishing off the contents of your mug, you placed it on the table and stood, crossing to the door.

“I think I should go back to mine. I just-“

“Yeah. No. I get it.”

“Thanks for not diving for my keys, by the way. And ya know…everything else.” You smiled weakly at the man on the sofa.

“Yeah we, uh, figured that wouldn’t work out well. For all involved.” He chuckled. “As for the rest, anytime, kid. You know that.”

You nod and open the door. “I’ll call Connie soon.”

“Oh believe me, if you don’t she’ll be at your doorstep. She knows where ya live.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Bye Murphy.”

Once alone in your apartment, you stripped off your jeans and t-shirt, collapsing on your bed as you vowed to shower after another round of sleep.

You could hear the faint sound of Javier’s record player, the muffled melody lulling you into relaxation.

I am just a mirage

Oh, I am just a mirage

When you look at me

Through your crystal glass you will see

That I am now your past

But you give your love to me

In your life I wasn’t meant to be.

Oh I am just a mirage

Oh I am just a mirage

Just a mirage fading away like water

The faint guitar licks pull you towards sleep like a receding tide carrying you out to sea. Even as you sink into slumber, you almost swear you can hear Javi thinking too hard on the other side of the paper thin wall.

Let me know if y'all wanna be on the tag list! I'll have one going as long as Tumblr cooperates 😂

@heythere-mel

[captainkurosolaire]

Burned

Brazier torches splayed over a cobwebbed spiral-case of stairs left abandoned. Only a singular blaze of resistance billowed; the lone-survivor, awaiting for rekindle owner to return. That ember's existence fought to prevent one descending into the chasm-passage below itself and joining the mad abyss, forevermore. Radiant outlines of a shadowy figure were aligning, discovery in the dark... identity attempting to surface. Buried to the valley of suppression. Pillaging glove's searched over a recently deceased Venomous assailant finding a room-key to an apartment. Returning to his feminine ally and surprisingly gestured bow, "I apologize, Kunoichi, one last request. Stow-away my client to safety, this key certainly belongs to a room of the deceased who never got a well-fare check, making the spot invisible. Likely, Hydo was given a time-contract, with him not attending, more will-follow for scent to the unfinished, unless. The hand is severed." A final murderous mission displayed, against his own Don's Estate, wielder of his sculpted cruel-design. Chortle came between the sultry assassin, "This vixen, truly has you smitten." Hiding a pout behind a mask, "I'll agree but I might sink my paws, demanding repaid favor." Naturalness came as he stepped away. She thought about forewarning gravitates again. Alas, every-time. He proved irrefutable, there's feelings she'd dwell for one who carried unbridled security and sheer discipline. Upon his exit. The Killer Queen, pressed her lethal-nail's against the unconscious girl's throat near-puncture, a cat-like jealously that brought down her harbor. "Seems I've a rival with you I should eliminate, you girl." Flashed drama, revealed... "...But I'm interested in seeing if you're who sharpens, or dulls that particular blade." Retracting claws with playfulness then cradling her away. ...Meanwhile the Burned Shadow who was going to strike down his own feeder arrived, plethora of bodies of the Estate's men were already skewered to massacre. Descending into the courtyard was further disarrayed butchery, was something political happening? A lone-figure took pace across with Spectacle-glasses, another assassin, who glance-towards but held zero murderous intent, only a colorful-grin that shot across before Hoku. Then escaping beyond with a potent aura. Seeker's ankles conflicted to turn for pursuit. However the interior Don's Estate men flocked out, "There's the perpetrator!" Instantly assuming him behind transgressions. He withdrew steel from confines, rushing towards them it was his plans to eradicate them all-anyway. Just unexpected leg-work was done. Stopping before a taller figure's he demonstrated a deft-dodge, slashing his blade from sternum to the giant's throat in a violent wave. Cutting down, losing himself again in red-rivers. Instinct-driving his manufacture-making, he moved elegantly like killing was floating atop waves, drifting effortlessly. Reaching the main room. Everyone else laid erased, outside one and a missing Don. The vigilant-survivor held blade, shook afraid; soaked to blood of peers, knowing he'd not cut-difference. <"..Y-y-you'll never find the Boss. You-fail fool!"> He'd tried mustering courage against this golden-eye, killer. Although pant's were soiled. He'd never be tortured of the intel within timely-matter, the boss would've escaped. ...Yet, Rozan the Star, engulfed meteor-resolve. An Uchigatana was thrown like spear through the last-alive, impaling the man to seat. Hoku fetched chop-sticks of an empty ramen bowel. "We'll see." Came coldly in pitch. The poor-soul remaining couldn't predict the gruesomeness act or skill this assassin held. His head was expertly carved open; brain left to air, this Assassin with chop-sticks, played brain-operator, questioning. "Where is he?" Prodding at the hippocampus for answers. "B-bb-ook cca-se." Forcefully pulled truth. Assassin vouched, finding a secret-button, he mercy-slew the tortured informant. One last life to take... This would end an inferno, Extinguishing all to its beastly wake.

[Prev:Chapter]: Cold Adversity ~ ♪"Built for Sin"♪

[hplovecraftmuseum]

A primary difference between my evaluation of Lovecraft's fiction and the majority of his other critics and fans is that I have believed for more than 40 years that he was creating a RELIGION within his stories. This fictional religion began quite subconsciously at first, but by 1930 it had begun to be an intentional creation. Lovecraft had studied all the world's major historic religious beliefs. By the age of 8, however, he was a confirmed atheist/agnostic. Despite his lack of faith in any higher, controlling intelligence in the universe, HPL remained fascinated with all historic myths, fables, conspiracy theories (of the supernatural kind) and psuedo-scientific theories of creation or alternative realities. One might ask why an individual on the one hand so steeped in the principals of scientific method, strict rationalism, and reasoned evaluation would write for a lifetime about supernatural phenomena. If we study the Lovecraft revealed in his letters we find that almost EVERYTHING he wrote about in fiction was diametrically opposed to his personal beliefs and values. In THE CALL OF CTHULHU he tells of a gigantic and hideous monster - diety who is trapped in a city of bizzare and logically impossible architecture. Cubism and Futurism, two schools of Modern Art that had emerged during the early years of the 20th century are referenced too. Contrast these things to Lovecraft's stated personal values: As a child he had actually made altars to the gods of Rome. He was a lifelong aficionado of Classical Architecture. He despised Modern Art and modern literature. He was a firm believer in scientific method, but believed that science would never reveal any MEANING in the universe/ cosmos. Though Lovecraft evolved considerably as an individual over the course of his lifetime he remained outwardly a very conservative individual. I believe that one day it may be revealed that Lovecraft's fictional religion was something he worked on and developed in secret, perhaps hoping or expecting that its complexity and ultimately esoteric nature would never be fully revealed to others. Probably he recognized that any such fictional religious creation would be trivialized by others if It was discovered. Unfortunately that fear would be realized after Lovecraft's death. It is now known as THE CTHULHU MYTHOS. It should be remembered that in Lovecraft's day there were no "collections" of his stories available. If anyone wished to compare the background information in his fiction they would have to own a considerable collection of pulp magazines, privately printed fanzines and unpublished works in the hands of his individual friends. In many cases Lovecraft's most loyal followers were also fiction writers themselves and busy with projects of their own. Today we have a vast trove of Lovecraftian material that was unavailable to his early critics. Every few years another important source becomes available. HIPPOCAMPUS PRESS will release the complete correspondence between Frank Belknap Long and H. P. Lovecraft shortly. As Long was one of Lovecraft's closest friends and a fiction writer too we can expect that this fothcoming publication will give us even greater insite into the remarkable mind of the modern world's greatest master of supernatural fiction. (Exhibit 536)

[compneuropapers]

Interesting Papers for Week 40, 2024

Impact of Extracellular Current Flow on Action Potential Propagation in Myelinated Axons. Abdollahi, N., & Prescott, S. A. (2024). Journal of Neuroscience, 44(26), e0569242024.

Prefrontal coding of learned and inferred knowledge during REM and NREM sleep. Abdou, K., Nomoto, M., Aly, M. H., Ibrahim, A. Z., Choko, K., Okubo-Suzuki, R., … Inokuchi, K. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 4566.

Distinct basal ganglia contributions to learning from implicit and explicit value signals in perceptual decision-making. Balsdon, T., Pisauro, M. A., & Philiastides, M. G. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5317.

Hebbian priming of human motor learning. Bjørndal, J. R., Beck, M. M., Jespersen, L., Christiansen, L., & Lundbye-Jensen, J. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5126.

The well‐worn route revisited: Striatal and hippocampal system contributions to familiar route navigation. Buckley, M., McGregor, A., Ihssen, N., Austen, J., Thurlbeck, S., Smith, S. P., … Lew, A. R. (2024). Hippocampus, 34(7), 310–326.

Ouvrai opens access to remote virtual reality studies of human behavioural neuroscience. Cesanek, E., Shivkumar, S., Ingram, J. N., & Wolpert, D. M. (2024). Nature Human Behaviour, 8(6), 1209–1224.

Two distinct networks for encoding goals and forms of action: An effective connectivity study. Di Cesare, G., Lombardi, G., Zeidman, P., Urgen, B. A., Sciutti, A., Friston, K. J., & Rizzolatti, G. (2024). Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 121(26), e2402282121.

Conductance-based dendrites perform Bayes-optimal cue integration. Jordan, J., Sacramento, J., Wybo, W. A. M., Petrovici, M. A., & Senn, W. (2024). PLOS Computational Biology, 20(6), e1012047.

Subpopulations of neurons in the perirhinal cortex enable both modality-specific and modality-invariant recognition of objects. Lim, H.-Y., & Lee, I. (2024). PLOS Biology, 22(6), e3002713.

Hippocampal and orbitofrontal neurons contribute to complementary aspects of associative structure. Lin, H., & Zhou, J. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5283.

A vast space of compact strategies for effective decisions. Ma, T., & Hermundstad, A. M. (2024). Science Advances, 10(25).

The direction of theta and alpha travelling waves modulates human memory processing. Mohan, U. R., Zhang, H., Ermentrout, B., & Jacobs, J. (2024). Nature Human Behaviour, 8(6), 1124–1135.

Mental navigation in the primate entorhinal cortex. Neupane, S., Fiete, I., & Jazayeri, M. (2024). Nature, 630(8017), 704–711.

Low and high beta rhythms have different motor cortical sources and distinct roles in movement control and spatiotemporal attention. Nougaret, S., López-Galdo, L., Caytan, E., Poitreau, J., Barthélemy, F. V., & Kilavik, B. E. (2024). PLOS Biology, 22(6), e3002670.

Striatal Dopamine Contributions to Skilled Motor Learning. Phillips, C. D., Hodge, A. T., Myers, C. C., Leventhal, D. K., & Burgess, C. R. (2024). Journal of Neuroscience, 44(26), e0240242024.

Visuo-motor updating in individuals with heightened autistic traits. Pomè, A., & Zimmermann, E. (2024). eLife, 13, e94946.3.

Spindle-locked ripples mediate memory reactivation during human NREM sleep. Schreiner, T., Griffiths, B. J., Kutlu, M., Vollmar, C., Kaufmann, E., Quach, S., … Staudigl, T. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5249.

Disruption of dopamine D2/D3 system function impairs the human ability to understand the mental states of other people. Schuster, B. A., Sowden, S., Rybicki, A. J., Fraser, D. S., Press, C., Hickman, L., … Cook, J. L. (2024). PLOS Biology, 22(6), e3002652.

A prefrontal motor circuit initiates persistent movement. Wang, Y., & Sun, Q.-Q. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 5264.

Decomposition of an odorant in olfactory perception and neural representation. Ye, Y., Wang, Y., Zhuang, Y., Tan, H., Zuo, Z., Yun, H., … Zhou, W. (2024). Nature Human Behaviour, 8(6), 1150–1162.

[whateveryouiguess]

four letter word.

Miguel O’ Hara x Reader, 1k+ words

Warnings: None i don’t think, mentions of Miguel’s comic origin along w his movie lore, she/her pronouns r used in this one, mostly sentimental ramblings abt everyone’s favorite problematic bb girl, improper punctuation and capitalization bc i’m a poet and i simply cant be bothered LMAOOO. lmk whatcha think :)

last night, miguel told her he hated her.

at least, that’s how he heard it. with her hand in his hair and his head nestled between the ridges of her collarbone and the crook of her neck, his eyes closed as every bit of the days worries seemed to float away, just as they always did when he was in her arms. craning his neck up to see the edge of her face backlit by the lamp light, the gentle contours of her face illuminated like a Rembrandt painting. the crest of dawn was creeping, seeping through the cracks in the windowsill, the green blue sky still freckled with stars as the world stay asleep. universes laid to rest in their cozy beds, minds at ease, all shrouded in blankets and carpeted by dreams: all but him. he never slept very much anyway; if there wasn’t a pressing mission keeping him awake, it was the ghosts that waited for him behind his eyes.

the compilation of all his hardest, worst moments, playing on a loop in the empty theatre of his hippocampus. the icy sensation of a rapture high, the white hot pain of withdrawal. the strands of spider dna that launched a foot race through him as he injected himself with nothing but a hope and a prayer. the stretching of his jaw, the razor sharp fangs that grew onto his incisors, the indicators that he would forever be other. though the coercive whispers of his addiction had grown quiet, the blood curdling screams of his wife and child still echoed through him, day by day, night by night, every hour on the hour. it was years before he could look at happy families without the urge to scratch at his leg with one of his talons. that should’ve been us. that would’ve been us if I hadn’t fucked it up so badly. he’d learned to let the ghosts just float by, a technique begrudgingly introduced into his life once it was recommended by jess, practically his therapist (and a mind reader, as he hadn’t once asked for her help). part of him—a stupid, naive, part—hoped that they would never truly go away. in his mind, in the absence of them, it was as though their screams were close enough to their laughter that he could pretend he still heard them, that when he rose from his bedroom each morning, he would still find them laughing and carrying on as they made sunday breakfast, or that when he woke up to an empty house, there they would be, playing in the soil and pruning the rose bushes out back, but at the end of the day, he knew they wouldn’t be. there was no stove for them to warm tortillas on for breakfast tacos. and there was no garden of roses to prune on the cold, lawn-less patio of his high rise apartment. it was just him and his grief.

but miguel didn’t believe in that “five stages” bullshit. just another myth of psychology constructed by scientists to put the suffering at ease, he thought. to give them a timeline of their hurting, to provide them not with a date or location of when, but a clear indicator that the dust of hurting would one day settle, and that the war inside their head would one day be over. he thought they’d figured that was a good enough bandage for the gash of death. but no one talks about the scar that comes once that gash is healed. no one talks about the ripping of the stitches, or the blinding pain that follows when the wounds reopen and clot and scab over and over and over again, never quite sealing shut. miguel knew in his head that he would never heal, and part of him was grateful. if he never healed, he never had to let them go. THAT was why he hated her.

he hated her because the very second he first saw her, he could hear the bells. she smiled at no one and nothing in particular, and his national anthem blared on speakers through the streets, the song he hadn’t heard since the day he lost the first loves of his life. she said hello, and flags were raised once again, she waved goodbye and the city streets, littered in bombshells and empty magazines swept themselves clean, a cold rain poured down from the sky and civilians left their homes for the first time in days to watch the downpour, to dance in it. war was over, whether he liked it or not.

and now, with his head on her chest and her heartbeat in his ear, the ghosts have found their final resting place and kissed his cheeks goodbye, one last time. and though he never loses sight of them, they don’t scream his name from the rubble anymore. they whisper to him, egging him on, encouraging him on days when he can’t find the strength in himself to keep going. the specters are like saints to him now, a crutch to lean on when he wants her so badly it makes him miss them. he kneels at their gravestone and weeps, just for them to rest on his shoulder and sigh. and they forgive him. they let him go. free him into the expanses of the wild with the knowledge that he’s ready to survive on his own, and they cheer jubilantly when he runs straight to her, as if there were anywhere else for him to go.

miguel hates her. he hates the way her laughter makes his stomach bubble, he detests the sweet, potent smell of the still-steamy bathroom as she exits the shower (he also hates the little messages she leaves for him in the fogged up mirror—finger traced transmissions reading “hi, handsome!” and “we’re out of toilet paper <3”). and he hates, most of all, that she doesn’t have to try. she never once forced him to open up to her, starting the game and waiting till he was comfortable enough to lay out his cards. he was guarded as all get out before he met her, but he broke down brick walls to let her in, not because she asked him to, or even because she said she requested entry. because he knew it was time to open. it was time for the eastern and western regions of himself to meet and rejoice once again, to end the era of his solitude and self pity, and to allow the soft smiles and crows feet to return to his face again.

he hates how easy it was to fall apart in her arms, and how easily she puts him back to together. he hates how she never needed him, but wanted him more than anything, he hates how she made an effort for him, because no one else ever had, and he hates most of all that there isn’t a single fiber of his being that could ever, in any fraction of the multiverse, bring the whole of him to truly and earnestly detest her. he hates her because he doesn’t hate her. not one bit at all.

so, in the present moment, when he cranes his neck up to see her, eyes only half open in the wee, small, hours of the morning, he traces a hand down her jaw and rests his palm behind her ear and strokes his thumb across her cheek. the sleepy smile that pulls from her entraps him, the feeling of her nails scratching at the nape off his entombs him, he knows he is royally and utterly screwed, tortured by the mere experience of her. so he licks his cracked lips and elects to give her a piece of his mind.

but when he opens his mouth to tell her how much he hates her, hate doesn’t end up being the four letter word he uses.

.

ty for reading <3 if ya have any requests send em my way and maybe i’ll do em who knows. take it easy :)

[dorianwolfforest]

Come back, even as a shadow, even as a dream

It’s morning.

It’s always morning here. You’ve been here before. The day has only just begun. It’s eternal, permanently fused to your hippocampus. The only thing in this scene that will remain unchanged, untouched, not spoiled by your own memories.

Concorde stands next to you. He has always considered himself eternal. A presence beyond friendships and family. Your own personal sun. Your center of gravity. You know he’s not eternal. You know this dream.

You’re about to lose him. You’re about to lose him, and he’s laughing because he just told you Meteor threatened to eat all of his future apples if you don’t buy some fancy, French horse snacks for him. You’re laughing too, because it hasn’t hit you yet that this is it.

Then the clouds drift. The morning light casts a shadow you’ve seen a thousand times before, every night since it happened. How unlike you, to spook at a shadow. How unlike Concorde, to not notice it. Someone is waiting for you outside, by the barn door.

You pause. You have to stop him. Your hand is harsh on the lead rope, harsher than it has to be. Concorde doesn’t seem to mind.

“Let’s not go yet.”

He says nothing, but you feel him questioning you nonetheless. You need a reason, a good reason to get in between him and the flight home. He really wants to go home.

“I’m… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“We’ll miss the flight, sunshine. It’s time.” He still hasn’t seen the shadow. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for you. He just wants to go home.

"Please. Not yet, I'm not ready.”

You are ready. Your bags are packed. His coat is shiny. You spent two hours pampering him before leaving for the airport. A long, comfortable silence filled with gratitude to him, the only thanks he asks for after a gold medal. You’d been happy to provide. He had done so well.

“Anne, there is nothing I can do to prepare you. It’s time to go.”

He’s right. There is nowhere else to go. There is no other ending to this dream. You will lead him forward - into the pink, bright, beyond, and he will follow you.

“You’ll die.”

“I know.”

There is calm, warm indifference in his voice. He’s practically radiating warmth. He is your sun, you are his orbiting planet. Your hand is clutching the lead rope, and he does not mind. His face is pressed, gently, into the nook of your shoulder. His ears tickle your cheek, his breath is hot and humid against your forearm.

“I can’t watch you die again.”

“Not again. I’m not dying anew. I’m already dead, and we’re going to miss our flight home.”

Home. You hope his final thoughts will be of home. Of green pastures and friends. And you hope, for your sake, that this time, this dream will not feel like seven long, hungry years.

You take those final steps with him, you confront Sabine and Jessica with the same, snobby attitude only the three of you command, and you let yourself fall, deep into the pink, where he will be waiting, not once taking your eyes off of Concorde. His gray coat, so shiny and soft, cracks open. Pink seeps out in clusters, like geodes. His face betrays no pain or fear, only the same sentiment.

“I’ll see you back at home.”

—

It’s morning.

You wake up too early, with no intention of going back to sleep. If gravity did not betray your senses, you would get up and do something useful. Brush your hair, paint your nails. Instead, you lie still, and try your hardest not to feel like a planet drifting through the infinites of space with nothing to latch onto.

It does not work.

[sunburstsandmoonshadows]

Mentopolis OCs time, baby.

Lore below:

EDIT: SORRY I CHANGED HIS NAME. Roman Entic is now Romeo Entic. Because he has to be. Proceed.

Two artists residing in the mind of Elias Hodge; one a sculptor focused on form and feeling, and the other a strict Romantic in both senses of the word as well as an amateur poet. They're frequent collaborators (though often have their own solitary projects as well) working for the Daydream Workshop in the Hippocampus' Imagination Gallery, which has always struggled with funding under Mayor Logic and has received so many budget cuts come the Big Guy's new job that they've been promoted from merely hungry artists to starving artists. The only people still well-funded there are the Nightmare script writers and stage crew, who've been writing that show for decades now.

Moneyless and museless, the pair of artists wait out their days in hopes that the Big Guy gets a promotion that makes him relax and start thinking about others again. Or at least that he finds his interest piqued by a co-worker in some fashion--both are willing to cheer for the other.

Dee is a friend of Dan Fucks, as their tasks are closely related--he provides the desire to fuck, and she figures out who the Big Guy wants to fuck. She used to have her sculptures set up at Shuga's, but always has them removed after a while once the passion for the muse of that period wears out. With the dry spell regarding muses or any fun at all, she hasn't provided any new works after taking back her old ones yet.

Rome does not care for Dan that much, they get along best as co-workers who meet only when the time is right. He does move in the same circles as Imelda and Anastasia and had to deal with them loudly debating whether the Big Guy should "go for it" while they check out his paintings before their falling out. Anastasia also interviewed him for the article about the smiling woman that got canned.

Other details: --Rome constantly uses pet names for everyone. "Dear" and "darling" are the most common. --It's not very visible here, but Rome has a painted hand pressed to his heart on his shirt, for romantic gestures. --He also has large "rose-tinted glasses" :) --Dee is very touchy-feely, though she doesn't really mean anything by it. --While Dan Fucks, the active desire to fuck, is dressed for success in deep v-necks and fine pants, Dee, the passive observation of attractive people, is much more casually dressed. She represents a low-effort sort of sexiness that Dan does not. --Romance puts people on cloud nine, so Rome is surrounded with 'em. Dee is steamy all the time. I'm sure you can piece together the joke.

[franknorbertrieter]

I bought some great titles from hippocampus press. Getting them to Europe was a bit of a hassle, but here they are. Wonderful addition to my collection.

[bullet-prooflove]

Research Papers: Sam Abrams x Reader

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @annieradcliff @thebewingedjewelcat @cosmic-psychickitty

It’s an email that changes Sam’s life.

An invitation to be one of the keynote speakers at a fundraiser hosted by The Trauma Survivors Foundation. Ever since he’d written that paper on “The Neurological effects that PTSD has on the brain”, he’s been inundated with requests.

It’s the vulnerability that he fears. Discussing the findings of the research paper means giving people the opportunity to ask why he wrote it in the first place, and he isn’t sure he’s ready to face those questions.

It’s Daniel that convinces him to do it. A way of putting those demons of his to rest, he tells him.

He isn’t usually nervous when he discusses his research papers, not even when he has to defend them in front of a panel of his peers. It’s just this one is so innately personal; he finds his stomach twisting up in knots. When he takes to the podium, he has to grip the wood to stop his hands from trembling.

When he describes his sister’s suicide and the events leading up to it, he feels that well of emotion in his chest. His greatest weapon is his ability to be objective, to remain stoic and calm while everyone else is going to pieces. He feels that mask slipping when he talks about Miranda. Something inside of him becomes untethered and it takes him back to that moment, the one where he’d found her on the floor of her apartment, waxy and unresponsive. The bottle of sleeping pills tipped on its side, the white capsules spilling out across the coffee table alongside a bottle of gin.

He hesitates as the memory overtakes him, his breath catching. He isn’t ready for this; he shouldn’t have agreed to do it in the first place. He’s about to apologise, to throw up his hands and walk away because it hurts too much. And then he meets the eyes of a woman on table in front of him. She has her palm pressed to her chest, her fingertips splayed over the space where her heart resides, and he realises in that moment that she gets it. That everybody here, gets it.

So, he pushes on, he discusses detrimental effect that trauma has upon the Amygdala, the Hippocampus and the Prefrontal cortex. That PTSD does in fact result in brain damage or injury and that it should be treated as such, which is why services like the one they’re fundraising for today are so vitally important. They save lives. They could have saved his sister’s life. He steps away from the podium to resounding applause and it feels good, better then he thought it would.

In the aftermath he loosens his tie and heads to the bar because that whole thing up there was overwhelming and he thinks a Scotch will take the edge off before Goodwin starts encouraging him to work the room.

When you appear next to him at the bar, he recognises you immediately.

The woman at the table in front of the podium, the one wearing a dark green wrap dress that highlights her exceptional features. He clears his throat to say something but you’re already talking, your hand resting on his arm as you tell him how moved you were by his story.

You’re captivating. Truly you are. He’s been in your presence less than a minute and he already knows he’s smitten. You’re full of life, so bright and dazzling and he feels something inside himself beginning to thaw. When you buy him a drink he’s surprised because the women he’s entertained prior to you have always expected him to pick up the tab. He’s the best neurosurgeon in the US after all, he can afford it but you, you’re different and he likes that.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You ask him when he seeks you out an hour later.

He thinks you must see in his features how much he hates being the showpony. He’s not like Marcel or Halstead, he doesn’t people please, he finds it hard to bite his tongue. He’s already put a board member in his place for making derogatory comments regarding the services they’re supporting. It had become an argument about whether the hospital should be focusing on technology and AI instead of programs that actually help people, like the one that Sam was advocating today.

“God, yes.” He mutters, pulling off his tie and shoving it into his trouser pocket.

He finds the cool air refreshing as the two of you step out of the hotel, the function was being held in. It’s a part of town he doesn’t know well but you do. He finds himself strolling through a park illuminated with fairy lights, eating gelato from ‘The Little Italian Place’ that opens late on the corner.

“I can’t remember the last time I had ice cream.” He tells you as he uses the biodegradable spoon to scoop up the last of his mint choc chip from the cardboard tub. He’s forgotten how good it tastes, how much pleasure there is in something so simple.

“Is this where you reveal you’re some type of fitness freak and I’m just disrupted years of work?” You tease him using a napkin to wipe your hands before tossing it in the trash.

He smiles at you before shrugging his shoulders.

“You can’t tell I skipped leg day?”

You laugh and it delights him. It’s been a long time since he’s been in the company of a beautiful woman, even longer since he’s smiled as much as he has tonight. There’s something about you that just makes the walls that he’s spent decades erecting crumble and to his surprise he’s ok with that. He’s comfortable in your presence, he finds being around you oddly soothing. There are no pretences.

He knows that you’re a counsellor, that you specialise in PTSD which is why you were at the event tonight. You aren’t shy about asking questions or answering them. He’s discovered that you love corgis but could never afford one, that you’re a ferocious reader and that as a child most of your time after school was spent in the library in your neighbourhood. He learns that your eyes crinkle just a little at the edges when you smile and the left side of your mouth tips just a little higher than the right.

“Oh you have a little ice cream…” Your voice interrupts his thoughts as your fingertips brush his cheek.

It’s been a while since anyone has touched him. He didn’t realised how starved he was until he feels the light brush of your skin against his. He closes his eyes briefly savouring the sensation before you lean in close, the scent of your perfume flooding his nostrils. It’s floral, jasmine, rose and something else that he can’t place. It’s tantalising and thrilling all at the same time.

He doesn’t expect you to kiss him.

You’re vivacious and spirited and he’s…

Well, he’s him.

But the moment you do there isn’t a doubt in his heart that the two of you belong together. It’s a tender brush of the lips but it ignites a fire deep down inside of him, a passion he hasn’t felt in years. It’s wild and reckless, chasing through his veins as his hand threads through your hair, drawing you closer. He simply can’t get enough of you and he can tell you feel it too from the way you moan into his mouth, your hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as you slot perfectly against him.

By the time you come up for air, your cheeks are flushed and your breathing ragged. There’s a brightness in your eyes and he recognises the desire reflecting back at him. You’re just aroused as he is and he wants kiss you all over again because he’s not ready for this night to end. He wants to take you back to his place, to spend his time undressing you until you end up in his sheets with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair.

“Do you make love as well as you kiss?” You ask him playfully and he finds himself smiling because he’s not the only one having those thoughts. He dips his head, his lips brushing over yours once more before he whispers.

“Why not take me home and find out.”

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