#it's a ruminating kind of day what can i say

[ndostairlyrium]

Ankh Lavellan / Cullen Rutherford | 1616 words | Comfort not hurt | CW: depressive episode, mental health discussion, child abandonment

In which Cullen doesn't feel like going out in the world out of guilt and not feeling enough, Lav goes all the way to comfort him

Non Oggi

Laid down, eyes fixated on a small flower pot, fluffy blanket covering his waist.

He could put on the second layer of under armor, before the ennuie hit him in the shoulders. Those relaxed, along with his muscles, but as anticipated, that wasn’t the good kind of relaxation.

It simply wasn’t a good day to be a human, and Cullen felt like dropping everything he was doing and returned to bed. To stare at the void. It just happened to be manifested by a minuscule sprout of basil, cradled by a terracotta vase.

There his brain just started spinning, making every system of his body malfunction until a complete shut down.

And so Lavellan had found him in such condition, after Ser Rylen - who was expecting a report – confessed that he was worried. No sarcasm needed, and that in return worried her.

The ladder wasn’t put down as always, ceiling hatch was sealed shut, so she just went outside and climbed the wall until reaching the hole in the upper ceiling. Descending for her was as easy as climbing, due to her background of perching in the worst places at the worst timing, even though the echo of Ser Rylen’s “Can you check on him?” had reached her feet, betraying her balance a couple of times.

When she landed, Cullen didn’t even flinch.

She took a couple of seconds to observe what looked like the very depiction of Emperor Drakon on his death bed, as pictured in the vestibule of the Winter Palace. Then, her eyes wandered and found his armor, his second skin, scattered on the bed. That painted a more realistic picture of what was going on.

“Can I help?” she asked. No answer. “Hungry?” Again, no answer.

She got closer, to see if the jug of water he kept close to bed was in need of a refill, then she started to collect all the armor pieces, to place them on the mannequin near the window covered in ivy. When the time of lucidity would come, Cullen would hate himself more if he saw them scattered around so carelessly.

That kindness grabbed his attention.

“That goes on the left,” he said, voice crackling like a walk on gravel.

Lavellan rolled her eyes, then moved the arm-guard to the right place. “I was testing if you were paying attention.” “I’m always paying attention.” “Because you’re a control freak.” “Says the pot to the kettle.”

Lavellan would have loved to face him, but she forced herself not to. Instead, she just kept tidying his space like he would, because she knew that the idea of her acknowledging his malfuncioning and giving him – even if by accident – the wrong stare would break him for good.

“I warned the girls to not expect us at Council,” she explained. “Cassandra is covering for us. It’s just trivial matters anyway.”

Cullen took a few moments to elaborate an answer. “You should go back.”

Lavellan turned in his direction, putting on the most neutral face she could wear. No eye contact, just yet. “Do you want me to go back?” she asked.

His weariness looked a lot like apathy. “You need to.”

The thought of holding her back overcame his needs. Lavellan was aware of that. And that’s why she laid down at his side with no hesitation.

She glanced at his back, then sighed. “I’d rather be with you,” she said.

Cullen would usually snap back, scold her, or give whatever retort he would think would work on her. In that case, he just accepted in silence what was happening, too tired to compute.

“You’re the most annoying person I know,” he murmured after a while.

Lavellan smirked. “Ah, you like it!”

He did. Just like he liked being held, which she was, gently.

His brain didn’t stop ruminating, though. A hug was too little to make his thoughts stop. But her arm resting on his hip and her face pressed between his shoulder blades did a good deal of helping.

Lavellan made it sure to avoid being too invasive. Her presence already broke the intimacy of his pain, something he had been guarding since before they’ve met. Trying to talk things out, or force any kind of contact, would do the exact opposite of supporting the man she loved.

Luckily, he didn’t push her away.

“I’m sorry you’re here,” he said, after a full hour of silence. Lavellan explored the back of his neck with her eyes. “I want to be here, vhenas.” “I’m wasting your time.” “How come?”

Cullen paused for a moment. “You should have a reliable colleague, a decent partner, a… different person to deal with,” he explained. His voice had a little hint of frustration in its overall monotony. “And I’m just here, in bed. Avoiding… avoiding.” “You can’t work on sheer will alone, vhenas. Sometimes laying in bed is enough.” “Not that kind of “enough” I’m expected to be.” “And who set that expectation?”

Cullen had a hard time replying, even though the answer was simple as breathing.

Lavellan helped him out instantly. “Look, you’ve been working harder than anyone here, to prove you’re enough. And trust me, nobody outside your head is thinking that you don’t deserve to be here, or that your work is meaningless.” “Ask any mage I’ve hurt, or any templar that thinks I’m a traitor.” “Do you feel like one?” “It’s more complex than that, you know it.” “Yes, I’m aware,” she paused. “Look, I know you feel like you need to show you’ve learnt from your past, but you’re just at the beginning of your path. Taking a break to just exist doesn’t mean you’re not putting an effort into it.” “I know I’m not or you wouldn’t be here, trying to comfort-” “Go fuck yourself, vhenas.” He sighed. “Thanks," he said. And he meant it. Lavellan placed a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. “I got you.”

They embraced silence again for a while, only thoughts buzzing in the atmosphere. “The work we’re doing here,” Cullen resumed “we’re making a difference and I want to believe that I am different.”

“Speaking from experience, vhenas, nobody changes. Context does, our priorities do. You’re still that person, looking at the world from a different perspective,” she said, her voice calm however firm. “But you’re not entirely there, and I get why it’s so frustrating, but… vhenas, you need to give yourself some grace, or this kind of second guessing will chain you to this bed forever.”

Cullen absorbed her words partially, as he was still drowning in grey matter. He just knew she was right, but pain has pride and his happened to be very inflated.

Lavellan didn’t say a word, elaborating would give him more guilt. She just existed at his side, until he was ready to speak again.

After hours of buzzing silence, he turned around to face her.

Wet cheeks, red eyes, not a single emotion on sight. “Can you stay a little longer?” he asked. At least, that’s what she thought he said, because his voice was so distorted she couldn’t make a distinction of his words.

“You know me, I’m persistent,” she replied, with the warmest smile. That was the exact moment to keep eye contact, and she never broke it.

“Annoying,” he corrected her. “Who’s the one brooding over self-inflicting martyrdom?” “Fuck you, Lav.”

She chuckled, he gave her the faintest smile in return.

“Weird to hearing from you that people don’t change.” “Oh, we do, but not in the way that you’d think. You, for example, will always make a terrible use of irony.” “Not helping.” “And you will always have the same passion you had at thirteen. That’s something you can’t change. It’s like your curls, they’re part of you, even when you straighten them.” “But a shrub can’t become a tree.” “A shrub can’t be as tall, but it can be larger.” “You know what I mean.” “As do you.”

He sighed. “I don’t want to stick with that guy.”

“Well, I don’t want to stick with the girl I was either,” she shrugged. “I’ve been making mistakes since I was born, I myself am a mistake by being born and the only thing I can do about it is to dye my hair, otherwise I would look like my father. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept these things, and sometimes it gets so overwhelming I feel like every person I know would be better if I wasn’t in their life.”

“That’s… absolutely not fair.”

“See? That’s the point. When thoughts like that hit, I can’t stop my brain from spiraling downwards. Eventually, it reaches some kind of climax, and everything resumes as normal.”

Cullen couldn’t hold back a giggle, that he tried to cover as best as he could. The results were horrible, of course. “So, your brain climaxes when you’re depressed. That explains a lot.”

Lavellan kicked his shins playfully. “Next time you have an existential crisis I’m throwing you a bucket of water!” “Sounds about fair.”

Cullen curled onto her, burying his face on her shoulder as he wrapped her in a hug. Something would come out of his mouth, but she wasn’t entirely sure of anything else but its practical meaning. Lavellan held him tight, as his body seemed undecided if accepting to be comforted or refusing such an undeserved favor. “Just let it spin. I’ll keep you from falling,” she said. He nodded, lightly. “I’m sor-” he paused. “Thanks for being here.”

Relieved, Lavellan let out a sigh. “Thanks for letting me in.” “You broke and entered.” “You know what I mean.” “As do you.”

She held him tighter.

[eemamminy-art]

I sometimes think about the person who blocked me out of nowhere on twitter and ao3 when I thought we were still friends, because she couldn't stand to see my words or thoughts or ideas, but admitted she still lurked on my tumblr because "the art is nice".

I also sometimes think about the person who would post my art in discord servers to gush about how good it was but that "it's a shame she's such a bitch" and sent me anon hate for 2 years because I drew my ot3 which happened to contain the two characters of her ship but she hated the third character.

Or the exes and ex-friends who would guilt trip me into making art for them dozens if not hundreds of times, only to tell me my art was shit anyway after we broke up.

I don't think about them because any of them matter or because I'm particularly scorned or anything, but because people like this build up into a bigger problem: people treating artists like they aren't also people.

People who think that art is a commodity that is owed to them, but simultaneously can be used as a weapon to cut down the person who created the art. People who think that the person that created the art is worthless but their creations that took hours, days, weeks, of sweat and tears and sometimes a little bit of their soul are free for the taking without a second thought about how that art came into being. People who will nitpick and complain in tags or replies thinking the artist somehow won't see it, or who will send entitled asks about why the artist did or didn't draw this or that, or who will wish death upon the artist for drawing something that they personally didn't like.

I think it would be cool if we could all start acting like the people behind art are real people. Because they are.

[jiuchives]

it's truly so evil and twisted (pos) that cao cao was so sweet on guan yu for that time he had him work under him

i love a man that commits to his bit and doesnt pander

[stormyoceans]

do you guys have like. that one piece of media (any kind of media) that irrevocably changed your life forever. the one that was so deeply formative for who you are as a person standing here today that the you before and after it are just completely and essentially different. the one that if someone asked how to get to really know you you would point at it and feel utterly exposed......

[luveline]

—you meet Spencer again after losing out on the BAU job. he comforts you while you do your best not to flirt. bombshell!reader, 0.9k

You lose out on the BAU job to Elle Greenaway. It drives you crazy.

You work just as hard as Elle does, you’re professional no matter what Jason Gideon has to say about you, and you know you could do it. You have just as many successes as Elle does.

It makes you feel sick. You tried so, so hard.

I’m sorry, Hotch had said, and at least you’d had his support. He was kind enough to tell you in person. I can’t make the decision without Gideon, and if he thinks you aren’t right for it right now, we’ll have to wait.

Wait. As though Jason Gideon was ever going to change his mind about you.

You open your purse and take out the barrel of your sheer lipstick. Your compact is next. You hold the mirror up and angle your face in the sun, popping the lid off of the lipstick, and pressing its flat end to your bottom lip. The line you draw is perfectly precise. Your hand barely trembles.

You drop the mirror down and rub your lips together slowly. No matter what falls out of your control, you can present yourself to your liking. You can be immaculate. You—

“Hi.”

You look up from your rumination, startled. You’d been thinking so hard someone actually got the run up on you.

“Hi,” you say, tilting your head gently toward your shoulder.

Dr. Spencer Reid stands a polite three feet away from you. He’s suddenly changed. The last time you met him he was wearing his long hair in a side part. Now it’s split down the middle, just a touch shorter at the sides, and he’s wearing glasses.

(He’s wearing glasses!)

You’d thought he was pretty before.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” you say, tempted to call him baby, maybe sweetheart. He’s a sweet looking boy. His sweater vest makes you wanna hold his hand. “Thank you for asking. Why are you asking?”

You talk to him with no derision nor malice, just curiosity.

He frowns. It gives his eyes a sad shine. “I know you wanted the open position. You would’ve been great at it.”

“You think so?” you ask, surprised.

“I’ve seen some of your write ups. We’ve used your summaries in one of our profiles, do you… remember that?”

You send Hotch anything he wants to see.

“I don’t know why Gideon doesn’t like you… He’s so rarely wrong about people, but you’re…” He licks his lips nervously. “You’re– you’re smart. You’re inquisitive. I think you would be an asset to the team, and it’s a shame you didn’t get your chance.”

You’re making him nervous and it isn’t your intention. You put your hands in your lap and stop giving him the look, swapping your amicable smile for a proper friendly one. “Thank you. Is it okay if I call you Spencer? Dr. Spencer Reid is a lot to say at once.”

He laughs, still nervous. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Spencer, thank you for caring so much, but I’m okay. I think I might still have a chance one day, but with Elle gone, the sex crimes division is going to need me.” You lift your chin. If he’s sought you out to tell you he’s sorry, your premonitions about him when you met a few weeks ago were correct. He’s as kind as he is pretty. “I love your glasses. Are they for reading?”

“I always wore glasses when I was a kid, and then I started working here, and I thought it might make me seem less… childish, if I wore contacts, but they’re the worst.”

You laugh happily. He says it in such a pained voice. “The glasses suit you so much,” you say, shoving your things into your bag and standing. “Did you wanna go for coffee? I need a pick me up before I go back to the office.”

Spencer touches his wrist. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” you ask, again, without a drop of malice. You’re not stupid, Spencer has all the nervousness of someone who’s been mistreated before, and heartily, and it’s easy to be soft with him not solely because of it, but because he seems so sweet. You could happily be his friend. “Do you like coffee? We could get those hot donuts from the cafeteria, have you tried those?”

You close the little gap between you both and raise your hand carefully to his face. Gentle, you try to pull a stray hair from the hinge of his glasses leg without snapping it.

“You can tell me all the stuff I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Spencer says.

“Come on, there has to be something.”

His mouth gives him away. “It’s not that you’re doing it wrong, you’re just– you– you’re not looking at things the…” Your fingertip brushes his cheek as you drop your hand. “…Right way, sometimes.”

“I wanted your recommendations.” You bump his elbow with yours. “I’ll buy you a coffee and you can write me a list. Cool?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Cool.”

You’re thinking it’ll be the start of a good friendship. You and Dr. Reid make quite a pair.

[erwinsvow]

I think with the combination of all the Abbot fics I've been consuming and your pope x babysitter fic that has possessed my mind body and soul I've been ruminating on what pope would think or do if he was working and babysitter and Lena got into some kind of medical emergency, like an accident or assaulted (not sa) or something silly (traumatic) like that and he gets the call to come to the ER. The rage, the panic, the guilt, the floof. It's been my end of the day "time to world build a silly situation before I go to sleep" daydream.

oh this made me UNWELL. unwell.

his phone goes off while at smurf's—unusual, but not enough to make him panic immediately. you sometimes like to text or call to check in on him throughout the day, ever since you both made the jump from babysitter and dad to... whatever you are right now. he wants to say girlfriend and boyfriend but it sounds so silly in his head. you're more his wife and he's more your husband than anything else.

he knows that because your apartment's lease is ending next month and you have no plans to renew. he's been moving clothes around in baz's to make room for your belongings, and looking at other properties to see if there's somewhere bigger and nice he could get for you and lena.

so when his phone goes off, he thinks its you. when he sees the number flashing from the local hospital, he gets up right away, steps out briefly to take the call and ignoring his family in the other room. and his blood runs cold—hi, is this mister andrew cody? yes, i'm calling from the emergency room, your daughter and wife were hurt in a car accident—

and he has tunnel vision, not listening to smurf and craig yelling after him, getting in his truck and speeding to the hospital as fast as his feet can take him. he parks somewhere he probably shouldn't, brings his gun tucked into his waistband because someone is going to pay for this, and runs straight to the counter where he asks for you and lena. begs, demands, pleads. he needs to make sure you're both okay, expecting the worst, thinking he's ruined yet another good thing, that the only good things in his life are disintegrating with each passing minute.

and you're sitting behind a curtain, getting stitches on your forehead and arm. lena is okay, with a bruise that makes andrew angry the longer he looks at it. he goes in first to hug her, holding on too tightly, he's sure, checking her head for anything they could have missed. and then you—seeing blood on your pretty skin makes him irrationally upset. he's thankful he brought his gun inside.

"this lady," you start, after thanking the doctor and the nurse and lena taking her side by you on the bed. "she was old, i think maybe she didn't see the stop sign. but she feels terrible. i hope she's okay—"

"i don't," andrew interrupts. you gape at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"don't say that! it was an accident. we're fine, that's all that matters-"

"you could have not been fine," he says, the very idea that some demented old lady two seconds away from knocking on death's door could have taken both of you away from him making his vision blurry.

"but we are," you press, taking andrew's hand into yours. even in this state, even with everything going on, you still remember to take care of him. "we're okay, right, lena?" and she smiles up at him.

he doesn't deserve you.

"you got here fast," you say, rubbing your fingers on his knuckles, his racing heart steadying. you were okay. maybe that would have to be enough today. the metal of his gun feels cool against his skin.

he wants to say it. didn't exactly stop at red lights or listen to the speed limit. but nothing comes out, so he just stares. like he wouldn't—like he would linger where he was, take his time coming to see you. like you and lena being hurt in this hospital bed wouldn't mean that his life was over too.

you smile up at him, your other hand firm on lena's. and he smiles back, and for now, that'll have to be enough.

(though, a few days later, the insurance concludes it wasn't your fault. your poor car is totaled, and they'll be paying more than you expected to help get you a new one. and when you ask about the old lady, the one who hit you, if she's okay now, the agent laughs uncomfortably. she's fine, but she won't be driving anytime soon. someone stole her keys and punctured three tires, and well, insurance only covers it if all four are ruined at once.)

[triplefrontierbabe]

Heyy, I love all of your fics btw, and was wondering if u could maybe write a seb hurt+comfort fic?? Maybe like age gap and reader is a rookie or smth, seb is retired and she gets hate? Or like an argument between them? No pressure tho thxx <3

The Rookie & Seb

summary: you’re a rookie f1 driver, and with the new shift in career you receive lots of unnecessary hate

pairing: f! driver reader x retired Sebastian Vettel

warning: minuscule language, mention of age gap relationship

a/n: yesss more Seb requests!! thank you anon for this!!💛💛

Thank goodness the first race of the season was done and dusted because it was not an easy introduction into your rookie year in Formula 1. Not only was that your first race but you’re the only woman on the grid, an idea that people even in this day and age can’t manage to understand. You had spent the last two seasons as a development and reserve driver, and now you were finally living your dream.

In addition to dealing with the usual skepticism of a rookie, your social media was flooded with nasty comments simply because you’re a woman. A woman who is also dating Sebastian Vettel you might add.

She only has a seat because her old boyfriend pulled strings for her.

Women are ruining the sport.

She’s such a liability on and off the track.

So on, and so forth.

“I don’t get it!” You exclaim, falling back onto the couch in your and Sebastian’s living room.

“It’s like this for all rookies, dear.” Sebastian replies as he takes a seat next to you while sympathetically patting your knee.

“No, Sebastian, it’s not.” You begin, wiping a hand down your face. “Not to pull that card but I guarantee you the other rookies aren’t dealing with this kind of nonsense. I didn’t even DNF this race like everyone else, but I’m getting the brunt of all the hate.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just sits there, blank faced.

Usually Sebastian gets you. He usually understands what emotions you’re going through especially with racing. And, more often than not, he’s able to comfort you when you’re incredibly hard on yourself.

From the start, getting to the top in racing was already a more difficult path to follow. Despite it all you put in the work and some. But, as if it wasn’t hard enough, once the public got wind that you were romantically involved with the veteran driver, rumors started circulating like wildfire. Suddenly you were no longer the young woman who trailblazed a path in motorsports. Instead you were a talentless, paddock bunny whose career was built on nepotism. And that frustrated you to no end.

“Nobody understands me!” You yell as you stand up from the couch, dropping your hands to your sides.

Sebastian’s eyes stay on you as you pace the room ruminating on how you can get through his thick skull.

“Listen, I know it’s hard. I’ve been there. People are going to say things that aren’t true and that get under your skin but you just gotta let it roll off your back.” He says looking you in the eyes.

“You think I don’t know that, Sebastian? I know that’s how it is. But I have to go through this with having a man’s name attached to everything I do. If I excel it’s only because a man was there to help. I get no credit for my own talent. But if I suck, it’s because I’m a mindless woman whose only concern is chasing men and ruining the sport. And it’s not that I’m uncomfortable with accountability— I’m perfectly fine owning up to my shortcomings— but what’s it worth if I can’t even claim my own success? It’s a lose-lose situation no matter what.” As you finish, you feel tears brimming in your eyes, your frustration etched on your face.

That renders Sebastian truly speechless. His silence speaks volumes to you and it hurts. It almost feels like he genuinely cannot understand where your frustration is stemming from.

“See, you don’t get it.” You say sharply pointing a finger at him. And with that you make a quick exit and head for the bedroom.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Minutes, maybe even hours, pass before you hear a knock on the door.

“Can I come in?” Sebastian’s muffled voice says on the other side of the door. After waiting for a moment with no response, he carefully enters the room.

You lay on the bed with your back turned to him, not yet wanting to look at him. The bed dips behind you as Sebastian gingerly sits down behind you. His hand hesitates for a second before extending to gently rest on your back, rubbing slow circles.

“I’m sorry for what I said— or more of what I didn’t say.” He says letting out a small breath. “I know it’s tough out there for you but I guess I never thought outside myself to even think of what additional shit you have to face.”

His words linger in the air before you turn around and sit up in bed to look at Sebastian.

“I just feel so helpless, Seb. I feel like I’m going through this alone because nobody sees it how I do. I thought you of all people would.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t, that was an oversight on my part.” Sebastian interjects taking your hands in his.

“I love you so, so much and I cannot even begin to describe how proud I am of you for achieving your dreams. I’m sorry I didn’t get it before now. Before I even knew you, you were already on this path of greatness. Everything you’ve done in your career, you’ve done through your own power. I’m honored to just get a front row seat to watch you do what you do. No one can steal that from you.”

Your heart strains at the sound of Sebastian’s voice. Nobody has ever talked to you like that. You finally feel appreciated in a new sense. He gets it now.

“I will do everything I can to be your biggest supporter and to drown out all the nonsensical mess that’s thrown your way.”

“Sebastian, I don’t even know what to say.” You reply, your voice hoarse. The look in his eyes tells you more than words could. He’s hurt that he hurt you. He’s hurt that this is what it took for him to see things the way you experience them.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

“I’m not.” he says, cracking a smile. “If you hadn’t, I probably would’ve been walking around longer acting like an idiot offering you useless advice like a broken record.”

You laugh at his words before offering him a silent thank you. And for now, that moment is all you need to lift the incredibly weight off your shoulders.

F1 Masterlist | Indycar Masterlist

600 followers celebration!

requests are open!

[saintshigaraki]

please, if you have the time and/or are feeling generous, please expand on that horror soulmate ran idea where he likes flexing his influence and power over you while you’re on shift….what kind of restaurant does reader work at? is the high-end kind where customers who look as rich and charming as ran come often…..or is it some regular diner/local favorite and ran likes coming over to call you sweetheart and darling and he likes tipping you $50-$100 bills………………………..he tips bigger and orders so much when he brings some work associates over during their lunch break or something 0_0

dior im so glad you ask bc I've been ruminating over these very questions for like a month....

yandere tw, ran is harassing the shit out of you at work rip, soulmate au, she/her pronouns for reader

i think you work at a really small rundown sort of place open 24 hours. pulling 12-hour shifts 12 days in a row just to pay the bills. it's pure and total chance that ran and his...associates waltz into your establishment. it's late and you're so so exhausted. you absolutely do not like the look of them. they're dressed nicely, too nicely for a place like this and they don't even bother trying to hide the guns peaking out from their waistbands. and beyond that you can smell it on them. you know their type. the type that get too handsy, that hold their tips over your head. make you do a song and dance and for what? the two dollars they'll so generously leave you when all is said and done? it's a fucking joke and you hate them all before they've even said a word to you.

your feet hurt so badly that you're limping a bit when you go to greet them and the smile you put on feels carved into your cheeks, throbbing like a wound. all their faces look the same to you. a big blur of dangerous man after man after man. you write down their orders without really listening. you want this over as fast as possible. you were set to be off in an hour, but with a group this big, you know that's now nothing but a pipe dream. god you're so so tired--

"and what is it you'd recommend, darling?"

something about the voice makes your eyes shoot up. airy, smooth, and nonchalant in a way that makes you grind your teeth and reluctantly pulls your attention. there's a nauseating sort of authority in it that has your hackles raised.

you're a bit shocked when you see who has spoken. he's pretty. long hair, obviously well kept, a tattoo on the side of his neck that makes you rather nervous, but it's his eyes that makes you step back. you feel the shift in the air when your gaze meets his, a crackling energy, two halves being made whole and all the other sappy shit people say when describing their first meeting with their soulmate.

no one mentions how scary it is, though. it's like you've lost a limb. or gained a parasite. you swear you can feel him in the back of your skull, already eating away at you. you don't want this. you don't want this. take it back you almost say aloud. please please take it back.

the man (your soulmate?) doesn't say a word. there's a slight quirk on his lips, but that could be anything. could mean anything.

you take a breath. you're tired—very tired—and now you're imagining things—delusional. your heartbeat slows. everything's fine. it's fine.

"ah ran, you've left the poor thing starstruck," a man to his right says, jostling him a bit.

the man—ran—tilts his head, still waiting, rather patiently, for a reply from his apparently airheaded waitress, struck down by his pretty face.

it's rather scary, being the sole focus of his attention. it's as though he's flaying your skin from your flesh, leaving you defenseless. like you're nothing but a young girl again, alone and cold and hopeless beneath his eyes.

it takes you too long to gather your wits. "the omelets are okay, good for a cold night." you just barely manage to keep the trembling from your voice, a shrillness that would in any way reveal your fear.

he smiles now, a real one. and it scares you. so amused by you, his little shaking waitress. "just okay?" he asks, taking pleasure in teasing you no doubt.

"this isn't a place you come to if you're looking for something gourmet." better to be honest than to get their hopes up. you can smell the money on them.

he laughs and you have to bite back your tears, you really dont like him. there's terror worming it's way beneath your skin. "it was a last resort, i'll go with the omelet, darling."

+

when you bring out their food you assume that will be it, at least for a little while. you'll refill their drinks again and again and again and pray they'll be gone by 2, but the worst of it is done. you'll hide in the back for the most part until they're gone. it'll be fine.

your hopes are quite quickly dashed once you set ran's food in front of him, avoiding eye contact but unable to keep the tremor from your fingers. before you can dart away his hand lashes out, forming a shackle around your wrist. tugging you far closer to him than you'd ever want to be. 

"why don't you join us for a bit. you seem tired. perhaps you're a bit hungry too?" he asks it like a question, but you know it's not. he has that sort of authority about him that lets you know he's used to be listened to. used to giving out orders and having them followed. you don't like it, and you make excuses even though you know it'll bode badly for you.

"i can't sir, i'm so sorry, but im still working and my boss will be--"

he cuts you off quickly and uncaring. "he won't mind."

he most definitely would, you think. your boss reminds you of ran a bit, in the way that he likes to exert power over others. quick to insult you, quick to admonish and threaten. he most definitely would care if he saw you sitting with some customers, even if the rest of the place was deserted.

"sir," you start again, "i could be fired please--"

"what's his name?"

you're taken aback. a bit confused, too. "your boss, darling. what's his name?"

there's a long pause before you say anything at all.

"hikaru," you tell him at last.

he smiles at you, tugs you in even closer. "thank you."

he smells good, you think absently. expensive. 

"hikaru!" he yells suddenly, causing you to practically jump out of your skin. your boss is quick to appear, looking like a beat dog. he seems to recognize ran, and he seems to be scared of him and you really, really don't like that.

"is there something i can help you with, sir?" he asks, timid as a mouse. your heart stops. there's something wrong here, you think. there's something very wrong and it's too late. its too late.

you're sitting beside ran now, his arm wrapped around you and his hand rubbing your shaking shoulder soothingly. "you wouldn't mind if she joined us, would you? we could use the company."

your boss' eyes flit over to you, just barely, before he bows his head again. "of course not, sir. it's no problem at all."

ran turns to you at that. "you hear that, darling. no problem at all." you look down and can't help but notice drops of red marring the pristine white of his dress shirt. it's right on the cuff. it's dried now, more brown than anything else but you recognize it for what it is.

you can't help but think you've stepped into a bear trap of sorts, and now your foot has been cut clean off. you’re screaming and screaming, trying to staunch the bleeding and ran won’t stop smiling. 

[xamag-draws]

BBR thoughts 2024

Since I mentioned that I finally dusted off an old project of mine and was ruminating on how I'd remake it, I thought I'd elaborate a little, now that I've solidified some concepts. For funsies

This is gonna be a bit of a long and unfocused one, but I don't share my personal thoughts here often, especially the stuff about my projects I always marinate in. And for once it's something that people have existing context for, so hey why not

So for anyone who hasn't been following me for a gajillion years, The Black Brick Road of OZ was a webcomic that I posted around 2013-2015, back when I was in highschool going on college (which is kinda crazy to think about). It was sort of a darker twist on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, although I definitely leaned a lot more into dark humor more than anything in those first few chapters

I don't think it's available to read anywhere anymore, and I know people have been asking me about it. So here's the full proper archive of BBR, as full as it can be with deceased Flash

I totally used it as an excuse to shamelessly and self-indulgently experiment. It had interactive pages and GIFs and was wayyy too overproduced for what I could handle or what was necessary, but I did have great fun making it while it lasted

Unfortunately, that excess and the fact that I've changed too much as a person by the time I was in college is what ultimately killed it. The direction I wanted to go in was practically unrecognizable from the original idea started back in 2011, so there were many old hold-ups that I felt ruined it

At the time I kinda wished I could start/rewrite it all over, but considering that I pretty much had the entire script done at that point, it felt like a pointless sisyphean task. So I just put it on a shelf and didn't look back for about 8 years, because I didn't know what else to do

Now to be fair, the nature of my art has always been iterative and cyclical; when I feel like my creative juices have run dry I prefer to leave a project to marinate and move on to something else; cycle through other old things and bring in new skills and perspectives into the mix when I'm ready again. Not very productive, but it is what makes me happy to work on my OCs; I'm doomed to hit a wall with them eventually and I need some time to be able to find a new direction

So that said, I'm glad that BBR was left to marinate for that long. I don't think I was prepared, emotionally or intellectually, to tackle it again until now. The Wizard of Oz book (and the entire series of them, really) has always been near and dear to my heart, but there's a lot of context around it that I'm only unpacking now that I'm older

I think I always inherently feel negatively about the stuff I've made in the past, like its faults always jump out to me more than the positives, especially the more time passes. I've never liked that, and I do really appreciate the kind things people have to say about BBR to this day. The fact that it still can be recognized and remembered is very sweet

When I left it, I already found it "kinda cringe", and that feeling only deepened with years. When I took my first look back at it, asking the question "how would I rewrite it now?", at first I took a very cynical approach, as in "everything would have to be torn down"

But the more I sat on it, the more I found that I still see some merit and charm in the ideas I was putting out; I just didn't know how to execute them at the time (not to pretend that I know what I'm doing now, but I certainly know more at least). Turns out a lot of my old concepts could be changed substantially with just a few small tweaks. So I'd say that's a nicer way to think about my previous work

If you haven't seen yet, I posted a first draft of my new designs for some of the characters (the main group, the Goods and the Wickeds). Definitely subject to change, but more or less how I see them now

I'm just playing with these concepts; by no means would I attempt to remake BBR right this moment. Call it a pipe dream among my other ones. But just for fun, this is the direction I'd like to take:

Nowadays I'd probably make it a visual novel, with more emphasis on the visual part than the novel because I'm no English prose writer by any means. It'd still let me play a little with the interactivity while helping cut some corners on the drawing part (only some, I imagine I'd go hog wild anyway)

I've always intended for some events inspired by the sequel books to take place in BBR's past. Stuff like Jinjur's revolt or Ozma's rule preceeds the main events here. So I think it would be fun to follow the past of a few key characters alongside the main story. One chapter focusing on the present quest to see the Wizard, then one focusing on the past events (that are maybe reflective thematically); rinse and repeat

I'm also sticking a little closer to the original text in some regards. Not everything that I enjoy from the books would be translated here, it's still just a very loose fantasy on the material; but I'd like to be closer in spirit at least

I like mature, wise and powerful Glinda, I like kind and vulnerable Tin Man, I like the Wizard being a pathetic yet loveable liar, so I'm sprinkling in more of that for example

I'd like to keep some whimsy, but make it more grounded and a bit more serious to be coherent in tone. I think the original TWWOOZ book was a more realistic fantasy in some ways, even for the standards of the time; I like its simple but vivid tactile descriptions and details like bringing attention that Dorothy needed to eat and sleep

I find it funny that Baum specifically was averse to making his books scary or unpleasant, finding that unnecessary for telling a compelling kids story, but they still can get pretty dark and disturbing, at least for our modern sensibilities. Let's just say that I intend to use the Evoldo and Chopfyt storylines for my purposes. In that way, I feel like a "darker" Wizard of Oz retelling can still mostly be tonally in line with the original and balance it with enough heart and occasional humor

I slowly grew to appreciate the quaint old-timey quality of the original series, as well. The first book is both timeless and very much a product of the 1900s. Originally I tried to give it a little modern or at least anachronistic spin, but it was moreso because it's what I knew best, so these days I'd rather intentionally lean into the time period. Still not fully historically accurate by any means, but at least directly acknowledging the influence

The events of the story span across 40 years of these characters' lives, so I'm drawing inspiration from the entire so-called La Belle Epoque: the time period around 1880s-1920s. Basically I'm cooking, and my soup is old Victorian fashion morphing into Edwardian fashion and slowly inching towards flappers

Some new Dolly outfits

Lots of crazy things, political changes and innovations were happening at the turn of the century, which I think is noted and reflected by Baum in the books as well; the character of Tik-Tok might not blow any minds now, but he was one of the first robot characters in literature at that point; and don't even get me started on Jinjur, etc. Plenty of really interesting stuff one could lightly ponder in an Oz adaptation these days

Aesthetically, art nouveau has always been a big artistic influence for me, and it'd definitely be its time to shine here. John R. Neill's illustrations of the Oz books often keep me company as well. Nouveau architecture in particular fits that fairytale whimsy extremely well imo

I'd allow myself a little bit of art deco here and there, but ultimately its intimidating geometrical splendor is an antithetical to the flowery nature of nouveau and I associate it with a completely different era. Definitely fitting some characters like my Wicked Witch of the West, but shouldn't be overused

One of my main problems with the original BBR was that eventually I lost track of what it was even about; and the original ending felt too mean and unfulfilling to be worth it. Now I'd like to stick to the theme of home and family as my main theme, but in a different, more bittersweet way than in the book

An interesting connection I made is that a lot of my aforementioned older key characters (the Witches, Jinjur, the Nome King, etc) all came from the same reformatory as kids, that's how they know each other. In my recent research I learned that in those reformatories it was usually frowned upon to release the children back to the families, which were seen as the original corrupting influence regardless of the circumstance. The reformatory did everything in its power to cut that connection and make itself the only family those wayward kids were supposed to know and love. That's an unexpected tie into the theme of home that I'd like to explore as well

So yeah that's the current state of it. I have a bunch of outfit concepts I'm slowly cooking, although I'm now sure whether I'd post them... But I do miss these funny guys, and I'm glad some people still do as well :)

[bsdawgz]

「 ✦ Please? ✦ 」 au! Bungo Stray Dogs: Atsushi Nakajima

a/n: been thinking about this for a while now, hope u enjoy!<3 mwah :*

genre: au! no abilities, college or grad school. da nasty w/ subby, camboy! atsushi 😏

content warning: f!reader. MDNI! male masturbation. atsushi typical low self-esteem ruminations + self-degradation (both in a kinky and non-kinky way). edging. online relationships (they’re twitter moots teehee).

summary: atsushi's always a good boy on camera, esp when he’s thinking about this one girl from his class ♡

– that girl is you… but of course, you don’t know that yet.

That light fixture. Those cedarwood floors. The white, speckled wall behind him. If you didn't know any better, you'd say this was one of your dorm rooms – but it couldn't be, right?

You're on your bed with your headphones on, blinds shuttered close, door locked. Your plush blanket is pulled up to your thighs. The room is dark, save for your phone screen, casting a glow on your face.

This is a private matter, after all.

"Is this thing on?"

In front of the camera is him, a mutual you've made from the n.sfw side of twitter, though this is the first time you're seeing his face of all things. He's unbelievably cute, in the most endearing sense of the word, with boyish features and a charming smile that makes you blush. "Hey guys," he says, and his voice sounds somewhat familiar, though you can't quite place your finger on where you might have heard it before. "I know it's been a while."

The numbers in his live go up by the second, chat animated now that he's active. His eyebrows scrunch together as he leans forward to read the comments. Most of them are already demanding he perform something lewd, but some of them surprisingly sweet, asking him how his day's been or complimenting him. He pays neither any mind – rather, his focus goes straight to you.

You almost jump as you hear him call out your username, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Oh, it's you!" he says with a cheeky grin. "Everyone say hi and follow them too~"

Naturally, you've seen his nudes before – he's amassed quite a following on Twitter posting his body. In fact, you were shocked when he had decided to follow back someone like you, who only ever reposted content or mused online about what kind of things you'd like to have done to you.

So, having a big creator like him even know you exist – let alone mention you on his live – has your face flushed with heat.

Thank god he can't see you through the screen.

"ofc:)" you type, watching as his followers greet you in the chat.

Then, you hear him sigh and relax into his chair. He pushes back the sweep of silver bangs, fingers playing thoughtfully with the strings of his sweatshirt as he browses through the comments on his computer screen. Your eyes widen when he murmurs in a voice so innocent, "So... you wanna see me stroke it now?"

He sounds so damn innocent – he's definitely got that 'boy-next-door' act down, and you can see why his streams get so much attention. You've never watched a stream before, so he has you pulling your blanket over your head, totally embarrassed as his voice drops to a whisper. "Mm, well, I wanna..." he muses, and through your headphones, it feels almost like his breath is in your ear. You watch as he trails his hand lower, down to the waistband of his gray sweatpants. "Been thinking about it all day, actually."

The numbers in his livestream go up.

You can feel desire pooling between your thighs as he teases himself, as he traces the outline that's becoming more and more apparent through his sweats. He's gazing down at himself sensually, watching himself grow with these half-lidded eyes, lips parted slightly and curved in a lazy smile. There's something angelic about his face, however sinful it might be to think so. "Can I tell you guys a secret?" he asks sheepishly, and you can almost make out a faint blush on his cheeks as he glances away from the camera, fingers dancing around the lean muscle of his abdomen. "There's this girl in my lecture hall that I can't stop thinking about.

I really want her... Pretty pathetic of me, huh?"

The chat goes wild with comments. Some users sexually degrade him, calling him filthy names; others say they'd gladly swap places with his classmate. He glances at the screen briefly, swiping his tongue across his lips as he browses through before choosing a few users to respond to. "I know, I'm a bit of a loser for that," he says with a soft laugh. Then, in a more serious tone, he adds, "But really, I could never... just thinking about her, honestly... she's just so...

Ah, sh-shiit..."

Freeing himself from his boxers, you're met with the sight of it in all of its glory, tip leaking with precum and pulsing with need. His breath hitches in his throat when he first wraps his fingers around it. You hear him hiss from his own touch; he looks away shyly as he strokes it once, as he gathers the moisture on his hand and pumps it up and down. Then, clamping his other hand over his mouth, these soft, sweet moans fall delicately from his lips as he thrusts his hips up to meet his fist – as he strokes himself faster and faster.

Just as soon as you think he's about to cum...

"Nngh, f-fuck – ..." he seethes, letting go of himself completely.

Holding back what sounds like something between a moan and a sob, he buries his face into his elbow, stammering out curses in between ragged pants; you catch a glimpse of desperate eyes before he throws his head back, palming the oversensitive tip until his body's shaking, pleasuring himself in a way that makes his hips lurch forward, in a way that brings him so close to the edge that he's just about ready to fall apart. "So good... wanna... c-cum..."

– and the chat floods with messages instantly.

x69princess96x: 'don't' _daddywuvsu_: 'you haven't earned it' milf9_32193: 'no way!!! 🙄' user704829103: 'beg for it'

"Please–" He's so tense that you can almost feel it through the screen. "Please... please, please..."

Then, his eyes flash with something you've never seen before in someone before – pure, animalistic want as his eyebrows knit tightly, as his lips part in need, as he pleads for release –

and he's looking straight at the camera, so sickening sexy. "Please, need it…"

You find yourself aching in your core, clinging to your screen with widened eyes when suddenly, you hear your username unraveling from his lips. "How about you... You'd... you'd let me cum, right?"

© BSDAWGZ Don’t steal or plaigarize cos that’s mean… and if you enjoyed the fic, please reblog! ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊ Beautiful dividers by @ v6que!

[shotanzz]

Who do you think would be the mtl jealous bf in riize?

OMGG ive been waiting for an ask like this 😭

MTL JEALOUS BF IN RIIZE based on astrology ~

(reminder that this for fun and astrology is something I study for a hobby, these are all inferences based off of observations and not exact fact unless I knew them myself !!)

Most

Sungchan - Tbsh his jealousy would be pretty overboard and extremely obvious like a blaring red signal. He would NOT play about you. His cancer moon makes him pretty sensitive and obvious with his emotions so if he felt jealous he'd get in his feelings or even sulk/ruminate as well as he'd take it pretty personal and have a hard time letting go. His leo venus makes him pretty dramatic 😭. This venus paired with his moon might make him cause a scene or "act out" . His venus+moon leads to him wanting your care and attention on him and him alone. His cap mars screams possessiveness and being restrictive, he'd get so possessive do not let him see you laugh at another guys jokes or be helpful to another guy he'd be FUMING .

Wonbin - I honestly wasn't going to rank Wonbin this high but then I remembered his taurus mars paired with venus square pluto and pluto conjunct lilith so...here we are LMFAOO. From my own personal observations taurus mars is way more possessive in comparison to taurus venus; those pluto/venus/lilith aspects paired with his mars can make his jealousy take a snowball effect leading to an emotional avalanche. Plus a power imbalance fueling the jealousy even more and leading to him being restrictive. However, I ranked him below Sungchan because Sungchan would be VERY petty and loud about his jealousy while Wonbin would most likely silently seethe (due to his pisces sun, aquarius mercury) until he ultimately can't handle holding back, but until then his jealousy would still be DEEP.

Shotaro - His scorpio moon+capricorn venus makes him take the relationship pretty seriously. He craves stability and honesty and once he feels like his jealousy is compromising the security and trust in the relationship he must act ! He won't be too quick to jump into conclusions because of his libra mars, he'd probably think things through before asking/acting on his jealousy..and he might front and pretend he's only a tiny bit jealous/concerned when really it's weighing heavy on his heart in the beginning. When he is jealous he'd be more quiet and less jovial than he usually is. He'd be pretty straight up and might even just ask/tell you about how he's feeling. When things are clarified things will be cool again and he'll go back to being your sweet taro and hopefully stop staring daggers into the random guy talking to you while smiling.

Anton - Very unserious, would text "what position he got you in" and move on with his day. KIDDDING kind of 😭 He'd have short phases of possessiveness due to his taurus venus. His moon square saturn and venus square neptune can lead to slight paranoia and being unable to naturally express his insecurities which could be the source of the jealousy. Despite these things he wouldn't express his jealousy in toxic or overboard ways, he'd probably express his jealousy through jokes or non seriousness hoping you would pick up on it (you probably would with that mercury aries, straight to the point) If he ever did tell you straight up he wouldn't be too harsh he'd just want to be honest and being reassured will patch everything right up.

Sohee - I ranked Sohee this low because honestly when reading his chart I feel like his jealousy would, similarly to Anton's, be quick to come and go. He'd be quick to say something or show that he's uncomfortable. He wouldn't sit you down to have a serious convo about it, but it would have to just passively come out in conversation . As soon as he felt reassured then he'd be fine once again. Now if it was an ongoing issue of scenarios that led to him being jealous then he'd have a more serious even messy approach (his mars square pluto) his temper would awaken. But outside of that he trusts you, even if he doesn't trust and is suspicious of the guys around you he trusts YOUUU at the very end.

Seunghan - Oh the lovely boyfriend that just wants to keep the peace. He wouldn't want you to hound him out of jealousy so he ofc wouldn't do that to you either. If he was jealous he'd be more emotional rather than being petty+aggressive. His mercury is exalted in virgo so he'd definitely want to talk about it or at least let you know how he feels. Outside of that I think he'd want to avoid such a thing in the first place. He'd trust you as best as he can and wouldn't want there to be an imbalance in the relationship to where one of you are restricting the other due to deep seated jealousy (thanks to his libra sun+venus and sag moon). He quite literally just wants you two to be happy and knows that genuine jealousy can poison such a good thing.

Eunseok - I'm sorry fellow briize but this man is quite literally the least of your concern. His aries venus wouldn't want to make things too serious and ominous with jealousy (plus because he values his freedom so in his mind you must value yours too right ?) His sag mars paired with it means he doesn't want to dwell with thoughts of you possibly giving your attention to other guys. He basically has a nonchalant "she knows where home is" mentality lowkey. Plus if he ever did feel jealous he'd probably not say anything because his cap moon+pisces mercury would barely let him properly express it (with words at least). Also weirdly enough he'd be more jealous if you weren't in a relationship compared to if you guys were; once you two are officially together he wouldn't be as jealous anymore .

Least

[glitteringdust]

[after the quest: A Murder of Crows]

There were too many emotions swirling in his chest.

He could have killed Illario for all that he had done, perhaps should have killed him, but when his cousin begged for death he could not find it in his heart to do it. He was still family, even if he didn't deserve to be.

Rook was usually a believer in second chances, but the only thing she had to say to Illario was a threat— should he try to get at Lucanis again he'd have to go through her, and he'd live to regret it.

He should be grateful for Rook, for her help and loyalty. For her kind hand. For her. He should be happy to be First Talon, too, as it was the highest of honors and what every one of the Crows was now celebrating. For Caterina to pick him meant it should all pay off— the pain, the suffering, the betrayal…

Instead everything tasted of ash.

The villa was too loud, with too many people around and the grip he had on Spite thinned with each passing minute. He wasn't aware his heart was racing until Rook’s hand brushed against his, gaze neutral if not for the small wrinkle of concern between her brow.

“Do you… want to stay? Or should we head back?”

He lets out a breath, “We can go. I have other plans for this evening.”

He did not expect those plans to include him locked in thought while he sat with his coffee in the corner of the dining room. He's aware of those coming and going, most of them offering quick congratulations before heading back where they came. Rook was there, and then she wasn't. They'd discussed the night, but she must certainly expect something more from this evening and he had little to give now. Another disappointment.

It mattered little in his rumination.

Illario had said he'd never trust Lucanis as long as he was an abomination, and would never see him the same way again. What was he supposed to do with that? Spite was here to stay, and it all started with Illario. How long had his cousin hated him? He knew he had a jealous streak, but enough to want to remove his own family from the picture to take the glory himself?

Spite lingered along his temples, enhancing the headache already simmering there. The demon was satisfied with their choice, smug that Illario had wanted death and they gave him the opposite. But it only continued to swirl the discontent in Lucanis' chest. Spite did not understand Lucanis' continued unhappiness at his cousin.

Why unhappy? Got. What he. Deserved.

If only he knew how to put into words something a demon could understand.

“Lucanis?”

How long had he been lost in thought? He refocuses his gaze to see Rook, sitting on the arm of his chair. The smell of onion and garlic in the air reminds him of his hunger. He notices the table is set, including lit candles and the fancy wine Rook had been saving.

“Rook, did you…?”

She shrugs, “You take care of everyone, including me, before yourself. And after today, you could use some comfort,” She looks down at her hands, almost shyly, “So, will you have dinner with me?”

He chuckles, setting his mug down before standing and taking one of her hands in his, “It would be my pleasure.”

So they eat, drink, and Rook tells story after story he’s never heard, and some he has. Her voice softens the knot in his chest, unraveling the unrest and when the plates are cleared and table cleaned he finds he doesn’t want this to end.

He doesn’t want to be alone, now.

Rook stay. Here.

For once, he agrees with Spite. After the long, exhausting day he just had all he wanted to do was rest. He could fall asleep next to her in the loveseat, if he tried.

So he does.

“Rook? Do you want to… stay? Just for a little while longer?”

Her gaze could make him melt, “Of course. Are you worried about Spite?”

“No, its not that. I just… would you hold me?”

He feels torn open and raw, overexposed from such a question but she only smiles, “You know I'll do just about anything for you, right?”

He moves, climbing into her lap and resting his head upon her shoulder in an almost effortless fit. Her free hand entwines with his and the other finds itself running its fingers through his hair at the base of his neck. He almost shivers at the featherlight touch.

In her arms, he was at home.

[inkskinned]

i know some of the poets outside of their books, like cameron awkward-rich; who was my seminar teacher for a semester in grad school. you know him, he wrote about keeping his hand on the walls of his stupid heart. he gave us a journal without lines in it, so the pages were all blank and naked. we had to write down 3 words every day, ruminations on our own lives.

in pink glitter pen, i watched my handwriting cramp and spill from pristine and well-meaning to the slant of someone deeply suffering. the words stopped being lyrical over the course of february. bad, it said. bad and bad and bad. each day carving out a little bit of marrow, the sparrow of my heart acting as roadkill. that winter i was only allowed to eat apples, like a horse. my ocd had decided i could only touch food if it was red. i was sleeping on the floor and a spider bit me.

i wanted him to be my thesis advisor, but it was covid the next year, and we never spoke again, and i'm worried that i embarrassed myself by asking him repeatedly. for my final project in his class, i wrote about my disability. i called myself a rat, fondly.

his most famous poem is titled Meditations in an Emergency. i didn't know it until three weeks after i had graduated from that university.

at one point, he sat me down after class just to discuss some of my work. it was a night class, and we were all a little drowsy. he blinked up at me. i think sometimes the way you see the world is a little bit alarming. i wonder about that, in hindsight. i wonder if all of us who are walking on thumbtacks always recognize when someone else's spine is the undulating form of a siren. i could see it in him and you can see it in me, if you're looking.

yesterday nat said some of this is worrying.

i told cameron i was fine and i told nat i was fine, but i think maybe all of us had learned a long time ago how to be fine the way a poem is fine - because it happens outside of you. it can be honest, the confession, but it cannot be spelled out across your ribs. we make our art so that the sorrow can hang, limbless, trembling on the fetid walls beside us.

you learn to turn the ugliness into some kind of work, because you must smash the entire human experience of your stupid bones and teeth and tongue into something, so that you have anything to show for it. otherwise, what is the fucking point. why were you suffering, if not to polish the runoff and say - the melancholy is the signature of my art. i took the splinters out of my gums and filed them down into a thesis. the thesis has been turned into a book which is getting published.

cameron, to my knowledge, still has not read it.

i hope he has found his way out of the maze. i hope you and i one day write our own lanterns. i hope we are able to find some kind of peace without viscera. without having to fight for it. i hope we are able to stumble without falling. i hope one day the sky is empty of vultures and we can cross the desert of our memories without starving.

in the meantime we get up and leave the circled shadow in the writing.

[dumdogs]

── .✦ FULL: IWAIZUMI HAJIME ── .✦

CHAPTER THREE: exit interview

She’s picking at the skin of her lips while she holds the phone up to her ear on his couch, legs pulled up to her chest. It’s a bad habit. Iwaizumi wants to reach over to her and pull her hand away from her mouth, but he holds back.

“Did she answer yet?” Oikawa calls from the kitchen, leaning up against the countertop. She shushes him. Oikawa scoffs.

There’s a bit of a nervous tug in his gut as he watches her. Iwaizumi wonders if he’s more nervous than she is. She doesn’t look nervous. Her eyes are unfocused, staring at the plain, blank wall before her. If anything, she looks bored. Like this is something that she just has to get over with.

“Hey, Alisa,” she says eventually, and Iwaizumi leans forward once she does. “Thanks for answering. I was hoping I could talk to you real quick, if you have the time.”

Iwaizumi can’t hear what’s on the other line. Oikawa perks up from the kitchen, slowly stalking forward towards the living room to listen. She nods. “Yeah, yeah that’s exactly why I’m calling.”

Alisa goes on for a while. Oikawa slowly approaches and takes a seat beside her. He leans his head against her shoulder, trying to listen for Alisa’s voice. Iwaizumi reaches across her and swats at Oikawa’s knee. He straightens up.

“Well, I’m not saying that you have no right to be upset with me. I just think it’s kind of weird to cut me out of your life completely, and then turn around and forgive Akaashi for essentially the same thing.”

“Call her a bitch,” Oikawa whispers during Alisa’s response. She waves him off without looking back at him.

“Okay, so,” she says into the receiver, her voice rising just a touch, “you don’t think that’s a little bit hypocritical? This whole thing was Akaashi’s idea in the first place. Either be mad at both of us or forgive both of us. Holding me to a different standard is kind of insane.”

It’s silent in the apartment. Alisa says something quickly, and her response is a low, angry, “Are you actually kidding me?”

Iwaizumi can feel his heartbeat in his throat. He puts a hand on her thigh and squeezes it. She does not react.

“Yeah, whatever. I mean do whatever you want. That just tells me everything I need to know about you.”

If there was something Alisa had to say to this, she never gets to say it. She pulls her phone away from her ear and drops it on her lap. She buries her face in her hands, pressing the heel of her palm into her eye sockets.

And Iwaizumi feels grateful for Oikawa then, because he asks, “Well what the hell did she say?” when Iwaizumi feels like he’s lost his voice.

She sighs, her shoulders rising and falling, before she sits back up and flops her back against the couch cushion. She doesn’t turn to look at either of them. “She said it hurt worse when I betrayed her, because I was closer to her than Akaashi was. And on top of that, I didn’t tell her the full story, and I took advantage of Akaashi.”

A beat passes. Iwaizumi sits there, in stunned silence, and his hand almost goes limp around her knee. He doesn’t know what to say.

She stands, and Iwaizumi’s hand falls flat against the couch. He turns his head to watch her as she storms out the front door.

She's gone for the rest of the day, which gives Iwaizumi time to ruminate over his silence, and wonder if there was something he could've said to make it better.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ 

“Can I ask you something selfish?”

They’re both lying flat on their backs in Iwaizumi’s dark bedroom, staring at the shadows outlined on the ceiling. He knows she’s not asleep. Iwaizumi can feel how wired she is; this static, buzzing energy is rolling off of her in waves, keeping him up.

She takes a long time to answer. Iwaizumi listens to her breathing. The sound of it fills the room, deep and controlled, like she’s counting the seconds on each inhale and exhale. It’s a sound he’s gotten used to hearing late at night. It almost lulls him to sleep. “You can ask me anything,” she answers, eventually.

Iwaizumi swallows. He has one hand resting lazily on his chest, and his heart thumps against it. He wonders if she can feel it, if she cares to keep track of it. His tongue feels dry. He doesn’t know if he should ask what he wants to ask. It is selfish, maybe too much so. Maybe he should say never-mind, please forget it.

She would, if he asked. She’d tell him okay, and she’d roll over and pretend to sleep and she would act like he never said anything, and Iwaizumi would be off the hook. But the ache of yearning might be killing him, and he doesn’t know how much more of it he can take.

“Is there anything different?” Iwaizumi asks, slowly and lowly, deliberately avoiding any crack in his voice or waver in his tone. He wants to sound like he doesn’t care as much as he does. “With how you feel about me?”

She turns her head against the pillow to look at him. Iwaizumi keeps his gaze on the ceiling. “I don’t know, Haji,” she says. “I don’t know how I feel about you. It’s different than it was before. It’s more. But it’s not the same as…”

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence. Iwaizumi knows its end.

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath, as if there is not a chisel wedged between his ribs. “Do you still love him?”

“Yes,” she answers, swiftly and surely. “I don’t know what it will take for me to stop.”

Not knowing was killing him, but knowing is killing him too. It’s just faster now. The yearning ache in his chest has turned to sharp splintering. Every breath suddenly hurts, and Iwaizumi doesn’t trust himself to say anything else. He feels like an idiot.

“I’m sorry,” she says, like she always does.

“I’m tired of you being sorry,” Iwaizumi tells her, voice tight.

The air is heavy. Iwaizumi has a hard time breathing it. He can’t hear her breathing anymore; he thinks she’s holding it.

“I talked to Yukie today, while I was out,” she tells him in a whisper. “We talked for a while, and she said I should stay with her. And I think I’m going to.”

He knows it’s a good thing. Good for her, and probably good for him. But still, it takes everything in him to preserve his dignity, and not beg her to stay.

Iwaizumi doesn’t want her to leave. He doesn’t want the space in his bed or his drawers back. He doesn’t want to make breakfast for one or go without her cups of coffee. He doesn’t want to stop pretending that this domestic make-believe is sustainable. Iwaizumi wants her. He wants her here, in his arms, around all the time.

“I think I’ve become too dependent on you,” she continues on. “I don’t think it’s healthy, for either of us. I think I need to be on my own for a little. I think you do too.”

She pauses, a break for Iwaizumi to say something. But he doesn’t have anything to say. Nothing that he wouldn’t be ashamed of.

“I don’t think I can ever repay you for everything that you’ve done for me. And I meant it when I said I want you to be happy.”

That’s not what she said, Iwaizumi thinks. She said she wanted to make him happy. He wonders if that’s still true. If there’s still a space for him in her life, or if this is it. If this is the last time he’ll get to see her like this, if it’s the last time she’ll be in his bed. That awful thought nearly makes him sick.

“Please say something,” she says eventually.

Iwaizumi can’t think of anything to say. He can’t imagine what it is she wants to hear, so he doesn’t know what to give her. Maybe that’s been his problem all along. He kicks the blanket off of him. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.

He thinks she might protest. But she just says, “Okay,” with a slight crack in her voice.

Iwaizumi leaves the room, and he closes the door behind him.

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maladaptive coping mechanisms - part 2 (javier x f!reader)

wc: 5.3k | other fics | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 | PART ONE HERE

summary: Looking for an escape from a horrible day, you take a sexy stranger home from the bar. 

tags/warnings: smut, pwp, dom reader/sub jav undertones, switch reader/ switch javi undertones, oral sex, piv sex, AU unprotected sex has no risks bc it's fictional, pwp but some feelings involved, pet names, dick & pussy pronouns

a/n: still practicing, would love feedback, constructive criticism, or delusional inspiration <3

thanks to @miss-oranje-disco-dancer for your thoughts on part 1, i hope this part lives up to the first, and to @gothcsz for encouragement, and the kind anon who asked for part 2

It hurts gasping to catch your breath. Lungs filled with water. Eyes shut so tight a dull headache starts behind them. Every second feels like an hour. In your empty room, alone in your bed. Drowning. Sweat cooling and drying on your skin as the airconditioner hums. A sticky, wet pool of come between your legs. Damp, sweaty sheets. Great, add them to the laundry pile and everything else from your life you’d like to toss out the window. And over what? A man you said ten words to before your smile and fingers digging into his bicep begged him to fuck you? 

When you open your eyes, you can still see his staring back at you deep, warm brown. A new mirage to haunt your mundane existence. You can still hear his baritone voice scratching your ears. You blink and blink, but it doesn’t fade. Javier is standing before you. No shirt on, jeans unbuttoned. Sweat on his golden chest still casting an ethereal shine. He’s holding a fresh glass of water. Your dehydrated body salivates. He’s not a mirage in a desert, though. His shirt is still on your floor with yours. 

You scowl at him, drawing a confused look from him. 

“Something wrong, cariño?” he asks pointedly. 

“No.” 

He sets the water down but doesn’t move closer. He gives you a look. Like he knows your ‘no’ was bullshit. How would he know? He doesn’t know you. Irritation creeps in, replacing the suffocating emptiness. He places a hand softly on your thigh. Gentle so you don’t bolt and run into the street to get hit by an unsuspecting driver in the dark, unable to see you until their headlights flood your eyes and reflect. 

“Thought you’d left,” you answer quietly but honestly. You don’t know him. Why do you care if he thinks you look pathetic? 

“That fast? Without a shirt?” 

You shrug. 

“You want me gone?” He asks, revealing nothing about his own desires. Stoic and frozen to avoid bias. 

“No,” you shake your head, grab the water, swallowing and swallowing. It's so cold it hurts. You hope it never runs out. He can’t see who you really are if you’re hiding behind a glass. Despite your wishes, the glass runs dry. Javi takes it from you and sets it down. 

You look at the man in front of you with sober eyes. He’s incredibly handsome. Without being fueled by blind rage, alcohol, or a contagious horny fever, you aren’t quite as confident. In fact, you suddenly feel overcome with vulnerability. A cord of insecurity wraps around your throat, constricting. You reach for another cigarette to escape the sensation, but Javi intercepts. He takes your hand in his, pulling you towards him until he gets you out of bed and standing before him. He pulls you towards his broad frame and holds you tightly. Pressed against him, chest to chest, you listen to his deep, slow breathing. Skin to skin, he co-regulates you like a baby, fragile in his arms. 

You fight against it. Feeling pathetic. Unable to bare your fangs. Unable to slash with your claws and push him away. He holds you too tight. A heavy lump in your throat renders you unable to speak. Too raw. You’re lost at sea. Circling a whirlpool of dark thoughts. You wait for his rejection. An excuse. A line. A wink and a slap on the ass. A reason to stop fighting and drown. You shouldn’t care if he leaves or ruminate on what he says. He was a distraction. A hot, talented, unforgettable distraction. Another cigarette to burn down to your fingertips and discard in the pile of ash. 

As if, once again, he could hear your hurricane of thoughts bellowing and howling for your attention, Javi shushes you. 

“Quiet.” He runs his fingers up and down your spine. A little light shimmers behind your ribcage. His touch is soothing, and his voice is grounding as he hums into your ear about how soft your skin is. You inhale, your face pressed against his body. He’s spicy, earthy, and smoky. You bite and lick at the flesh you can reach. A barely there noise rumbles in his throat, only for you, only for the ear flush against him, flesh and blood. 

“Shhhh,” he murmurs, “enough.” The light in your chest flickers again. It’s dim, but still, it could guide someone through the dark forest of viscera in your chest cavity to your heart. You shudder. Letting someone follow that beacon through the labyrinth to your jagged, glowing soul? No. What if they see the ugly shape, naked and scarred and bruised? What if they know what you need? What if they give it to you altruistically. 

A stony scowl sets in place. Corners of your mouth weighed down and brows drawn tight. You break out of his hold. Rough and harsh against the warmth between your bodies. 

“How do you know?” You demand an answer. 

“Know what?” 

“Why are you shushing me?” 

“Too loud up here,” he taps the pad of his finger to your temple. A fissure streaking down your stone barricade.

“How do you know?” 

“You have tells.” 

“You don’t know me like that,” you jab a finger at his chest. Hostile and baiting. 

“I’m observant,” he says like it’s a reasonable explanation, unperturbed by your bristling. You stare at him expectantly, waiting for more. Might as well cross your arms and tap your foot. Observant? What the fuck does that mean? 

His hands flex at his sides, his mouth twitches, and then he rolls his shoulders, staying loose and relaxed. Like some thought just rolled through his whole body. “I’m not a good guy,” he says like it’s a fact. Not a threat or self-deprecating. Neutral. 

“But, I know what I’m good at,” he continues, “you clench your jaw, start breathing shallowly, and your eyes–” 

“Got it. I’m a walking billboard,” you cut him off sharply. 

“No.”

You stare back at his face. Unreadable. You wonder what his tells are. 

“I’m observant,” he repeats. You raise an eyebrow at him. “And,” he pauses, “I may have some special training and experience.” 

“In …observing?” 

“Something like that.” 

“What are you Javi? A PI? Secret agent man? FBI?”

“DEA.” 

“DEA?” 

“Formerly.” 

“Formerly? Did you get fired? Caught on the take? Testing the product?” 

He snorts at you. You cracked a smile out of him. It softens you. A playful ease reemerging.  

“Retired.” 

He’s a man of few words, it seems. His walls have a strong foundation. You scrutinize his face and body swiftly and blatantly. 

“You either have some freakish age-defying genetics, or the DEA retirement age is earlier than I thought,” you muse, earning a little huff of air that sounds like a stifled laugh from him. 

“Chose an early retirement; resigned.” Something else is on the edge of his tongue. It doesn’t formulate. 

“Did you like it?” You ask with sincerity. He blinks. Unprepared for that question. Shit, was that the wrong thing to ask? You notice the lines in his face. He runs his thumb across his bottom lip in thought. You wonder if that’s one of his tells. It’s kind of a slutty one, you think to yourself, suppressing a smile as you focus on his mouth. His lips. Soft and plush. The way they fit against yours– 

“I don’t think so,” he decides, “maybe early on.” 

You smile up at him, “s’good that you’re out of it then,” you say with an assertive nod. 

He nods back with a deep exhale. Release. Like he’s letting go of something, but his eyes seem unfocused now. Another tell? Maybe you need special training to know. He seems far away in his head. Withdrawing. No, you want him to stay present with you. You liked how it felt when he appeared connected. Here. With you. You liked his confidence. The chemistry egged you on like you both were in on a secret. You think you might know how to bring him back. Plus, he needs it, you decide. You aren’t done with him, and he hasn’t disappeared completely. You readjust internally. More. You’re still smiling, but with an edge he hasn’t caught yet. 

“Hey, Javi?” You purr. 

“Hmm?” Still faraway. 

You pick up one of his hands in both of yours and kiss each finger. Watching his face. Looking for the light behind his eyes. The tactile sensation draws it out like a stagelight, he’s fixed on your mouth. The size of your hands around his. The hunger in your eyes when you look through your lashes at him. 

“What else are you good at?” You drop your voice. Your demons chitter and flap around the room. Maybe they’re chasing his. You drag his fingers down your body. Slowly. Both your heads droop, chin to chest, watching the private show. Just for you, except it’s for him. Between your breasts, down your soft belly. Lower and lower. Breathing your shared hot air. All you can hear is the fan in the airconditioner and your pulse. Time weighted down by the tension. You pause. His hand is heavy, dead weight in yours, letting you have him. You reverse, tracing back up, the same path, until you’re about to kiss his fingers again, but instead you wrap your lips around one and suck. 

“Fuck,” his eyes widen briefly, and his jaw hangs slack. You pull off his finger wetly. Alluring. You don’t have to act. The expression forming on his face brings out your devious seductress. Smiling, wide. You bite your lip, toning it down. Batting your lashes at him. You’re like an image from a dream he’s been having since he was a teenager. He hopes he doesn’t wake up from it. 

“Javi?”

“Yes.” 

“What else are you good at?” you repeat. Tolerant of his lapse in responding. For now. 

The switch flicks. He regains autonomous control of his limbs. Hands curl around your form, until one rests along the back of your neck, fingers slid into the hair at the base of your skull. The other wedges between your legs. Hot against the sticky mess you’d been forcing yourself to ignore since he first got out of your bed. He’s here, back. 

“Good at making a mess of this pretty little pussy.” 

“Mmm,” you agree. His voice unlocks something ravenous. 

“Good at making you come wrapped around these fingers,” he slips and swirls them through the mess between your legs. Obscene. 

“Mmm.”

“Good at filling you with this cock until you forget how to say anything ‘cept for ‘please, Javi’,” he declares as his other hand wraps yours around his growing length. 

“Yes.” 

“Good at giving you something to feel,” he continues on. He is no longer a man of few words; he’s not a laconic lover. A filthy little devil dances on his tongue. He’s a willing vessel. Tugging at your hair and slipping through your folds. 

You giggle airily, and he pauses his running list of sex skills, waiting for an explanation. What could possibly be funny to you right now. 

“Giving me something to feel,” you slip between another giggle. “Right now,” you pull at his wrist, “I feel like we could use a shower before we keep going. We’re messy.” 

He laughs with you, and you adore how his eyes crinkle when he smiles wide. 

You wash each other in the shower with care. Roles reversed from the cab of his truck, you sternly demand he behaves in the shower, citing an unreliable hot water tank. It’s hard to resist fooling around covered in soap, but he holds up his hands in surrender. He promises to behave. But his cock refuses. It pokes and prods at your soft belly and lower back. Teasing. Begging to be scolded for disobeying. Protesting in opposition to Javier’s earnest affection. He’s gentle washing your back. Vulnerable letting you wash his. It’s rejuvenating. He cleared your mind earlier, and gave you something to feel, with care and attention. You commit yourself to returning the favor. You’ll give him a break from whatever led him to brooding on a barstool. 

You have a feeling he doesn’t give up control very often. He’s such an attentive listener, though. He’ll do great, you decide. 

He knows something has changed. Wretched observant thing he is. 

You are busy thinking, but you don’t have the same look on your face as you did at the bar or when he came back to your bedroom after getting more water. Your mind is racing, but with vigor. It radiates through the hot steam. A sparkle in your eye. Fluid movement. As if it were all premeditated, you dry off and direct him. 

He’s bewitched by the riddle of you. Bold and quick witted, but raw and honest. It’s easy to notice when you’re lost in your head, but he can’t predict you. Time speeds up and slows down in your presence. Like he was knocked out cold, face to pavement. Then thrown in the backseat of a speeding car, but it’s on a cross country trip. When he makes eye contact with you in the rearview mirror from the backseat it’s unnerving. Is he your hostage? Were you the getaway driver? 

You catch him drifting away. Naked and wet in your too bright bathroom, exposed like he’s on an operating table under the bright fluorescent lights. You watch as he towels off on autopilot. 

He realizes he wants to stay longer, not because he knows the broken look from your face earlier, but because something else already stitches you together. You’re peculiar. Direct. Expressive. His speed. Some unspoken understanding, resolute and vibrant. Cutting through the void of the unknown. Real. He can read when you disappaer, but he can’t predict you. 

Javi shakes his head to himself, lost in this train of thought. You’ve known her for a few hours. A couple drinks, sex, and a shower, he reminds himself. He also knows how you taste and how you feel wrapped around his cock, whining please, and that thought fans the flames. 

Enough. You decide. He needs this. 

He smells fresh and sweet from your body wash as you lead him back to your bedroom. He pulls your back into his damp chest, running his hands along your body and nearly purring in your ear. Good.

You whip around and take a step back, surprising him. He hesitates. You’re analyzing. Calculating. Your eyes drag over his body. His big brown eyes and kiss-swollen lips register that you pulled away from him. His hands flex like a predator, ready to grab and pull you back to him, but restrained. His cock reaches out towards you unabashedly, shouting for your attention. 

You can’t help but feel the smile you feel pulling at the corners of your mouth. 

“Javi?”

“Yes?”

“Are you good at following orders?”

“Nope.” 

You laugh, surprised by his quick honesty. 

“Kind of oxymoronic,” you ponder. 

“How?” 

“Well, now I don’t know if you should earn my favor for answering honestly or if I should prepare a punishment if you’re going to misbehave.”

Something flickers across his face. He swallows it. 

“Let me try again.” You move closer and cup his cheek in your palm like he did to you when you first sat on your bed for him. You look into his eyes and speak softly, “You gave me what I needed earlier. Made me feel so good I forgot everything else.” He waits for you to continue, but you feel his chest puff with pride. “I’d like to give you what you need now, Javi.” He swallows again. You wondered if he’d have a quip for that, but he looks so serious. Focused. 

“But first, I need to know if you’ll be good for me, Javi. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?” 

You feel him melt slightly, into your palm, nearly imperceptible the weight shifting into your hold. 

More. The wildfire within you is lit. Blazing. 

“Yes,” he nearly whispers. A flush of heat crawls up his chest. 

“Can you follow my orders?” 

“Yes, mi reina,” he said, consenting. That’s new. 

“Mmm,” you purr at him. 

“Does your pretty cock know that?” 

He blinks with a thin veil of confusion at you. Uncertain. 

“Yes,” he confirms. 

“Look at me,” you order. 

You sink to your knees in front of him. You ego does flips in your stomach. He looms over you, but you hold the reins. You pepper little kitten licks up the underside of his shaft, holding his eye contact and pausing. You rest your soft cheek against his thigh. He’s tense. Waiting to know the rules. 

“Does he look greedy to you?” You study the precome weeping from the head of his cock inches from your face. 

“No, mi reina.” 

“No?”

You avoid his crying erection and impishly toy with his balls. Lazily, you kiss and lick and suckle at them for your own enjoyment. And when you stop, you feel the weight of his gaze, and his unanswered questions, the payback. 

“So good for me watching and not touching,” you praise. “But, baby, look. He’s drooling like a rabid dog.”

You swipe up a trail of the glistening fluid with precision, doing nothing to relieve him. He swallows tightly, his body buzzing with tension like a livewire. He finds it easy to dole out pleasure, direct his energy towards someone else, drown in unraveling a woman’s desires. But your knowing look at him is unnerving. Rattling his bravado. You move with precision, intensely. 

“Tell me, Javi,” you peer up at his face, “do you have a greedy cock?” 

You’re going to ruin him. 

“Yes,” he relents through an exhale. You’ve found it. Kept locked in a cage. Leashed in the dark. How did you find it? Did he lead you there? 

You tilt your head at him. 

“Yes, mi reina,” he adds. 

“Say it for me, baby,” you push. 

He takes a shallow breath. You grin at him like a Cheshire Cat. 

“I have a greedy cock, mi reina, a greedy disobedient cock.” Unlocked, you pocket the key. You’ve unleashed something within him. His feels a swirl of sick pleasure twisting in his core. 

“Yes,” you exclaim with a bright look that gives him a rush. He wants to keep making you look like that. 

“You can touch.” You reward him. Too easy. 

He reaches for you, and you swat at his hand. 

“No, baby, you can touch your greedy cock, not me.” 

A whiny little groan comes out of him, prickling with need. 

“Slowly,” you add, watching as he obeys. His hand pumps slowly. You can’t resist. Holding out your tongue, you move close enough that his rosy head taps against your wet tongue just long enough to get a taste. You hum. Pleased with his obedience and the taste of him. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, closing his eyes tightly. 

“Your eyes stay on me, though,” you remind him gently, with leniency for his current state of executive functioning. 

“Would you like to know a secret?” You tease as you stand up and lean into his ear. 

“Yes,” he pants. Breathy and gravelly. Delight coats your expression, you 

“I like your big greedy cock,” you lilt. 

A soft whine is pulled from his throat. You frown dramatically at him. Causing him to pause his tense strokes and his brow to furrow. You love the intoxicating feeling of having him at your mercy. 

“But you already knew that,” you admonish, shaking your head at him. 

“Already knew that,” he repeats. You’re not sure he could tell you what he just agreed to know. 

“Not a very good secret then, I guess,” you think aloud. You’re light and lucid, bouncing around him as he’s anchored in the quicksand of your spell. 

“But do you know,” circling behind him, you press your soft tits into his back, and you continue to rasp towards his ear, “how wet my pussy is now? Just from the idea of taking your cock down my throat? She’s about to drip down my legs.” 

“Fuck,” he pants again and stops moving. You feel like the sun. You urge him to turn towards you as you crawl onto your bed and lay in the center. His eyes flick all over you, wanting to see everything. 

He’s fighting to figure out where to lock his eyes. It feels euphoric to see how openly aroused he is by you. 

“Did you know that?” You repeat. 

“No.” 

“S’what I thought,” you reposition yourself, “you wanna see for yourself?” 

“Yes,” he answers rapidly. Eager. 

You show him. Parting your legs to display the evidence. So wet and tender for him. 

You’re locked in a timeloop. When you see his eyes flood with lust, and his body tenses, your desire swells in your core, flooding your glossy folds. When he sees your glistening sex fluttering and pulsing, it nearly brings him to his knees. A horny sisyphian wet dream. Turning each other on. But, crucially, you know how to break free. 

“You wanna taste?” You ask. 

“Yes, please.” Good manners. 

He starts to move towards you, and you press him back. 

“No, baby, lay right here, and I’ll give you a taste.” 

He’s obedient. Settling next to you. For a moment, he has the urge to drag you by the hips to sit on his face. To take you for himself, no games. But then he hears your sweet voice praising him and feels overcome with a dizzying sense of validation. 

“So perfect, baby, look at you,” you continue showering him with adoration. You’re mesmerizing with your sweet scent, wet lips, and your glassy eyes. Too good for him. He doesn’t deserve your attention like this. 

You see the crease between his brows as he starts to overthink. Enough. You bite sharply at his nipple, and he yelps and gapes at you. You straddle his waist and give him a stern look. 

“Stay here with me, Javi,” you order, ”don’t disappear in there.” You tap a finger lightly against his temple. He nods. 

You hover over him and slip his swollen head through your folds, easily coating his length. He shudders and groans. So openly vocal and responsive to you. That’s good. I like to hear you, baby. You use him as you please, like a toy circling your clit. But it’s everything about him that saturates you in pleasure. 

“Feel so fucking good,” you praise before pulling back and shifting down between his legs. 

You lick and suck your arousal off of him. Loud and messy. You climb towards his face. “Open,” you place your hand under his jaw, “taste,” you murmur before feeding your tongue into his mouth. Kissing hungrily he lets out desperate, deep groans. Relaxing into your movements he simply accepts what you give and lets you feel his uninhibited reactions. 

He finds you vexing and tantalizing. Letting him touch and taste, but not directly. He’d have half a mind to argue with you—despite having tormented you just the same—but how you light up and laugh when you best him fills him with a more profound desire. He likes how you look when you’re in charge. He likes that he just has to keep up. He likes being all consumed by the present moment, so caught up in you he can’t think about anything else. 

You break away, seemingly satisfied with his participation thus far. You’re ethereal and glowing above him. 

You slide down and return to your retribution. Teasing by lightly drawing your fingers around his leaking cock as it lies against his lower abdomen. You revel in delight over his muscles tensing and flexing, and he huffs impatiently as you increase the intensity of your vengeance. You trace the same outline with your tongue; you use his moves from earlier, breathing warm and cool air over his length and watching it twitch. 

You stare up at him as you run the flat of your tongue from his balls up to his tip. He looks wrecked, staring back at you, and you feel powerful, holding his attention.  

He catches the flash of a smirk before you slip your mouth around his tip and nearly overwhelm him with the warm slip of your tongue and the pressure of your mouth wrapped around him. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. 

You don’t let up, swiftly taking him further down. You focus on breathing and working him into the back of your throat, then back to just the tip. Your saliva drips and coats him as your hands work in time with your bobbing head. It’s messy, and the noises are pornographic as you pour your enthusiasm onto him. He’s cursing and groaning while you continue on, and you can’t take the sight of him anymore. You pull off him and crawl up the bed on your hands and knees. You sit up and pick up one of his hands. 

“Javi, I have a problem,”

“Shit, what?” 

“When your cock is in my mouth, my pussy gets jealous. She’s too empty,” before he can respond, you drag his hand through your obscenely wet folds. 

“Fuck,” he chokes out. It must be his favorite word. 

“Mhmm,” you agree. 

“Use me,” he says in a hoarse voice. 

“I intend to,” you reply. 

And you do. You ride him with an unrestrained vigor. You start bouncing up and down, tossing your head back to give him a little show. You drive him into a frenzy as you freely describe how good he makes you feel. And when he looks wholly fucked out, you taunt him for looking so pleased when his body is yours to use. 

When he breaks, you feel his hands caress your body greedily. He squeezes at your hips, and he gapes with stars in his eyes at your tits perfectly filling his hands. He gropes at your ass and digs his fingers into your plush skin, pulling you down harder onto him with each bounce.

You consider how you might torture him further for touching without asking, but decide you just need to see him come undone. A single thought crosses your mind like a brilliant marquee on an empty boulevard.

He remains happy to obey as you instruct him to swap positions. 

“You’re going to keep fucking me hard and deep while I come on your cock,” you order as you trail your hand down to your clit to your liking. 

“Yes,” he agrees. “Come. Come on my cock.” He chants raggedly as you do. Your orgasm ripples across your body until the oversensitivity hits, and you press your hand into Javi’s chest. He pauses, hovering over you. You breathe as you come down and observe the exertion written across his features. 

“Again,” you state, and he slides back into you. “I need it now, Javi,” you continue. “I need you to come. Fill me up. Just like you promised.” 

You can’t get there with him again fast enough, but don’t need to. You just want to feel him deep inside you, releasing everything he’s got. And he’s more than willing to follow orders. He thrusts into you deeply until his hips jerk, and you can feel him pulsing inside of you as he comes. 

“Please, take it.” You make out in between words that he smothers in your skin.  

When he collapses on top of you, and your fingers rake through his hair, it’s as if he turns to liquid, and your soul absorbs him up. 

You hum contentedly at him and push until he rolls off. 

You order him to stay in bed before you’re off to clean up, bring him a towel, and of course, refill water glasses for both of you. As you walk into the kitchen, you see the flashing light on your answering machine. You didn’t notice it when you got home earlier, but it reminds you of the reality of the night. You know it’s a scathing message from your ex for walking away hours ago. 

You feel a thread of annoyance, but it doesn’t escalate as you return to your bedroom. 

Javi is where you left him and watches you with a funny look in his eyes as you carry on about your tasks until you return to his side. He likes seeing you move about your space, naked and unhurried. How insistint you are about taking care of him, it feels natural. 

“What?” you grill him for staring. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he assuages, raising his hands in defense. 

You like how he looks in your bed with his dewy skin and mussed hair. 

“Seems like you can be good at following orders,” you note.  

“Depends on who’s doing the ordering, I guess” he shrugs, and you roll your eyes. 

You offer him a cigarette and notice the time on the clock on your nightstand. 

“It’s late,” you state, and he nods, taking a long drag. 

“Stay,” you suggest, hoping it doesn’t sound needy. 

“That an order, mi reina?” 

You didn’t expect to hear that endearment outside of sex. It makes you float. 

“Yes.” 

“Good.”

He’s there. In the morning when you wake up. Taking up too much space in your bed, sprawled on his stomach. Trapping you under a heavy arm. Snoring hot air into your shoulder. His body is a furnace, the sheet balled up towards your feet, leaving his bare skin exposed to the morning light. His smooth back and the curve of his ass are candid and honest next to you. You figured he would’ve disappeared before you woke up. Like a cryptid. You thought you’d be searching for any trace that he was real. Fortunately, you are surrounded by evidence. He is real, and unguarded. And somehow weighing your whole body down with just one arm. You squirm trying to check the time and he stirs. You still. 

“Morning,” he grumbles. Of course his morning voice is sexier than you could’ve imagined. 

“Morning.” 

He peels his arm from your skin, releasing you. Free to stretch you reveal the ache in your shoulders from sleeping in that position with a groan. The room smells like sweat and sex, with faint notes of your shampoo and his aftershave lingering on your pillows. You instantly miss his touch, despite the fact that you were overheating from his warmth. You wait for a clue. What happens next? He was supposed to be temporary. A high you chased. Just a distraction, help you avoid reality and your emotions. But you like having him spread out on your mattress in the morning. You’d like to hear more of his voice. 

He flips onto his back and scoops you under his arm. Oh. Head on his chest. You hear the strong beat of his heart in his chest. You might as well try. 

“You want–” “Can I–” 

You both laugh, your head bumping into his chest. You urge him to go first. Reveal his hand. 

“Can I take you to breakfast?” he asks, “maybe after another shower,” he adds considering whatever fluids are still pasted to his skin. 

You couldn’t have resisted the smile spreading on your face if you’d been warned ahead of time. You know he feels it pressed against his skin. 

“I was going to offer to make coffee, but that does sound better.” 

“Good.”

“Plus, I could use a ride back to my car. It’s still outside the bar.” 

“A ride, hm?” His voice melts over the top of your head. You’re not listening to the words. Floating in a cloud. Just the baritone of his voice keeping you in the air. “C’mere, I’ve got a ride for you, cariño,” he growls into your hair before pulling you all the way on top of him. You shake with airy laughter, sitting up. Your laugh lights up his eyes. He looks at you like he wants more. 

It’s enough. 

read on ao3 | PART ONE HERE | divider by @/saradika-graphics

thank you for reading, please let me know what you think <3

[fbfh]

leo with baby fever? 🥹

i've always wondered what would he be like with babies of his own? 🥹💞

AAAAUGH. thank you for this one my dearest darlingest tumblr user pdlrnjlm. I'm violently sobbing over this one /pos. also excuse any egregious typos, I just woke up from a dream where my dyslexic ass couldn't spell "chris evans fine" to the point that autocorrect was beyond useless (and probably laughing at me).

ANYWAY. Leo with baby fever is... lethal. as previously stated, Leo is the motherfucking ceo of "one wouldn't hurt" but he sounds so... convincing when he says it. he says it so sweetly you start to think huh. maybe one wouldn't hurt. within a day or two his fyp is just cute baby fever inducing videos. he casually learns everything there is to know about child development and parenting in a matter of days. he starts treating your cat like a baby, talking to them and holding them on his lap while he works and good GOD if it doesn't start to hit you too. The tension and soul aching need to see you all big and preggers with his baby, your baby that you made together is almost too much. Then one fatal day, you run out of clean pajamas. It’s laundry day, and the only comfy thing you have on hand is a floral mumu from walmart that looks like something a grandma would wear, but you’re desperate and it’s soft and loose and comfy. So Leo, after spending hours rotting his brain with baby thoughts and thinking about how nice it’ll be to be a dad and how fulfilling it’ll be to come home and see a wrinkly little newborn having tummy time on your chest while you’re both half asleep to barrio sesamo playing on the tv. After a full day of ruminating on that, he comes home and sees you in your floral lil granny nightgown and good GOD something inside him snaps. You have this man feeling you up, snarling and growling, purring in you ear before he bites it. Something has gotten into him and taken full control of the primal part of his brain. And let’s be real here. You might as well consider yourself pregnant from the first “c’mon estrella, one or two couldn’t hurt… they’re so little, you won’t even notice them.” into your neck while he hugs you from behind. But yeah. Leo with baby fever is so simultaneously sweet cute fluffy domestic and rearrange your guts at the same time that it’s kind of inevitable. If Leo kisses your neck and rubs your tummy and says “you’d look so cute pregnant, baby…” you’re gonna fold. You have to. No one can resist that. And who would want to????