#not rly sure how the aging of gods work

[yamsgarden]

Some more ror doodles

[slytherinshua]

2AM CRISIS

genre. comfort. sickfic. warnings. reader is sick specifically throwing up so don't read if you find that rly gross... some comments abt it being reader's first time sleeping over and the hyungs being extremely cautious lmfao. not proofread. pairing. yujin x fem!reader. wc. 1k. request. requested by @theriizeler a/n. i hope this makes u feel better dodo :(( first time writing yujin i hope i did okay he's rly such a sweetheart :( ppl need to write more for him cause i get not writing for him cause of his age but he's always skipped over...

“Ew…” Yujin mumbled, crouched on the floor of the bathroom with you as you heaved again. For this being your first time sleeping over (with extremely watchful eyes from Hao and Hanbin), it definitely was not going as planned. You had felt something was wrong the entire day, but your boyfriend Yujin was so excited to spend the night with you that you didn’t have the heart to cancel on him.

You should have trusted your gut, though, because now you were throwing up in the toilet in painful gags, your throat burning and a disgusting acidic aftertaste left in your mouth. Was it something you had eaten? Or maybe you had caught a stomach bug at school… You envied your boyfriend for evading it, though you guess it made sense. He rarely attended because of his schedule.

“Stay right there.” Yujin whispered, getting up and leaving the bathroom to find some water for you. 

He didn’t have much experience taking care of someone since he was usually the one always being pampered and babied. He tried his best to recall what his mom and Hao had done when he had gotten sick, but the memory was foggy as he had mostly just slept until he felt better. They did force him to take some horrible-tasting medicine, though… God, did he have to persuade you to do that as well? He’d rather just die than possibly give you an excuse to despise him.

Once he was back with a bottle of water, he handed it to you and sat back down on the floor of the bathroom. It was almost 2 am by now, and he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He could see tears prickling at your lashes, and his absolute worst fear in the world was seeing you cry. He had no idea how he’d make the tears stop once they started.

You swished your mouth with the water and spat again into the toilet before taking a proper drink. The cool water soothed your burning throat, but it didn’t ease all the discomfort. You still felt like shit, and your stomach still hurt. Your head was also pounding, but it wasn’t as bad as the nausea. 

You turned back to Yujin who’s eyes were blown big and confused, though you could tell he was worried about you. His under eyes looked tired and you suddenly felt really bad for waking him up to go puke in his bathroom. If you had been able to get up without disturbing him, then you would have. But he had fallen asleep clinging to you like a koala, and there was no way to escape his grasp without waking him up.

“I’m sorry… you should just go back to sleep.” You muttered, but Yujin was quick to shake his head.

“I can’t just leave you throwing up by yourself… I’ll stay until you’re ready to go back to bed.” He told you, stroking your hair gently. You tried to breathe steadily in hopes of stopping the urge to throw up again, but it didn’t work. You quickly pushed Yujin’s hand away from your face and discarded more of yesterday’s meal into the bowl. Both you and Yujin grimaced in sync, and he hesitantly pulled back your hair and stroked your back.

The tears that you had tried to keep at bay finally started to stream down your face. You hated everything about the situation. You felt awful, not just physically, but for ruining your first sleepover with Yujin like this. No one wanted to be sitting next to their girlfriend who couldn’t stop vomiting at 2 am. 

“Don’t cry— please, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Yujin panicked. The only thing he could think of doing was offering you more water, which you took amidst broken sobs. He wrapped his arms around you hesitantly, knowing that he always calmed down in your arms. Maybe it would help you, as well. Your sobs slowed a bit, in turn slowing down Yujin’s anxiously beating heart. 

“Hey, what if I just get you a bowl? You can keep it by the bed and then you won’t have to stay here on the floor, hm? We can cuddle too… if you want?” You would’ve smiled at how cute Yujin’s suggestion was if you weren’t too focused on calming yourself down. You knew he was trying his best, and while he was a bit slow on ways to help (you were pretty sure there were some pills to help with nausea that Hanbin had bought last time Gyuvin had felt nauseous during a shoot, but you were certain that your boyfriend had no idea where they were stored), his presence alone was enough to make things a little better.

“Yeah… let’s just do that.” You agreed, standing up slowly. You flushed the toilet and rinsed your mouth once more with water. While Yujin was getting a metal bowl for you, you brushed your teeth, relieved that your mouth no longer had the awful aftertaste of stomach acid.

Once you were back under the blankets on the mattresses that the older members had set up on the floor of the living room (which was almost too overkill as neither you nor Yujin would even think to attempt anything like that, protesting Hao’s carefully thought of set-up would’ve seemed even more suspicious), you felt your stomach ease a bit. 

You curled up against Yujin’s chest, wanting nothing more than to be as close as possible to him. The soap and shampoo scents from his earlier shower lingered on his skin, and you were surprised at how effective it was in stopping your nausea and relaxing you. Your head was still pounding, but you’d take the pain over feeling sick. Maybe you would even be able to get some sleep again like this.

Your boyfriend kissed your forehead and started talking softly, trying to get you to fall asleep to the lull of his voice. It was extremely effective and you found yourself dozing off within minutes. You smiled when the last thing you heard Yujin say was a whispered “feel better soon, princess.”

↳ zerobaseone taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @okshu,, @chewryy,, @haecien,, @sobun1est,,

@emmylksblog,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @chenleszone

[devilmademewriteit]

Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: sure, the fact that he’d schemed up an entire, elaborate ruse to get between your legs was upsetting. more upsetting was the fact that he refused to fess up, insisting that you needed to be protected (or at the very least—cautious) because your life was in ‘grave danger.’ most upsetting, however? that would be the fact that through it all and above everything else, you still wanted him—badly.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of reader having long hair; bratty!reader; brat-tamer!javi; alcohol consumption; smoking; pet names (baby, sweetheart, cariño, hermosa); some angst; dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, age gap).

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

hello here is part twooooo! thank you for all the love on Salvatore I absolutely love all of you so much. you don't rly need to read p1 to enjoy this, just know that: reader is the ambassador's secretary and is an asshole, Javi is also an asshole, they fucked for the first time a few days ago b/c he took her home after someone seemed to be after her life.

don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty; feedback, asks, comments, smoke signals and carrier pigeons always welcome. kisses. -em<3

—

read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

—

Let’s get in the back of your cop car, officer! - Playing Dangerous

“I am not speaking to you.”

Murphy’s eyes come alive with exasperation, a striking shift from their usual half-asleep, perpetually vacant gawp. Not quite at the point of impatience yet, his voice is soft when he responds.

“Please.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. An impassive sneer makes its way onto your expression.

Not a fucking chance.

Not only were you not planning on ever doing Steve Murphy—and especially, his asshole partner—even the smallest of favours throughout your remaining time on this godforsaken planet, you’d come to the conclusion (quite recently, in fact) that you’d rather dance barefoot on broken glass than be in the same room as either member of the pair.

And it was a shame, really.

After that (now regrettable, once incredible) night at Peña’s place, everything had been fine.

More than fine. Not even awkward.

For a glorious moment, waking up next to him, ruined and sore and bruised and satisfied, sharing a morning coffee and then a ride to work—peace (and the planted seeds of something else, too) had finally settled across the worn-in battlegrounds between you, solid roots spreading with each passing second spent not bickering. For crying out loud, when he’d gotten called away to Bogotá that very same day, you’d put yourself to work keeping his place clean, going so far as to anticipate his return.

Everything had been fine.

Until, of course, you’d gotten the old Chevy serviced.

“Car’s running fine, señorita. Put that missing part back, s’good to go.”

“Missing part?”

“The spark plug—wasn’t in there when we looked.”

And the missing pieces fell into place.

How he’d waltzed into your car earlier on in the day, running his fingers along the hard, hot plastic of the dash—analyzing, observing, and finally commenting on your shitty engine. Then, he’d been conveniently there, waiting for you in the middle of the night, watching you wrestle your hood open in the parking lot after work. Hell, he took you to his place after he’d told you he'd seen a shady truck parked in front of yours… and you’d trusted him.

Without bothering to check for yourself, you’d trusted him.

You had to hand it to the man; it was a clever plan. Wear you down during the day only to corner you while alone, vulnerable, and at night, with no possible avenues for escape.

All to get inside your pants.

God.

Murphy huffs, bringing you back down to Earth. “Listen,” he rubs his temples, exhaustion weighing down the curves of shoulders, “We just want to make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to stay with him, either; Connie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes in full view of his own. “I keep wondering, though... seeing as you're… thick as thieves, these days,” you lean forward over your desk, studying his swallow. “Was it you that shot off that gun? Or did he get someone else to participate in his little scheme?”

The agent tilts his head to the side, putting on the air of a wordless 'really, sweetheart?' before launching into a recitation of a sorely well-versed explanation.

But you cut him off, unforgiving in your suspicion. “Don’t bother, alright? Even if I did believe that, what, some 'cartel sicario'—” you emphasize the ridiculousness of the statement by tossing up a couple of well-timed air quotes “—was after me…?” and then you’re gesturing wildly to yourself, fingertips pointed straight to your heart. “I would rather die—really, seriously, die—than step foot into your home—or-or fucking Peña’s—Ever. Again.”

The mounting ire behind your breathless rambling finally wears him down; he surrenders his complexion to a look of genuine defeat. His arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp.

As you try to appear busy, fidgeting with the scattered papers and documents lying listlessly across your desk, Murphy turns on his heels, stooping toward the exit.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, coming to a slow halt halfway down his holy pilgrimage of freeing you from his fucking presence.

“Did you…” and he briefly trails off, anticipating your wrath with a wince. “Did you fill out that form?”

Irritation clouds your thoughts. Its manifestations in your body feel almost violent.

“What do you think, genius?”

You scare yourself with the aggression underpinning each and every word.

Inside the safety of your mind, your inner dialogue treats him even worse.

Go, motherfucker. Go, go, go, go, go or I’ll tear us both apart, I’ll explode, I’ll—

You hope that it’s Luck listening to your prayers (and not God), because as soon as your brain has time to register the nature of your wicked, near sacrilegious thoughts toward the man, Murphy’s yellow-dusted crown is drooping down in eventual resignation, leading the way as he trudges back to his corner.

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

Well, because those fucking memories won’t stop replaying inside your mind, etched like crude Botticellis on the backs of your eyelids.

Overlaying the non-stop highlight reel of a vicious fight with Peña, just that morning—

“Well, I didn’t see a car. What I saw was you, whipping me over to your fuck-pad—and now? I see your whole... fucking masterplan to get me into bed.”

“You’re talking fuckin’ crazy. There’s no pussy in the world that’s worth pulling all that.”

—are flashes of his bare, glistening chest, an almost tangible haze of longing obscuring his eyes. You’d taken him in your mouth; you’d felt him all over: against you, with you, inside you.

And when you’re not seeing him, you’re forced to hear him, over and over and over again.

“You fuckin’ sing for me when you’re comin’ on my cock.”

So, you push certain memories away by calling on certain others, repeating every cruel word you’d ever exchanged with each other like a mantra, an affirmation.

They remind you of the man that Javier Peña truly was.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever had the shit-luck of meeting, Peña.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too crazy about you, either. Got some serious growin’ up to do, sweetheart.”

A loud snap wrenches you back to your senses. You unfurl your fingers to reveal the broken remnants of a poor, innocent pencil you’d been white-knuckle-death-gripping.

What really had you ticking was that, after you’d hurled accusations and insults at him for the better part of an hour—totally monopolizing the space of the familiar, dusty old filing room—he’d had the nerve to continue on with his little act.

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

And his voice had been coated in poison, laced with the kind of fiery contempt that surely only a guilty man could achieve.

“—but do me a favour and just don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. It’s shit work, hiring new secretaries.”

He hadn’t waited around for an answer, leaving you alone with his final words and a mountain of your own unsaid ones.

So, you’d hissed a “fuck off” to the lingering ghost of his presence in the room, trying, in vain, to slow your shallow breaths.

You heave a sigh, forehead dropping to lay heavy against the desk.

If only you could take your brain out for the day. If only you could run it under cold water. Better yet, if only you could scrub it clean with bleach, put it in the dishwasher, run it with the damn laundry—anything to make it shiny and new and untainted.

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

What kind of shit sicario goes after secretaries who, beyond not knowing what they’re supposed to know about, don’t care enough to actually retain any of it?

Not a good sicario. Definitely not one who would still be alive in Medellìn, today.

It was all bullshit.

~

You weren’t the kind of person who attended work parties.

They always ran excruciatingly long. On top of that, you had to watch traumatized coworkers drink. A lot. Then, there was, of course, after-hours work-talk.

None of that had ever screamed 'best night ever!' to you.

Tonight, however, you hadn’t been given a choice: the ambassador had needed 'someone there, you know, just in case work stuff comes up’ which really meant that she was banking on you to give her a ride home at the end of the night.

Like that was happening. She hadn't been pleased when you'd made it clear to her that you were out of commission, off-the-clock, done-zo starting at fifteen to ten. You'd hoped that, at that point, she would've rescinded her original request. 

She hadn't. 

Still, Noonan had spent the week being remarkably kind to you—maybe her invitation was her (deeply misguided) way of trying to make up for the shit-storm she’d watched you face over past few days (whether she believed Peña’s dystopian, hitman fantasy was uncertain; either way, she’d witnessed your torment at his hands, and both realities seemed equally as emotionally taxing).

Despite all the hints you’d dropped about wanting the night off, she either hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, or thought you were just trying to be polite.

Come on.

She’d been your boss long enough to know there was no chance of you pussy-footing around out of politeness.

The event was meant to commemorate some big accomplishment—a narco sting gone right (or else, some big narco boss gone six-feet-under). The reason behind the festivities wasn’t of any importance to you—getting through the next few hours as quickly and as painlessly as possible took up all of the remaining (albeit limited) space in your head.

Because, afterwards? You were going out. 

A good friend’s bachelorette, a shit-ton of dark tequila, and the warm lips of a total stranger.

God, you needed that. Every intimate spot on your body was in desperate need of a cleanse. Your tongue, the soft skin between your thighs, the peach-fuzz on your cheeks…

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

About half-way through serving your sentence in regulatory purgatory, someone turns on the stereo. A Queen song—the one that everyone knows. You’re looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

It’s mostly administrative and political bodies crowding up the office's stuffy foyer. There’s an odd clink of glass meeting glass whenever someone new walks in, or else when a deal’s finally graduated beyond the negotiation stage.

It’s too highbrow, too boring and white-collar for restless DEA agents, you remind yourself.

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

The music helps—every Diaz song has the minutes moving double-time.

And after what feels like centuries of excruciating small-talk, of brushing off endless, casual condescension, of staring at the clock hanging off the wall, finally, it’s time to go.

First, a last minute change (you’re not wearing a damn button-up to the bar—it’ll be a tight dress and cute shoes or absolutely nothing at all) and a quick refresher in the bathroom. Then, you’re trailing a bee-line towards the exit with 'home-free' on the tip of your tongue. 

Keep your head down. Nod. A chagrined smile to each pair of gawking eyes.

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

You’re straddling the office doors, left foot in, right foot out when an authoritative voice calls your name from behind.

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

“Murphy, here,” the ambassador gestures sloppily towards the agent’s uneasy form, “Tells me he needs something. Papers, right? Think we can get that to him before you leave for your… little soirée—what do you say?”

She doesn’t catch it, but he does; your unbridled, aversive stare pierces him right between his eyes. Forcing it down (and oh, does it ever burn your throat) you etch a reluctant smile, nodding wordlessly to your boss.

God, if only money were an object. This damn job would be a short paragraph on your resume, a blip in your timeline on this Earth.

Noonan slaps Murphy on the back, harrumphing as though she’d just solved world hunger. Quickly, she finds someone new to accost (or be accosted by), swept into a different, equally-boring conversation before you can even begin to feel angry at her for putting you into such a… distasteful position.

And you whir on him.

Before the rush of accusations gets a chance to part from your lips, Murphy interrupts you, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say a thing.” He sounds serious, sincere. “Swear. She came up to me and just… knew all about it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. Nonetheless, your fingernails slowly retreat from their burrows in the skin of your palm.

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

It’s because only a serious maniac would flaunt their under-the-table bullshit so publicly, flying it right under the ambassador’s nose. Whatever those records were for (and whatever the reason why Peña and Murphy so badly needed them), it was becoming increasingly clear that they were not intended to land in either of their hands.

Murphy hadn’t been nervous because of you. He’d been nervous because of her. A little less drink, a bit more curiosity, and Noonan would've been privy to whatever it was that the pair was up to.

“Fine.”

He exhales, shoulders relaxing, dropping like stones with the release.

Without another word, you make your way down the hall, charging toward the alcove harboring your desk. Murphy trails behind, five feet back at all times like a recently-scolded school-child.

Good.

It takes a few, long minutes to get the job done.

He waits around anxiously, fiddling with your stationary (until you slap his hand away from your beloved pens and planners) and pacing around the room.

When it's done, you don’t read the form, you don’t investigate. The less you know, the better.

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

As the papers slide out of the printer, you warn him: “You’re gonna need a signature from their side, you know. I can only get you so far.”

He nods, taking the precious sheets in hand. “Think we got that side covered.” Then, he’s reading them over, checking to make sure everything's in order. You stand with your hand on your hip, waiting impatiently for his goddamn approval. After an eternity (really—by the end of it you’re genuinely wondering whether the man should get tested for dyslexia), Murphy hums in satisfaction, giving you an awkward, “Thanks, again.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your half-exposed chest.

Didn’t even thank me a first time, asshole.

He spins around, aiming for the exit, when another body appears before him.

And the man stops Murphy in his tracks, deep-brown eyes trailing down to the packet of papers cradled between his partner's hands.

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

Of course it had been him. He was probably the entire reason behind the ambassador’s unusual tipsyness, too. Hell, he’d probably fed her Prosecco and half-compliments ‘til she’d been more than happy to do him a million favours.

Wasn’t that his M.O., anyways? ‘Get ‘em drunk and get my way?’

Three comfortable, familiar words find themselves sliding—easily—off your tongue.

“Fuck off, Peña.”

You surprise yourself with the cruelty of your tone, the biting emphasis of each word.

He settles his onyx eyes on you. They glaze over with hunger, with amusement, with danger.

Fuck.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart—I will in a minute,” and he nods at his partner, effectively dismissing him.

Murphy hesitates, eyes jumping between the stand-off taking place before him. Likely, he was trying to decide which one of you was going to murder the other first.

Finally, with his beloved form tucked under his arm, Murphy heaves a sigh of resignation, and then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone with Peña.

The corners of his lips pull back into an arrogant smirk as his eyes rake over your body—done up, dressed down, and positively fuming in your little kitten heels.

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

Some girls would’ve killed to hear those words from him. You’d spent years watching their eyes trail his movements in the office, listening to their puling voices—'is Javi there?'—over the phone.

But it just makes you want to scream.

Fearing the actual possibility of that coming to fruition, you keep your mouth sealed shut. Tight.

Silence won’t do for Peña.

“What’d you tell me, once?” He muses softly, making his way towards your desk. “Somethin’ about this place not bein’ a… a what’d you call it? A brothel?”

Dog.

He yanks a retort from your lips as if he had full command over them. “I’m going out, asshole.”

His face twitches ever-so-slightly, just enough for you to catch the hint of emotion. Then, it’s gone.

“No, you’re not.”

Casual as ever, he does that thing: runs a finger from the corner of his bottom lip down the length of it, looks up at you through thick, dark eyebrows.

You bristle at the sheer, unwinding effect it has on you.

“Yes, I am.”

He raps his knuckles against the desk in irritation; nevertheless, his voice is soft, imploring as he persists. “C’mon, baby. I need you to listen to me, right now. It’s..." and he undresses you with a mere look, "It's not a good time for you to be goin’ to those kinds of places.”

Just like any other man.

Probably, Peña’s ego was so over-inflated that the mere thought of any of his conquests colluding with another man had him on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

And this strange, uncharacteristic possessiveness, this… need for control—it was wearing extremely thin.

The man had zero authority over you. He certainly didn’t get to preside over the choices you made during your free time.

“Don’t call me baby, Peña—I’m not your baby.” The snapped retort makes you sound so young, to the point where, for a moment,  you understand why the agent had called you a brat so many times that one, fateful night.

Still, you soldier on, focussed on freeing yourself from yet another one of the evening's grueling set-backs. “And I’m not gonna ‘listen to you’ just ‘cause you think you’ve got some sort of… machismo claim over me.”

A deft muscle in his jaw tenses. He rounds the desk, moving just a half-foot closer to you; that alone is enough to jump-start your heart, and you’re almost sure he can hear it, jack-hammering away inside your chest. You both know that being the first to step away signified weakness—concession—so you stay put (even when your legs yield to a slight wobble).

And he’s almost crooning. “You can spread those legs for half the country, for all I care, baby.” A condescending look, cast down at you over the bridge of his nose. “Not what this is about.”

Yeah, right.

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Still working that angle?”

He takes a step forward. “Is it so crazy to think that I could just be tryna look out for you?” Meeting your gaze, he speaks earnestly—pleading through his irritation.

“I don’t need you to ‘look out for me’,” Your back grazes against the ambassador’s doors—you kick yourself internally for having subconsciously conceded to a back-step. “Especially not since the last time I thought that’s what this was?” your fingers gesture wildly between the (lack of) space separating your bodies, “You totally took advantage of me.”

A pause as the agent fluctuates from bafflement to genuine offense.

“Took adv—are you being serious?” he scoffs, shaking the coarse, dark hair on his crown. “I gave you, like, one drink.”

Victory courses through your veins at the sudden, intense flood of irritation marking his tone, the vein popping in his jaw. 

Anything to get to him, to make him tick, to scratch that itch. 

Dig. Dig. Dig.

A shrug. “Maybe you put something in it.”

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

“And… you know, I am a lot younger than you—”

“—okay, enough.”

Peña’s growled response has your voice fizzling out into nothingness. Closing what’s left of the distance between you, muscled form looming, he flattens you against the ambassador’s office doors. As one large hand slowly splays out next to your ear, the other comes up to grasp your chin. His fingers wrap around your jawbone, all the way from one ear to the other. 

You’re stuck, frozen under the weight of that dominant leer.

“Y’know,” he muses, deep and low, “It’s really fuckin’ obvious what all this is actually about, sweetheart.” Trapped in his glare, you watch his eyes grow dark, his gravelly voice falling into a register you’d never before heard it descend to. And he’s so, so close to you, close enough that you can smell him: that distinct, earthy scent of man that never failed to have your head spinning, your arms weak. “This… highschool bullshit you’ve been pullin’ since I got back… accusin’ me of all kinds of shit—"

You deny yourself the pleasure of looking at his lips when his words withdraw into an almost-whisper.

“Makes you feel real innocent, doesn’t it?

You don’t respond, concentrating on stifling the growing ache in your core, the thump-thump-thumps inside your rib cage, the lump forming in your throat.

A rarity, a miracle, Jesus turning water into wine: words fail you. 

“Know what I think, cariño?” His fingernails press into your cheeks, digging soft indents. Not to bruise—

To hold you steady.

To assure himself of his command over your full, devoted attention.

When he finally continues, his smoky breath raises the hairs along your exposed skin.

God, it must be, like, nine-hundred degrees in the room.

“I think”—and he’s toying with you, near-black eyes dancing with amusement—“You’re just embarrassed.”

Leaning in, his lips brush against the ridges of your ear, slow words washing over you in big, heavy waves. “‘Bout how easy it was for me to get between these legs.” Male, calloused fingers ghost over the skin of your thighs, creeping higher and higher up the length of your body.

“Remember how wet you got for me, cariño? Beggin’ me to fuck you so rough?”

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

He leans back enough for you to watch his eyes harden, uttering an “I remember it all, baby,” as his thumb leaves your jaw to trace the highest point of your cheekbone.

And his tone turns to stone. 

“Especially when you’re acting like you need a fuckin’ reminder.”

Your cheeks grow red-hot. The ground feels unsteady under your feet—and the spell breaks.

Pig.

“You’re fucking vile, Peña,” you spit, wrenching his grip off your face. “And also, dead wrong.” Slamming into his shoulder, you aim to storm out.

He catches your arm, twisting you back around to face him. “If you go out tonight,” the man near-growls, lecturing down at you like a damn parent, “You’re putting your life and everyone else's on the line.”

You tear your wrist from his fingers, shrugging off his empty warning with a dramatic spin on your heels.

Strutting out, you leave him with a poison-coated, “Say ‘hi’ to the whores for me.”

And you’re gone.

~

It’s loud. Your feet are sore from dancing in your heels. A different, unfamiliar body is in reach in every possible direction from your own.

It’s perfect.

Five shots in and you still feel like you could take more, if only to forget the exhausting events of the day.

Less than 48 hours ago you’d been prepared—dear God, longing—to hand yourself over to a man you were now quite happy to never see again. With your hands wrapped around a stranger’s neck, you’re determined to cleanse yourself of his lingering traces.

He’s gazing down at you, male, hungry eyes gunning for the taking. Local, you guess, or at the very least South-American. After a daring look, you grab him by the collar, brushing your starved lips against his.

“Want to get out of here?”

The pronunciation isn’t great—but it does the trick. He nods enthusiastically, allowing you to take his hand in your own without hesitation. Too easy. The hard part is weaving through the agitated, bustling crowd with your nameless partner in tow.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But God, is it ever necessary.

Escaping your friends at the start of the night had been child’s play, and they could be counted on to be too fucked-up at this hour to notice your absence, anyway.

Good.

Your act of desperation would be remembered solely by its participants.

A gentle evening wind swirls around your tingling body, the day’s heat hanging thick in the air as you step onto the street, the syncopated thumps of Latin music fading unwillingly into the background.

Pivoting abruptly, you flatten yourself against the wall outside, pulling the stranger in close by the fabric of his blue button-up.

“Yours or mine?”

He smirks, gentle lines forming by his golden eyes. Internally, you commend yourself: the catch was quite pretty.

“Here is okay, I think.”

Then, his lips are on yours, parting you open in a sloppy, drunk kiss.

This could work.

His traveling hands already seem to be numbing some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This could work.

His rough kisses overwhelm your senses, slowly filling the hollow ache lodged at the heart of your core.

Please, God—let this work.

Just as a hand reaches up to cradle the back of your neck—

(let this work, let this work, let this work)—

Just as a pleased moan travels from your lungs into his own—

Tires screech against the pavement, slamming you back into your body, wrenching you straight into the dire moment. Tearing your lips from the stranger’s, you peer over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of a black Camino screaming to a stop right before you. Time stops; the windows are down, and what you know to be the barrel of a hand-gun pokes out from the backseat.

“Get down!”

Maybe it's in your head (after all, it would make sense for your psyche to summon his voice in a moment so violent); or maybe it's real. Either way, you listen to the command, hitting the ground without any reservations. And those stupid heels—you stumble, face-planting onto the pavement, scraping every exposed part of your body against hot, rough cement.

A cry of terror rips from your throat as the sound of bullets punctuates the warm, summer night—Jesus, it’s louder than anything you’d ever heard before. 

Somewhere along the chaos, the pretty stranger from the bar books it down the calle.

Everything happens so fast. A familiar Cherokee veers in the way, separating you from the attackers. The surrounding air becomes rife with lead, a terrified chorus of male and female voices joining the symphony, and you really can’t tell whether the pain in your chest is from the friction of your own harmonizing screams or if it’s bullets tearing through your body. From the ground, you watch your attackers’ vehicle take off down the street, haphazardly parting crowds of cowering civilians in its wake.

When it all stops, it doesn’t really stop.

Violence persists, ringing in your ears like a doomsday clock going off, an A-bomb alarm siren. The echoes are happy to prolong your torment.

The Jeep’s passenger door swings open. You scramble back, scampering down the pavement as adrenaline claims you in never-ending rushes.

“Get inside, now.”

You nearly sob with relief at the familiar voice. It hadn't all been in your head. Jumping up on unstable legs, you lunge into his car, jerking the door shut behind you.

Without sparing a moment, his white-knuckled hands yank the wheel to the side, veering onto a road just off the main strip.

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

“You’re not gonna follow them?” It comes out as a cry, a desperate plea for retribution.

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

You want to see them punished for making you feel so helpless, and for the scrapes and bruises decorating your elbows, your knees, your palms.

“Javi,” a begging king of shout, “Why aren’t we following them?”

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

In the heat of the moment, the cutting edge of his harsh tone doesn’t bother you. If anything, it’s gentle compared to the violent sensations stewing within your body and mind.

“So?”

He takes a sharp right, slamming your side against the Jeep’s hard interior.

“Been in enough…” He grits his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check, “Compromising situations tonight, alright? Now, just shut up ‘n let me drive.”

You pipe down, not awfully interested in getting yelled at again in your fragile state.

At first, it feels like the full-body trembles wracking your entire being won’t ever cease. And yet, by the grace of God, after a few minutes, the thundering behind your ribcage slowly subsides.

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

It especially helps when his driving slows and the streets begin to empty—when the shops and houses become more and more recognizable, when the night grows more and more tame.

You know where he’s headed. The safety of the intended destination has you relaxing, finally level enough to take deep breaths.

Eventually, he stops the car, cutting the engine in full view of his building's front door.

The rumbling stops, and suddenly, it's very quiet. Javier groans, leaning back against his seat, bringing a hand up to his temples. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes closed behind the palm of his hand.

And oh.

He’s pissed.

“Go inside, lock the door, don’t open it for anyone.” His command, though dripping with ire, is underpinned with genuine concern. When you don’t respond, he finally shifts his gaze to meet yours, fixing you with an intimidating, severe kind of stare.

“Do you understand?”

At first, your impulse is to respond with a bitchy retort, to meet his intensity head-on with your own brand of unpleasantness. You stifle that reflex, taking stock of the situation at hand: Peña had just saved you from a flurry of bullets.

Peña… had just saved you…

And the realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

He’d been telling the truth.

Someone was really after you. Twice, now, they'd tried to take your life.

And, still? Your addled brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea of Peña’s innocence. Your bursting question takes you both by surprise.

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

He stares at you, full mouth parted in genuine bewilderment. Then, he scoffs, breathing an exhausted exhalation. “No, I didn’t take your damn spark plug, sweetheart. That’s what I’ve been saying. If you’d bothered to actually fuckin’ listen for once in your life…” he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “‘Could’ve avoided all… this.”

Shame tries its best to seep into your core. You resist it, scrambling for reasons to justify your actions to him.

To yourself.

You hated being wrong. That feeling had a tendency of overwhelming everything else—of overriding rationality, itself.

So, you turn to a classic defense, an ol' reliable: deflection. “After all the shit you’ve put me through over the years, can you blame me for not, just like, blindly trusting you?”

He scowls, angling his shoulders to square off with your own.

“Never asked for you to ‘blindly trust’ shit, though, did I?” He huffs, “Jesus.” 

You try not to wince as he continues on, as the truth of his words and the seriousness of his delivery render you mute. “You’re a secretary, sweetheart. This is my job—my life—okay? When I tell you to be careful, for the sake of your own damn good, you need to listen to me.”

There’s a long pause as his words tease out your final, entangled threads of resistance.

He was right. You’d been stupid in your denial, putting yourself and dozens of others in danger.

Putting Javi in danger.

It takes everything you have to fight the tears threatening to well along your lashes. But there's no sense in allowing yourself to mourn your mistakes—at least not at this very moment.

No, now was not the time to work through your shame.

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to catch his downcast eyes. 

And it’s true.

Javi shakes his head, resisting your apology. He says nothing, and your heart aches for him.

Whatever this man was—he hadn’t deserved a fraction of the hell you’d given him.

The hell you’d given him because…

Because he’d gotten close. Too close. Close enough to soften you, to see you in a way that not one single person had the right to. He’d been a novelty: the first man you’d trusted enough to be capable of handling the full breadth of yourself. And when that had started to feel volatile—as though he’d gained too much of you?

Well, you’d needed a reason to push him away. To wrench yourself back from him.

Because you’d been embarrassed.

Knowing that he’d been right about that, too, makes you feel so small, so young, and deeply naive.

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

“I mean it, Javi.” His name is your weapon—you will it to wear him down—a reminder of what it sounds like leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

Placing an unsteady hand on his knee, you trail it up his thigh—slowly. His chest hitches with the force of a deep, sharp inhale and yet, he still refuses to meet your gaze.

But you catch his reflection in the glass: a slight twinge of the eyebrows, a delicate parting of the lips, and a hint of longing within those furious eyes.

Wiggle room.

“Could you ever forgive me?” You ask timidly, seductively, fingers creeping towards the crease of his trousers and that big silver buckle looming right above it.

Finally, he turns, his expression meeting yours with a hungry (albeit still deeply annoyed) look.

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

And as you tug at his belt, releasing it with tantalizing slowness, you keep your steady gaze on his undecided one, uttering a pleading, “I can make it up to you, baby.”

Wordlessly, he watches your fingers move to the button of his pants, then to his fly, working with dedication, with delicate care.

There’s movement as you reach your fingers underneath the fabric. He grows hard for you, burgeoning out of the fabric in a matter of seconds.

It’s all the invitation you could’ve possibly hoped for.

His skin is hot against your knuckles as they slide down his lower abdomen. Grasping the base of his cock, you use two hands to spring him free.

God, he’s even bigger than how you’d remembered him—bigger than even your guiltiest fantasies.

Javi groans softly when you pull him, releases a hot, shallow breath when you stroke him, and a low, breathy “fuuuck” when you finally, finally take him in your mouth.

He tastes like the salt of the ocean. This close, you can smell men's cologne mingling with sweat.

It’s heaven.

And you just don’t want him to be angry anymore. It’s all you can think about—lips cradled adoringly around his cock, tongue running up and down the long length of him—as he throws his head back in pleasure.

He eventually relaxes, conceding to the ecstasy you persuade him with. Almost drinking the uncertainty—the resistance—right out of him.

“Christ,” he groans, tangling his fingers in your hair, forcing you to take in every last inch of him. “Wanted to shut you up like this all fuckin’ day.”

It becomes a challenge to breathe, but air simply isn’t a priority with a man like him at your fingertips, as your responsibility. This, he knows, his heavy hand determining the slow, careful pace, the impossible depth, and the angle of your unspoken apology.

Growing wet and lightheaded at the same time, you loose a moan against his velvety skin.

Javi laughs, darkly. “Always got somethin’ to say, huh? Even with a mouth full of cock.”

You smile around him—taunts are good. Better than silence, anyways. “Mhmm.”

The sounds of his laughter rumbles soft and low throughout his middle—so different, so sweet and innocent compared to the wet, filthy ones produced by your mouth’s ministrations.

You give him everything you have, ignoring the droplets forming in the corners of your eyes and lips, the dull burning inside your lungs. When the tip of his cock lodges at the back of your throat, you keep him there.

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

Every last drop would find its home inside you, traveling down the length of your tongue and into all of your warmest places.

It was the least you could do for him.

But he has other plans. His hand bunches up your hair, tightening into a fist to pull you off of him. His cock pops out from between your lips; you’re guided up to face him.

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

Out of breath, tears sliding down your cheeks, lips glistening with the slick of your own spit—you’re a welcome sight to any man of his kind.

“Say it.”

He makes use of his free hand, wiping the coarse pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, clearing the string of saliva collecting there.

It’s not rocket science, figuring out what it is that the man wants to hear.

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

Neither of you had ever known how much an apology could sound like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Despite the gentleness of his tone, his eyes darken with lust to the point that you feel genuinely nervous about his intentions. “What are you so sorry for, hermosa?”

Fuck, the pet-names... the way his voice changed when reverting to its native tongue—rolling with confidence. At such an awkward angle, you’re forced to grip onto his forearms to keep balance. They feel strong and unbending beneath your fingertips. 

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

Crazy enough to smile, to turn your profile to the side, laying a long, careful kiss to his palm. Crazy enough to answer his question in a needy, whiney whisper: “for being such a brat.”

He almost smiles, near-black eyes dancing with hunger, with approval, with a playful kind of ire.

Jerking his head to the right, he gestures to the backseat. “Wanna show me how sorry you are, cariño?”

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

He releases his hold on you, deft fingers quickly untangling from your hair.

Victory. Victory. Victory.

Then, you’re stumbling out of the passenger side, opening the door to the backseat.

(You take a second to commend yourself for driving a man so wild, making him so impatient that he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten feet required to fuck you inside his apartment. Or, maybe he just liked letting the neighbours watch.)

Before you can even step foot inside the car, you’re being hauled by your upper arms onto Javi’s lap. He manhandles you into his desired position, spreading your knees around his thighs until your dress is hitched up, only covering your ass half-way.

After snaking a hand between your bodies, the agent runs his thumb down the slick fabric of your underwear.

Already, you’re holding back a slew of pathetic whines.

“Next time you give me head”—God, the feeling of those fingers against your clit, the bliss of them pushing your panties to the side, assessing your readiness for him—“Wanna be able to see that pretty mouth while my dick’s inside it, sweetheart.”

His lust has him speaking a bit out of breath. It makes every crude, filthy word sound sweet, almost endearing to you.

Nodding in response, you work with him—lowering yourself onto his fingers as he pushes them between your folds.

“Jesus Christ,” he smiles, head falling back in appreciation, “You’re soaked.”

His fingers curl up, pressing to please in all the right places. Your answer arrives between gasps: “You tasted good.”

That pleases him.

“Yeah?” and he’s dragging his digits out of you, letting them trail through your folds and along your heavy, sore clit before leaving you wanting, leaving that needy cunt clenching around nothing. “I bet you taste even better.”

Then, his grip is on your jaw, pressing damp spots into your skin under his index, middle, and ring fingers. With the pad of his thumb pressed firmly to your bottom lip (and the row of teeth behind it), Javi eases your mouth open, wider and wider and wider for him.

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

His index crawls onto your tongue. You close your lips around it, sucking him in until his fingernail scratches the back of your throat. He wants to be shown, so you show him: gazing intently into his eyes, you watch his brow furrow as he studies your every movement, as he drinks in your every moan.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans, commending your efforts. “You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you, hermosa?”

Your bottom teeth graze the undersides of his index as you pull off—“yes, Javi.” Almost instinctively, you’re reaching your hand down, letting it coast down the hardness of his chest to rub circles around the slick tip of his cock, still peeking out from his open fly.

“Not yet,” he clicks his tongue, pushing his index, and this time, his middle and ring, too, back through the opening of your lips, “Need to clean yourself off every one of these fingers, first—thaaat’s right.” You listen, obediently sucking everything he gives you. He instructs and praises, “easy—easy, cariño, there it is,” as he watches you glide up and down him in slow, big pulls, all the way down to his knuckles.

It’s fucking filthy, and he loves it, unable to keep that arrogant smirk off of his face.

He’s practically in paradise, coming up with a mental list of creative ways to shut you up.

Still, Javi allows you to multitask: all the while, your fingers continue to explore the exposed parts of his cock. Only when he’s satisfied, when his length couldn’t possibly get any harder—only then does he free your mouth, letting his damp fingers trail down the side of your neck.

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

Without warning, he yanks down the straps of your dress and bra, pulling them all the way down until you’re postured on his lap, chest fully exposed; his abrupt movement has you loosing a stunned "Javi!" He runs his palms over the most sensitive peaks of your breasts, a hungry smile teasing the corners of his lips.

Then, he shrugs. “Told you last time I wanted to see them. Got the prettiest fuckin’ tits, hermosa.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, to laugh, or to really even register the vulgarity of his words, nor the taunting, degrading way they’re delivered to you. Javi’s already holding both you and himself up in one arm (and, oh, how you’d simply ached for the feel of his strength) pulling down the waistband of his pants. He maneuvers you into the proper position to receive him in, two pairs of downcast eyes watching his cock spring free, tip curving in, grazing against the fabric of his shirt.

He rushes, but it still feels torturously slow. You’re craving, needing, as he uses the dark head of his cock to ease your ruined underwear to the side, guiding himself towards your dripping opening.

This time, he’s far too impatient to make you beg for it.

Ecstasy forces your back into an arch as he pushes himself between your walls, as you feel him filling you up, up, and up—wordless mouth falling open, your heavy head collapses aaall the way back.

Immediately, a hand is at the back of your skull, forcing your gaze back downwards. “No, no, no, baby, you let me see—let me see you when you ride,” and his voice is a little strained, a little desire-stricken, a little bit softer as he settles his every last inch inside your cunt.

Your irises could be forest fires as you set your sights on his own, seeing nothing, absolutely nothing but Javier in that moment.

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

Mother Mary—it’s hard, so fucking hard to keep your legs steady when he stretches you open—wide fucking open—and as his head grazes that spongy spot inside.

He doesn’t help, either. In fact, while your hands dig anchors into his shoulders (sometimes his chest, his neck, his waist) just to keep yourself upright, his own are trailing up to the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a pack of smokes.

You mewl softly at the heat building inside your cunt, loosing an indignant whine as Javi neglects his responsibilities toward your climax.

“Gave me such a hard time today, baby,” he muses, placing a cigarette between his fingers and tossing the rest aside, “Wanna hear a fuckin’ ‘thank you Javi’ every time you come.”

His words dance around you like streetlights passing in the night, barely registering inside your disintegrating mind. How could they? With the feeling of his thighs grazing the undersides of your own, the buttons of his shirt nudging against your aching clit… how could anything else even exist?

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

He pulls a lighter out, smirking. “‘Tough-talker ‘til this pussy’s all full, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

And he laughs. “Don’t say it, cariño,” he takes your hand, placing the light inside your fist. “Fuckin’ show me.”

He rolls his hips. Your weight collapses against his chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing you off, straightening you up before placing the cigarette between his lips, “Aaall you gotta do is light up the tip. You got it, sweetheart.”

His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a rough squeeze before his fingers splay out. He spreads you open over his thighs, watching the etchings of your lust corrupt your expression as he fucks himself—slow, deep, hard strokes—inside you.

“Fu—please, Javi—I can’t, s’too much, baby—please—”

A smile, full lips parting around the dart. “S’wrong, baby?” The words are low, breathy, teasing, contorting around the smoke in his mouth. “Can’t focus?”

God, just make him happy.

It’s the only thought you seem to be able to form. His request doesn’t seem to be up for debate, either.

So, summoning every last bit of control still lingering inside you, you bring a trembling hand up to the unlit end, a string of moans and ‘Javi’s rising from your throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, brimming with playful passion, orange filter hanging off those pretty pink lips.

Trying to still yourself, you flick the lighter on—the flame dances between you, illuminating the expansive darkness lurking inside his gaze. It takes everything, everything you have left to light it for him, to make that white tip glow red hot, to stay steady enough, to keep from burning him.

And also, to hold your pace. That grip of steel wrapped around your hip serves as a constant reminder—

Keep taking it.

In those final moments, he picks up his pace, of course. Your simmering blood bubbles to a boil, the flutters inside your cunt graduating into pulsing throbs.

As the flame finally takes, you feel every muscle inside your core tense—when Javi inhales his first drag, you straddle the precipice of your orgasm.

Your weight falls onto his shoulder. One of his arms reaches up to ash the cigarette; the other wraps tightly around you, bouncing you against him as exhales a cloud of smoke into your hair.

“Baby—Javi, I’m coming, I’m coming, I'm c—”

Heat builds between your thighs, and as that bundle of nerves grows heavy, pulsing with the rush of your orgasm, his thrusts only deepen.

He pulls you in close.

“I know, cariño,” Javi coos, condescending into the shell of your ear, basking in the feel of your cunt near-strangling him in adoration. “Can feel you, y’know? Got such a grateful lil' pussy,” he places a kiss to the side of your neck, groaning against the soft skin. “Always lets me know how much you love having my cock buried inside it.”

As he speaks, you try to catch your breath. To come down from your high.

It doesn’t work. Not while his hips continue to grind against yours, not while cradled between his arms like his holy beloved, and especially not with his tip still pressing against every available, wanting spot on your walls.

Javi takes another long drag from the dart. “What do you say when you come, baby?”

A big, laboured inhale, and the words come out in one, rushed exhalation. “Thank you, Javi.”

He responds with a downright cocky laugh. “You’re welcome, cariño. Good girl.”

The praise… it makes you melt.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, nails grazing the skin of your scalp, he pulls you off of his chest. Your heavy breaths mingle together in the stale heat of the Jeep Cherokee. 

You buck up, doing your best to keep pleasing him as he studies your devoted movements, as he leans back against the seat—groaning.

His hand—often glued to your rolling hip—provides you with only a mere hint of stability.

“That guy you were with,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, using his free hand to toy with one of your peaked nipples. “At the bar. You’d’ve done this for him?”

Your lips part, but no sound crosses the threshold of your lips. You’re dazed—still coming—and building to yet another peak. His unwillingness to move starts to ground you; the long length of every hard muscle beneath his arms, the round, bulging ridges of his shoulders… they become your salvation, places to lay your weight into. Riding him becomes second nature: you’re attuned to his rhythm and the desperate, commanding desires of your body.

Suddenly, you’re a part of him; when he exhales, the smoke creeps out of his lungs and into your own.

You burn right along with it.

He drops the still-smoking cigarette onto the seat next to your entangled bodies, bringing both his hands to rest against your dampened skin. One comes down hard, delivering a quick, harsh slap to your ass.

It would leave a mark.

“Tell me. Use that pretty mouth, hermosa. ‘Know you know how—used it—ran it all fuckin’ day.” Javi grunts, angling to bend over you, pushing into your guts as he wraps you in his arms, finally taking the burden of your weight off of your scraped up, wobbling knees. He continues on, “Tonight, too—been so easy, baby, lettin’ me put��anything I want in there like a good lil' slut,” drinking in your cry of pleasure. He almost says it to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he reminisces, as your cunt begins to throb around his hardening cock once more. “You'd've done that for him, cariño?”

You swallow, trying to clear the stars dancing before your eyes, and that fuzzy sound of static. It muffles the symphony of Javi’s hoarse breaths, your own, helpless cries, and the filthy sound of skin colliding with—grinding against—skin.

He quickens, now, using you like a damn toy. Every rough thrust brings you closer to heaven; every ardent, breathtaking squeeze of his arms around your middle feels like angels sighing.

“No,” you breathe, closing your eyes. Your arms cling around his neck, fingers fanning through his thick hair—everything is him, him, him. He leans forward again, ducking down to kiss the hollow of your throat; you pull him in faithfully, moaning softly at the feel of his lips, his teeth under the valley under your jaw. “Only you.” It sounds like worship, sliding up an octave as that low ache worsens, as he compells a second climax out of your already-quivering body. “Only you, Javi.”

He growls, lips dragging up to your ear as the hairs of his mustache tease your cheekbone. “Prove it,” he breathes, deep thrusts growing even more erratic— needier, sloppier. You can barely hear him over your own noises, but he continues his gravelly coos inside your ear nonetheless. “Gimme another one, baby—wanna feel you comin' on my cock when I fill you up so fuckin' full, baby—show me that you’re mine—z’this pussy mine, hermosa?”

“Yesyesyes—oh God, y-yes—m’yours, Javi, y—”

Your legs seize as yet another release tears through your body. The skin of his neck anchors you in place, and you hang off of him like a rosary, digging your fingernails into the warmth of his flesh with every ounce of strength at your disposal.

He fucks you through your second climax, headed straight for his own.

“S-such a good girl, cariño—f-fuck—” Arms, wrapped around your waist, tighten enough to snap you in two as Javi crushes you against his chest, using the momentum of your entire, shaking body to finish himself off. He comes with a grunted “s-shit”—and you pay attention, wanting to commit the divine sound to memory. Swelling between your silken walls, Javi spills everything he could possibly give inside you.

A final, abrupt thrust, married with the non-stop, involuntary clench-and-release of your cunt works to cover every square inch of you with him.

When it’s over, the man refuses to let you part from him (not that you had any real desire to do so, anyway). A big, shaking hand keeps your head cradled in the firm crook of his neck, and he slowly, slowly  softens inside you. He basks in the final, weak flutters of your cunt as you lose yourself in the smell of his cologne.

His heart hammers in his chest. You can hear it with your ear pressed to his neck. Going limp, your damp forehead rolls onto the hard roundness of his shoulder.

That aching, sore opening soaks the skin of his thighs. You shiver softly, dripping onto the base of his shaft.

“Say it, cariño,” Javi murmurs, laying a rough kiss to your temple. He runs his hands up and down your bare spine, fingers dancing along your sticky skin.

You loose a breathy laugh against his golden skin. “Thank you, Javi.”

And you pull back just in time to catch his genuine smile.

It fucking melts you. Adoration, pride… spreading like tree-roots under rich, forest soil throughout your still-heaving chest.

He rubs the pads of his thumbs under your eyes, wiping clean some of the going-out makeup that had no-doubt become a total, leaking mess.

“‘Pretty when you’re nice, y'know,” he mutters, moving to cup your cheeks between his warm, hardened palms. And then he pauses, reconsidering his words. “But fuckin’ hot when you’re mean.”

A breathy giggle. “What can I say,” you whisper, trailing a few appreciative fingers up and down his forearms. “You bring out the very best in me, Peña.”

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

Off in the distance, there’s music. Sounds of debauchery and excitement travel through the warm summer air, audible even through the closed windows. The night is alive for the rest of the city; somewhere far, far away, an engine growls, rubber tires squealing against the pull of hard pavement.

It takes him away.

Javi grasps your shoulders, pushing you up and back to effectively slide you off of his half-soft length. “I’ll wait for you to get inside,” he says, yanking his pants back up over his hips, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Make sure you lock the door, alright?”

Pause. 

What?

“You’re leaving?” You mirror him, hastily rearranging yourself—skinny straps find their way back above your shoulders, your short dress finds itself yanked down to its rightful place.

It’s awkward work, given the confines of the space.

The agent slips out from underneath you. He opens the door, rising from the backseat and straightening up with a groan. “Think I know where he was going,” he responds, mostly to himself. “I’m only, what…” a flip of his wrist as he checks the time, “Thiiiiiirty? Thirty-five minutes behind him?”

Before you know it, you’re bristling with irritation.

Again.

You throw your heels down on the street, unceremoniously shoving a cramping foot in each one. “Don’t be an idiot, Peña,” and you try your hand at standing, buckling slightly on a pair of Jell-o legs.

He comes around to your side, steadying you on your feet. Reflected in his deep-brown eyes is the same annoyance flashing across your own gaze. “D’you just expect me to be there, sweetheart? Z’that it? Every time your ass needs saving?”

Shame heats the soft skin of your cheeks. Your eyes trail down to the ground, volatile, incomprehensible emotions building with every passing second.

“It won’t happen again—I won’t-I won’t be so stupid, or-or—I won’t go out, anymore.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s nice 'n all, but it’s sure as shit not gonna change anything.”

When you don’t respond, when you don’t look up, his edges soften. “They went to your house, sweetheart.” With his hands on your shoulders, he implores you to see sense. “It’s either we get them or they… get you.”

You exhale, hard. “You’re being dramatic.”

That does it for him.

After an exasperated shake of his head, he’s grabbing your hands in his own, placing a set of keys in the cradle of your palm.

His tone is low, demanding, unbending. “Lock the doors.”

Then, he’s turning to leave, walking to the front of the Cherokee.

Before rounding the corner, he turns his hardened profile to the side. The glare of the building’s lights dance on his tanned skin, turning the whole scene into a sort of lucid dream.

“Y’know, you’re really starting to piss me off with this whole… utopian fantasy you’re livin’ in.” He barely even addresses you, mumbling the rest of his sentiment mostly to himself. “I’m fuckin’ tired of being the only one looking out for you.”

Utopian fantasy?

You try to dismiss him—to call him ridiculous, to throw yourself into the familiar task of poking holes in his arguments—but… you can’t. Over and over, his words rush you in waves: “the only one looking out for you” “utopian fantasy” “the only one looking out for you” “utopian—”

Suddenly, you’re on a different street. In the same clothes, and in the same body, but somewhere far, far away, facing a different man. It’s somewhere very loud, where tires and knees come to a screeching stop against cement, where the downbeat of every Latin measure is punctuated by the sound of a bullet, inscribed with your initials, ripping through the static summer air.

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

Not even once you’re back on Javi’s street, fossilized in amber, watching him move to the driver’s side of his Jeep.

All the fear you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel…

You’d forced him to shoulder it for you, instead.

But, inevitably, what goes around comes around. And he’s dropped your burden right back onto you with a few well-timed words.

Truth bares itself to you, settling heavy atop your bones like an ancient, primal wound. The result is a pair of unsteady legs, a perennial tremor in both, white-knuckled hands, and a crackling voice, resisting use.

“Javi…”

Only when you hear the sound of your own terror echoed back to you do you permit yourself to cry.

And there you stand. Disheveled, confused, broken—clothing misplaced, ruined, broken—

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

Not when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, and especially not when you’re so damn close to speaking it into existence.

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

It’s not a customary pattern, in your experience.

Javi stops in his tracks, stunned to a halt at the sheer emotion in your plea.

It stings when you clear your throat. “I just…” and you falter, strange, unfamiliar words sticking to your throat, sickly-sweet dried honey. Each vowel reverberates back to you, amplified by the acoustics of the empty street and their novelty.

Still, you’re not quite sure how he’s able to hear you, given that you can only bring yourself to speak a handful of decibels above a damn whisper.

“I’ve just never been important, Peña.”

You wipe a self-conscious hand across your face, clearing the sea-salt from below your downcast eyes.

Before you’re able to put a stop to it—it all comes rushing out. Averting his gaze, you ramble on in agitation.

“Not beyond being a-a pair of hands to make fucking photocopies—or as the butt of some sort of “prissy receptionist” joke or even just as some—as-as a kind of fucking challenge to men—men like you, Javier—because I… well, because I’m mean, and I-I guess it’s just fun for everyone to see how far they can take it before—before I…” You give your head a fervent shake, trying to reel yourself back in, trying to close off the monologue.

But the cracks had formed, and with nowhere to go, the mounting pressure of the seven seas washes away the rest of your weakened dam.

The agent can't even get a word in.

“Anyways, that’s-that's not the point. The point is that it just… it didn’t seem possible that anyone in this whole fucking country would even think twice about me—even if it was just to… to kill me…”

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

“So I really am sorry that I acted like such an asshole, but none of this makes a fucking lick of sense to me—I’m-I’m a secretary, for fuck’s sakes—I’m nothing, no one, I’m not—” and then you’re frantic—

The gunshots, the tires, the music, the spark plug, a Camino—

“Just please, don’t go, don’t—I-I know you’re mad, just—please, just don’t—”

It’s impossible to catch your breath. Every heaved sob racks your lungs, shaking you all the way down to your buckling knees.

You want to turn, to run and hide, to fling yourself into oncoming traffic—anything to end the interminable humiliation you couldn’t seem to keep from putting on display in front of Javier Peña.

And shit. No man could see a woman in the same way after this. No man would care for a woman like this, destroyed and pathetic and—

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

Those arms—so used to taking—they wrap you up, pulling you into the heat of his body, protecting you from the pointed echoes of laughter and song breezing through the night air. Those hands, the ones that bruised, slapped, grabbed—they hold—the right unburdens you of your oppressive weight, pressed flat against the small of your back. His left cradles the back of your head, laying your temple to the side of his throat.

“You’ve always been important to me, sweetheart.”

His soft murmurs tumble down your spine. That smoky breath envelops you; it reminds you of those blankets in the movies—the ones that the firemen hand out after the disaster’s over, the survivors rescued. In the denouement.

“S’okay, S’okay. I’m sorry, baby, alright? I’m not mad, cariño, it’s okay.”

Running his fingers through your hair, supporting your head like a delicate, sacred object, murmuring comforts against the softest parts of your neck—Javi goes on and on. Despite the frequent shifts between Spanish and English, you manage to catch the main gist of his crooning.

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

After an eternity, you feel calm enough to pull away. You’re a wreck, gazing up at him with big, silver-lined eyes.

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

The concern, the anguish, the affection… You’d punished him for doing the very thing that you were incapable of doing.

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

As tears continue to leak from your eyes, you take note of his beauty. Not just of his looks, but also in the sheer power radiating from him, towering like a knight over you. In those capable, caring hands—hands that had torn others apart, that had put you back together—there was beauty in them, too.

You wipe your face dry.

And you soften your tone, aiming to lighten the mood. “Stop trying to get in my pants, Peña." A sniffle. "I don’t sleep with cops.”

He rolls his eyes, the ghosts of a smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he cups your face, drying the final, lingering remnants of your melt-down off your cheeks, “I waited outside that fuckin’ bar for hours  tonight. Just in case.”

Oh.

God, you’d never even bothered to think about how he’d gotten to you so quickly.

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

He goes on. “Watched you… saw you with that guy.” He scoffs at himself, shaking his head. “Had to look away when you came outside. S’why it… took a minute. To get there.”

That has your gaze trailing off, eyes cast down in shame, studying the worn-in rubber on the Jeep’s tires.

It would have never worked, anyway. There wasn’t a man on Earth who could ween your mind off of this one.

With the pad of his thumb against your chin, he brings you back to him. Javi commands your full attention with the just the sincerity of his stare.

“Even when you want nothin’ to do with me... I’m there, alright? I’m here, baby.”

Those eyes�� softened with affection, hardened with conviction. Javier always had a way of straddling both worlds at once.

He waits for your signal, your quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then, he’s kissing you—softly. Fingers curling around his forearms, you borrow his strength to keep yourself from swooning. He holds your face as tenderly as he caresses your lips, and with every synced inhalation, he speaks yet another unspoken word into existence.

After giving you enough to make you feel whole again, he pulls away.

With his great-big-palm to your cheek, he says everything you need to hear.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmood @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @totallynotastanacc @dzaga890 @swedishscumfuck @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @jazzerbelle14

—

Officer Officer Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, officer No, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure The house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar (Well) I'm a little shaken, but I'm fine, thanks for asking Tell me, do you always work alone so late? Gosh, I'm a little shy standing here in my night gown Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?

Looking at me, then suddenly

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer You can ask me anything you want Anything, anything

Do you have a girl? I don't see a ring on your finger Well, that's interesting Have you ever thought of dating a singer?

The flames are getting higher So is my desire It's kind of exciting Don't you think?

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I can be the bad girl I'm getting you so hot You can be the good guy Tell him please stop

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

You can be the good guy (Officer) I'm in love Tell him please Stop (Officer) (Officer) You can be the good good (Officer) I'm in love Love in a hurricane

—

[lesamis]

1810s dashboard but it's niche drama

💛 heartofanna Following

imagine cancelling someone for saying war is bad

🧵 sharethewoe Follow

#didn't expect better from w*rdsworth but some people i rly thought i could count on…… #anyway we will live to see this empire fall. can't stop history lol (via @heartofanna)

speaking as someone who was press ganged at the age of 17 to serve in his majesty's royal navy i couldn't be more grateful for your poem. young men like me are cannon fodder and you spoke for so many of us. fuck napoleon but fuck parliament even more.

86 notes

chatterpwned-deactivated78345629743

stable forgiving virtuous flourishing in my lane definitely not buying poison moisturized unbothered never been better

chatterpwned-deactivated78345629743

me when i lie

179302 notes

🏛 mynoseisfine Follow

Settling this once and for all. What does the public actually think about the Parthenon marbles debate:

🦉 realminerva Follow

lol i know it’s you lord elgin

🦉 realminerva Follow

like we joke and all but fully aside from the fact that removing the sculptures from greek soil was vulturine and opportunistic etc, it’s really just the tip of a frankly gigantic mountain of imperialist bullshit. let’s not pretend we haven’t been brutally killing hundreds who resisted oppression in india, LITERALLY BOMBED A NEUTRAL EUROPEAN CAPITAL, and embarrassed ourselves in the charge against napoleon for years now. pathetic ass empire & evil as hell to boot. @mynoseisfine the greeks who carved your marbles millennia ago would kick your tory ass so hard

3661 notes

🎀 emmawoodhousestan Follow

how do i still keep seeing thomas chatterton's final post being reblogged, wtf is wrong with you freaks??? he was seventeen it was tragic and horrible and happened ages ago. he was a kid just let him rest

294 notes

🍎 masque-off Following

callout post for @castleyeah @lordsidmouth @officialcoe @parliamentofficial: they oppress, murder and famish the british working people & also suck majorly

⛪ castleyeah Follow

sour cuz you’re unfit to have custody of your own kids huh

🍎 masque-off Following

proud to be the dad of a newborn who could already rend your pudding spine asunder with a mere glance

187 notes

🦆 mallardturner Following

finished this today 😊

44 notes

😎 chadeharold Follow

why is it always “you’re risking your life and legacy & will get yourself killed before the age of five and twenty” and never how was swimming the hellespont the hellespont looked fun was it fun

🎭 loved-joanna Mutuals

ohhh my god you swam the hellespont five years ago?? wooow should we tell everyone?? should we throw a party?? should we invite famous hero of greek myth leander who swam the hellespont

😎 chadeharold Follow

@loved-joanna look we never had any beef & don’t have to start this now. it’s cool that you’re sticking up for my ex, you guys were friends first, but just know that i’ve always trusted your opinion on my work & genuinely respect and admire you & would still be up for a collab whenever.

🎭 loved-joanna Mutuals

yea sure why don’t your lips collab with my ass

😎 chadeharold Follow

on it boss

1009 notes

#literally call me. down if you are

🍂 endymion Follow

sorry is it me or is the assassin who stabbed german bootleg wordsworth kinda…… 🥵

💄 biprincesscharlotte Mutuals

JOHN KEATS????????

2427 notes

#i'm p sure this is the author of lamia thirstposting on main??? help

🌾 huntsmanx Follow

romanticism this romanticism that why don’t you romanticise universal suffrage and rights for labouring people

🌾 huntsmanx Follow

anyone else in jail for seditious libel

🏹 axelaidtotheroot Mutuals

lmao i'm one of the “anyone else”s and i know you’re enjoying family visits and apparently some kind of cushy armchair situation, plus tons of books. try being in here as a spencean dude they won’t even let me learn how to write. worst of all some evangelical came by yesterday just to proselytize & put me “on the right path” fml

8341 notes

🗻 mounttambora Follow

y'all i don't feel so good :/

59 notes

[rayshippouuchiha]

I’m the housewife kink anon, but I can’t find the fic!!! No one seems to have a downloaded copy on any of the usually haunts either. Pretty sure the author deleted their account which is a damn shame since they were one of my favs. Not rly surprised tho since they were getting some hate for the pairing when I read it a few yrs ago and I imagine it only got worse. So I’ve decided to outline everything that happened in detail!

So the plot was basically aged up Izuku and yandere Aizawa meet at a pre-raid meeting where some big time hero tries to discount Aizawa’s info and talk over him. But Izuku- Eraserhead has been my obsession since I watched his first sport festival-Midoriya shut that down quick with what was essentially an in depth analysis of how Erasehead is a perfect hero, especially compared to the hero that talked shit.

So yandere Aizawa was obviously like mine and started stalking Izuku who could immediately tell (I think he went abroad to train with All Might after Inko died and then helped dismantle AFO’s base of power internationally thus discovering he was still alive and Izuku ended up killing him w/ All Might) but was honestly just rly turned on by it so allowed it.

At the raid, they ended up in the same section and had impeccable team work the whole time which made both of their internal monologues sound like smug cats. They worked so well together that they kept getting paired up on other raids (all human trafficking rings connected with AFO I think) and eventually Izuku got hurt but wouldn’t tell the medics cuz discrimination trauma and paranoia so Aizawa drags him home to give him stitches.

This is where the domestic fluff and house wife kink kicks in bc Izuku cleans+ bakes+ cooks when he’s bored (which he was since he had to wait for the stitches to heal before he went off to do hero work). So Aizawa, coming back from UA to all this plus Izuku splayed out on the couch like a whole snack smiling up at him saying welcome home, goes fucking feral in his head. And it kinda becomes routine for them and there’s was this one scene where Aizawa wraps his arms around Izuku’s waist as he does dishes and puts his chin on Izuku’s shoulder and strokes over the stitches. I think he was humming a love song Izuku was listening to which was jdjejebdbhsjs.

At this point they both want to jump each other but Izuku is like he’s just being nice to me while Aizawa is like if I allow myself to show how much I want to put a collar on him he’d run so I must be careful. But after the stitches heal Izuku just doesn’t leave bc whenever he half heartedly tries to go back to his apartment something happens where he had to stay (all orchestrated by Aizawa of course). Then Izuku’s like fuck it and just brings all his stuff to Aizawa’s apartment while he’s gone and starts paying half the rent without saying anything. Which Aizawa adores since it obviously means Izuku finally realized that he belongs with him and nowhere else. Let’s just say they didn’t manage to stay off each other for long when Aizawa absently used his scarf to pull Izuku out of his way and called him a good boy.

There was also a concerned all might crew going on at first with a lot of wild misconceptions but it all settled over when All Might met Aizawa in person and was like ah young midoriya, I see you have found one that might be able to handle you. Cuz all might is Izuku’s mentor/hero/father figure, and knew exactly what his successor was about. And this feral looking man he managed to find checks all the boxes Izuku- I destroyed AFO more completely in few years than anyone else managed to do in centuries- Midoriya has.

oh oh god this sounds perfect in every way

Author is you somehow see this then by all the gods please repost because this is magnificent

[revasserium]

Can you do Hc's for tsutomu, sfw and nsfw I never seen any content for him

hq!! reqs are open :) 

sfw: 

enthusiastic is perhaps not strong enough a word, but he sure is gun-ho about all! of! the! things! bc honestly, he never thought he’d get here -- never thought that the day might come where he’d actually get to hold your hand or make you laugh, or any of the million and one things he’s dreamt about doing but sweet gods in heaven, now that he’s here, he swears he’d never take it for granted -- so he smiles hard, and he laughs even harder, he goes out of his way to plan elaborate dates (that ultimately never ever quite goes as planned) but he’s okay with that too! 

bc he knows that you love him like this, like an unfinished masterpiece. where he’s the painting and you’re the brush, and his literature teacher told him he shouldn’t try too hard with the extended metaphors, but he can’t help himself. he can’t help himself when it comes to you. he’s never been able to in the first place. 

waking up way too early and jogging down your street just to look like he’s coincidentally passing by, even though you giggle and tell him that he’s sweating and out of breath so he must’ve been here for ages 

sharing food with you but no one else, because how’s he supposed to be the ace if he doesn’t get enough nutrition to grow? 

dozing off on the bus with his head on your shoulder, and sure, he’s mortified to have drooled on your school uniform, but you told him that it’s kinda cute and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. 

nsfw: 

switch!life bc real men do both. 

gasping when you suck him off, his consciousness blurring at the image of your lips stretched so perfectly over his cock, your eyes watering ever so slightly as he feels himself hit the back of your throat 

eating you out like his life fucking depends on it because. it. does. and he can never get enough of how tight your thighs get around his face, and he’s never thought there was anything ironic about the phrase “crush me with your thighs” bc yes!!! that’s what he wants!! from you!!!! 

fingering you hard and fast and dirty in the locker rooms bc you had no business looking so damn hot in his jersey, blushing so prettily, cheering him on like that; kissing you through your climax because he loves the taste of your moans on his tongue 

rly wants to do the wall sex! but the mechanics are harder than he thought! 

whining and begging when you ride him cause gods what else is there worth begging for in life other than the sight of you working yourself over his cock, the feel of your wetness slicking down his thighs, staining his bedsheets, and sure he’d literally just done the laundry yesterday but that’s what washing machines are for, right? right. 

[realityisweird101]

My Heart is Yours, Do With it as You Wish. (Pt.1)

toxic drake - one-sided drake - drew angst - 2.8k words

cws: mentions of sh (not depicted), mentions of sewerslide (ex: 'it would be better if he wasn't here', 'he just wants to die', 'without ___ he's nothing'), obsession, mentions of violence (nothing really happens), major mood swings, BPD, throwing up, depression, edd, not taking care of oneself rly, implied underage drinking

aka: batshit crazy drew. ur welcome!!<3

Drew's never gotten the ideal of getting friends. Sure, they were amusing, but Drew never felt anything with other people his age.

So he tried. He really did, he tried making a connection, and it worked, since he had friends, but it didn't feel as nice as everyone said it did. Liam and Henry—they were funny people, sure. Drew liked being friends with them, but only a miniscule amount more than everyone else his age.

But—those…freaks. They made Drew feel something other than just tolerance, which was how he felt about almost everyone else. They made his eyes roll, his teeth clench, his smirk turn from just smugness to full on cockyness. 

And so Drew made sure they hated him, so he had a reason to hate them.

 

It was better than just…nothing, after all. So, he became some sort of bully, which wasn't his goal, but it still made that purple-haired weirdo hate him, and so the rest did as well.

But…but then—

Drew's eyes caught chocolate brown ones. They were warm—so warm, and Drew loved them.

Jake.

Jake.

Jake Sterling.

That name sounded so right in his brain, occupying it's own space, pushing all unnecessary affairs aside. 

Jake.

Jake became his new best friend, and Drew finally understood the ideal of getting a best friend. This…this warmth in his chest was better than anything he had ever felt before. Sure, hatred was better than…whatever he felt before, but happiness felt like fireworks erupting in his stomach, like hot chocolate on a cold, cold day.

Drew supposes that was how he felt before. Cold. With twinges of joy and hatred at times.

So Jake remained his best friend. And the music club remained his enemies. And life went on as it should, with equal amounts of hate and joy, which made his life finally feel complete.

_______

Daisy.

Daisy was a nice person, Drew tolerated her a bit more than everyone else.

(But she was the reason why Jake went away, why he left Drew—left forever.)

Jake liked Daisy. He had an idiotic crush on her, which led him to him leaving Drew, and him joining the music club of all things. But, Jake was still his best friend, so it was fine. It was okay.

_______

“Dreewww! Don't you think about anything other than Jake? Seriously, you're glaring at your lunch as if it killed your grandma. Or Jake, since you probably care about him more than your grandma.” Henry said in a sing-song voice. He was probably joking, but now that Drew thought about it, he never felt anything for anyone else. Sure, he wasn't emotionless, but he didn't particularly care if they broke an arm, or something.

Drew never did care much about his grandma. He had never met her, either, so that was probably it. 

…he remembered something his parents said about a dead mother or father, but why would Drew care if he didn't feel anything about it?

“Shut up, Henry. And it's just the fact that he keeps on ditching us to hang out with those…freaks. God, they're probably going to embarrass themselves all over again.” Drew grumbled, picking at the school lunch. It looked gross. Even grosser than usual, and wasn’t that strange.

“If I didn't know better, I would think you're in loove!” Liam snickered, winking seductively, and Drew glared at him.

“No, you idiots. We're just friends, duh.” Drew mumbled. “‘Thought that was what everyone meant.” He mumbled even quieter, afterwards.

“Dude, I get that you're…friends. It's just that you never act like that about Liam and I, and you're practically always obsessing about Jake. It's not really best-friend-esque.” Henry said, taking a sip of his signature lettuce juice, which is…gross, by the way.

“Whatever. I like Jake, I like both of you, I don't like the music freaks, end of discussion.” Drew said, staring at both of them in a way that dared them to disagree.

They changed the subject.

_______

Zoey. Zoey was a strange phenomenon. At first, Drew was convinced he liked her. Maybe it was those brown eyes, or the blonde and pink hair. 

Or maybe it was the fact that he could barely piece his memories together, since all the ones without Jake had slipped out of his mind.

…and there were far more memories without Jake than with him, at the time. He had to spend a few days rearranging his memories, since he could barely remember what his own name was.

But, he did care about Zoey, a little bit of happiness which drove him to her. She wasn't nice, but she made the perfect model-girlfriend, so Drew didn't care much.

He did care about her though, he wanted her to be happy, so she didn't know that he wasn't.

But after Jake, Drew's care started to dwindle…

______

“Drew? Drew, what's wrong? Drew?” Liam—Liam? That name sounded wrong. 

Jake, saying his name, the way his mouth moved.

Jake, blinking, the way his lashes collided as his eyes closed.

Jake, walking, walking closer to him—

Jake, his Jake—

“Mmph.” Drew…Drew, grumbled. His head felt light, and heavy, although his heart felt lighter. He had a headache, and he…where was Jake?

“Drew, seriously, you're scaring me.” Henry said, sounding concerned. Drew didn't know why they were worried.

And where was Jake? 

“Wh't's ‘rong?” Drew mumbled, his words slurring together.

Jake, smiling, the way his teeth shimmered in the sunlight.

Jake, holding a remote controller, how he did a stupid dance to celebrate his win.

Jake, crying, as he poured his guts out to him.

Jake, his Jake, his perfect Jake—

“You—you haven't been to school in days, and you won't text us. Or Jake, and you always text Jake back.” Liam mumbled, and he seemed a bit upset by that fact.

Jake, he didn't text Jake back? Oh. Oh Jake probably hated him, and he couldn't have that—

Where was his phone? Wait. When did he get a phone? Why were they in his house? How did they get into his house? How long had it been?

Jake, brushing his hair.

Jake, hugging him, telling him it would be okay.

Jake, calling him when Drew couldn't breathe—

Jake, his oxygen, his sun, his world—

“Drew, talk to us. Your eyes keep on going hazy—have you even eaten? Have you slept? What's wrong?” Henry tried, his hands on Drew's shoulders, shaking him, and Drew blinked.

“‘M okay. Uh…jus’...tired.” Drew mumbled, and tried keeping the haze of Jake from obscuring his vision. 

“Shut up! You're not fine, Drew. You're—you're not anything! You're sitting here, doing God knows what! You're not talking to anyone, not contacting anyone, and you won’t even eat, sleep, or anything!” Liam burst out, and, and—

He had eyebags under his eyes, his usually styled hair was messy—as if someone brushed a hand in it too many times, and he was dressed in only sweatpants and a loose shirt. He looked stressed. But Drew didn't care because Jake—

Drew wanted Jake to hold him. He wanted Jake to love him. He wanted Jake, point blank. He…

…felt a tear roll down his face.

“‘M sorry, okay? I didn't—I'm trying, to be a human, to be real, to be Drew. I'm trying to be alive, to eat, to sleep, to be functional. But nothing matters and I'm trying to find something that matters but the only thing that matters is Jake and he's gone.” Drew gasped out, and he was. 

“Drew—Drew. Don't—Don't cry. It's—Jake's not gone, he's here, we're here, aren't we enough?” Henry said, and he had tears streaming down his face. Drew couldn't, he couldn't look at one of his best friends cry like that—

He let himself drift away with the haze, because in the haze there were no heartbroken friends, no aching hearts, no need to be human.

In the haze there was Jake.

And Jake was enough for Drew, better than the world, than the sun, than anything else in the world.

_______

Drew looked at the blonde haired boy beside him, and smiled, wider than he had in a while. 

Jake caught his eye, and looked surprised for a moment, his eyebrows shooting up, but smiled back widely, if not wider than Drew.

It made a burst of warmth fill Drew. 

Jake was his. He loved Jake. (But not like that, he was a guy. Drew doesn't love guys.) 

_______

Drew looked at Jake and Hailey.

Hailey, a stupid freak who had stolen Jake.

Jake looked so happy, he was smiling, he was grinning, he was laughing.

Drew wanted to tear her apart, to rip out her heart, to drive her away. 

Jake was happy, he was happier without Drew. 

He couldn't be, he wasn't he couldn't—

_______

Drew slammed his back against his bedroom door, glad his parents weren't here, and screamed.

_______

Drew giggled, and stared at the photo in his hand. It was a photo of the ‘Jomies’, and there was Jake and he was smiling.

He looked happy with Drew.

(Not as happy as he was with that freak—)

He scribbled the other faces with black marker.

It was Jake, wasn't it? And he was smiling, and he wasn't with those freaks. Oh, it was Jake, fantastic, wonderful, beautiful Jake.

_______

“Go away, go away, go away, go the fuck AWAY—”

The brown haired boy looked afraid, but left him alone anyways.

_______

Drew didn't want to get up. He didn't want to do anything.

He wanted Jake. He needed Jake, but Jake didn't need him.

Oh, wasn't that funny?

The one, one person Drew loved—loved, wasn't that hilarious?—had left him.

And Drew called him a freak, the final nail in the coffin.

God, Drew couldn't, he couldn't he couldn't breathe he couldn't speak because—

_______

Drew: hi

Liam: drew? drew r u ok? that was heated. r u ok? 

Liam: shuld i come ovr?

Drew: no. don't. actually, fuck you.

Liam: ???

Drew: fuck u. if u hadn't stayed with me maybe jake would've stayed. maybe 

Liam: drew, dude, ur making no sense.

Drew: i dint care, he's gone, okay? he's GONE. don't you fucking understand? he's gone, liam, he hates me. us.

Liam: drew, pls, are u okay?

Drew: fuck you. fuck you. fuck you.

Drew: he's gone, and ur asking if im okay? he's gone, he's gone, liam.

Drew: go away, fuck you, fuck me, i should've done something. i should've just left the freaks alone because i already felt something and so there was no point and it's all my fucking fault oh god

_______

Jake won the competition.

Drew should feel happy about this.

(He doesn't.)

Maybe something’s wrong with him. He knew something was wrong with him. He just…ignored it, because it didn't matter.

But that was the problem.

Nothing mattered.

Everything felt insignificant. He felt things, but he felt things so minorly that most of the time he could barely manage a smile.

And so—so when he felt an actual emotion, it was overwhelming and he needed—

_______

He screamed and screamed and screamed until his throat felt raw—

_______

Crimson.

The color reminded him of something.

Of freckles, eyes, and soft words.

And disgusting jokes.

But all he could think of was chocolate brown eyes.

Of warm hugs.

Of stupid jokes and stupid haircuts.

Of love.

Something hurt.

Maybe it was his heart.

_______

Henry: drew? drewy-bear!!!

Drew: ?

Henry: OH HI I DIDNG THINK U WOULD ACTUALLY RESPOND

Henry: haha i mean hello dude

Henry: uve been ghosting us 4 a while now, u okay?

Drew: yeah

Drew: im fine

Henry: we could come over, if u'd like.

Drew: No.

Drew: don't. I'm fine.

Henry: …

Henry: that wasn't a question, dude:)

Henry: we're coming over.

_______

Drew wrapped bandages around his arms because they were bloody and he didn't know why.

Jake was still gone.

He hadn't texted him, or anything.

Drew felt…he felt…shit—

“Drew! You look like shit!” Henry exclaimed, and Drew jumped. He had a grin on his face, which faltered slightly when he actually looked at Drew. “Really, really fucked up shit.” He added, more concerned that time.

“Yo.” Liam said, looking slightly better than he did the last time Drew saw him. “Oh, you do look like shit. Have you eaten? Or slept? Or showered? It's been like, a week, dude.” Liam asked, and Drew blinked at him.

It felt like much, much longer.

Henry and Liam helped him eat something, and didn't say anything when he couldn't manage anything down.

Henry and Liam helped him take a shower, and brush his teeth.

They helped him re-dye his hair, because his real hair color made him feel antsy.

They helped him clean up his room, which had become a mess.

They helped him go outside. Only for a short walk, but it was something.

They helped him feel human.

They saw his arms, which Drew couldn't clean because he didn't want to see them. 

They hid all his sharp items, for a reason Drew couldn't understand.

They played a video game with him.

They stayed the night, and they all had a cuddlefest during the night.

They didn't say anything when he woke up during the night, they didn't say anything when he cried in their arms, they didn't say anything when he couldn't breathe.

(Well, they did say something. But only good things.)

They made him feel human again.

But of course, that just had to get ruined—

______

He screamed, he screamed because he needed Jake and he was gone and he screamed and screamed and—

______

He wanted to cry, to cry and cry and die.

Not die. That was a bit too far.

(But he was nothing without Jake, so what was the point in living?)

______

Everything felt hazy.

He took a sip.

His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

He took a sip.

Where was he anymore?

He took a sip.

He couldn't remember anything.

He took a sip.

He was outside somewhere, wasn't he?

He took a sip.

“Drew?”

He dropped the bottle.

_______

Drew opened his eyes, which felt much too heavy. His arms stung—that wasn't good. He couldn't remember what happened last night, but his head was throbbing and his mouth tasted acidic.

“Drew, you awake?” A soft voice spoke, and Drew felt his heart melt somewhat. “You—you okay?” The voice asked, and Drew hummed.

“‘Mm, ‘m ‘Kay.” He mumbled, “head ‘urts.” He huffed, and opened his eyes a little. The light burned his eyes, as he suspected, but he could see brown hair and red eyes.

Liam.

Huh. Why did he go to Liam's house?

“You're lucky my parents aren't here, y'know. They would kill me if they knew I had a guy over. ‘Specially if it was you.” Liam huffed, and Drew's face twisted in confusion.

“Why especially me?” Drew asked, and Liam didn't answer.

“...Drew. How…how…how'd you get something sharp? I just…I thought me and Henry…” Liam started, and Drew stiffened. He…he didn't—

Liam didn't push any further. 

Drew was glad.

_______

The first time Drew went to school without Jake was two weeks after they stopped being friends. No one really noticed Drew was gone, and so no one noticed he had come back.

“Yeah! You're back! The Dromies are back together!” Henry exclaimed, a wide grin on his face.

And…and Drew felt something.

“What the hell are the Dromies?” Drew asked, rolling his eyes. Of course, during his fit Henry and Liam went on to name their trio something stupid.

“Homies, but Drew style!” Henry exclaimed, shooting finger guns at Drew, who cringed.

“Uh. I do not have a style, thank you very much. Never do…that, again.” Drew said, gesturing at all of Henry. Liam let out a choked laugh, and suddenly Henry started laughing as well, and well, if Drew started laughing a tiny bit, no he didn't.

_______

Drew saw Jake in the hallway and his heart dropped.

He looked…so happy.

He was with the freaks—the entire gang, and of course he and Hailey were glued together like peanut butter and jelly. He was grinning, joking around, and laughing whenever Hailey blushed.

Blushed.

Were they dating?

Were they—

Drew rushed to the nearest bathroom, and puked his guts out.

He couldn't even look at Jake.

How pathetic.

_______

And that's the end of pt.1! errm i hope it was ok?? idk. so like it's disorganized in the writing and that was on purpose bc ofc drew's head is a bit mushed up at the moment. if it doesn't make sense at some parts, it probably isn't rly supposed to, but u probs still get the gist that drew is OBSESSED, riggght?

also. the way Henry and Liam are handling what's going on may seem bad (ex: not telling anyone, not getting drew any help) but i don't rly think so bc for teenagers the way they dealt with it was pretty cool, and if they told anyone drew would probs js not improve at all and probs would've gotten worse so like idk js wanted to let yall know that. they were probs kind of freaking out as well so that's a reason.

[quirkle2]

I was wondering if there are any rare happy ritsu moments in ur zombie au since hes always miserable I think,, like is he always miserable or is he happy/not miserable and feeling kinda good sometimes?

VWHDGDGD NO YEAH OFC HE'S HAPPY SOMETIMES im just horrible and enjoy putting him through misery

ive never been able to get a genuine smile to look right on his face in my art style either i think thats part of it. as ive said his face is just built to be mildly uncomfortable and bothered and i lean into it sm it's starting to get kinda funny

but yes ritsu is happy plenty! i think, canonically, he just seems like the type of person to me that tends to turn lemonade back into lemons. he's easy to scare and his first reaction to things is often Dread and Anxiety. he dwells on the negatives a lot and seems to be a "hope for the best, expect the worst," kinda guy, but there's a section in this post abt shigeo always loving the little things in life, and ritsu steadily learns throughout the journey on how to do that and how healing it can rly be. even if he had to grow up too fast during this whole thing and learn things a kid should never have to, the journey also gave him some good insight and lessons in other places! ritsu is smart, he figures it all out

in terms of little things here n there he's the happiest lil guy on the planet when he finds one of his favorite foods—swings his legs while he sits and munches on a kitkat bar like he's got absolutely nothin in the world to worry abt. sometimes mob does smth funny that he laughs at; for the longest time i've had this silly image in my head of mob accidentally knocking down a bucket from a store shelf and it lands on his head and he just kinda stands there and makes noises.when the noises continue out of pure curiosity about the weird echoey quality it's giving them ritsu cannot help but lose it

besides tiny things tho, when tome comes around ritsu in general is a lot happier, just cuz he has somebody to talk to that will actually respond in some way. they're sorta reluctant partners in crime at first (at least on ritsu's end) but over time and over bonding they grow to rly like each other's presence. they bicker constantly but it's almost always fond eventually, and they shove each other and playfight until mob gets antsy enough to get worked up about it. rly, tome is a godsend to ritsu's mental health—after months and months of being effectively alone with his thoughts, he finally has another person to converse with. a person His Age, too!

tome is rly good at knowing when ritsu is thinkin himself into oblivion and she's Also rly good at being the most annoying girl on the planet to yank him outta that and replace any misery with Oh My God Get Off Me You Freak. she doesn't even do this on purpose at first, but over time she learns how to tell when he's thinking too hard and, ofc, she's grown attached and she cares, so she's as obnoxious as possible to lighten the mood

when they find reigen n teru, ritsu gradually gets Much happier still. now that he knows they're safe and the gang is finally back together (and now that there's an Adult present and he can relax a lil and let himself be taken care of) his stress levels r exponentially lowered. having teru back is another instant lift to his mood—im always a big fan of teru and ritsu friendship, and i think adding tome to their dynamic simply makes it more chaotic. truly a trio of the 3 most normal teenagers in existence which will surely bring nothing but good (reigen sweats offscreen)

actually this makes me feel bad for forever torturing him im gonna go draw happy zau ritsus brb ,.,.ok imback <3

[royallygray]

So in your superhero-soul link-au thingy the skyblings and the seablings are all siblings. So how does that work?

Like are they all avians but also with fins and gills? Do we get moth Pearl or avian Pearl or fish Pearl? Does Lizzie have bird wings? Do they have to keep not being human a secret or are they just open about it? Are they all full siblings or are some half siblings or adopted? Please ive been thinking about this for so long.

WHAT DOES PEARL LOOK LIKE IM DOING AN ART

Firstly, omg omg omg omg OH MY GOD OH MY GOD??? YOU WANT TO DO AN ART?? FOR MY SILLY LITTLE AU?? OH MY GOD :D

Secondly, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE QUESTIONS AGDHLSJDFSDFJ (gives me an excuse/a prompt to rant :D)

I’m so honored.

It gets a little (read: a lot) extensive bc I like to give a lot of background and reasoning for why stuff is the way it is but in case I get rly unclear the direct answers to each question will be at the end.

Grian and Pearl are biological siblings that share both parents (they have two moms, one is trans and one is cis, and they are fantastic parents who are so in love with each other. Both are avian hybrids.) Pearl is one year older than Grian. Their family name is Azure. They don’t have fish traits.

Grian has the traditional parrot red-yellow-blue wings and Pearl has midnight blue wings with gray and white speckles on the bottom half. Idk if they have the ear wings.

Lizzie and Jimmy share a dad, who is a piscine hybrid. (Piscine is basically just the word avian (relating to birds) for fish. Saying fish hybrid sounded significantly less cool so I found this and now they are piscine hybrids. Also it sounds like pool in spanish which. is fine i guess fuck you latin.) The dad’s last name is Marina, because of the relation to fish and the sea and stuff, but it’s also Marina and not Marine because I’m pretty sure I was listening to Oh No! or Seventeen (by Marina) while creating the name.

Jimmy’s mom was human, and Lizzie’s mom is fae. Lizzie is the same age as Grian, and they’re about five years older than Jimmy.

Lizzie has piscine traits (fins, gills along with lungs, ear fins) AND has fae wings and her eyes tend to glow. The piscine is from ESMP1 axolotl and the fae is from the Fairy Fort in LL. Jimmy is supposed to have piscine traits, (cod, courtesy of ESMP1) and he was born with them. However, within the day he was born, the fins and gills started either falling off or self destructing, respectively. He started growing wings (which o7 to the nurses of this imaginary hospital jesus christ) and the ear wings. So within the day he was born, he completely transferred from being a healthy piscine baby to an avian. And due to the yellow downy feathers, Jimmy’s mom knew that he was the canary. (also rip Jimmy’s mom you will be missed o7)

So Jimmy’s mom (Last name Solidarity. Jimmy's last name was supposed to be Solidarity-Marina) was besties with one of the Skybling moms, and she was basically like “hi bestie you have avian kids, right? mhm so essentially my kiddo was a fish and now hes not a fish and he’s a bird and this is a problem because I think he’s the prophecy which means that he’s got a TARGET on his head and I want my son alive. if you guys accept him into your family, it will look significantly less suspicious. also i’m not gonna make it that childbirth took a lot out of me”

negotiations were made between the four adults (jimmy’s mom, seablings’ dad, skyblings’ moms) and jimmy got very subtly adopted before his mom died. (o7, we will miss you)

When Jimmy’s somewhere from two to four, Lizzie (age ~7-9) gets adopted too because her dad is too unstable and he is BARELY keeping it together. Jimmy’s mom was the love of his life (i’m pretty sure lizzie was either the result of a one-night-stand or a mildly brief fling) and he is Not Okay. So it was arranged that Lizzie got adopted by the Azures, which she was thrilled about bc they’re cool as fuck.

(also Lizzie’s mom (Last name Shadow. Lizzie's last name is Shadow-Marina) was Not really prepared for a child. She was not emotionally prepared for the commitment of a child, nor did she actually have a stable paying job. By the time that seablings’ dad gotta go, she’s also not qualified to adopt Lizzie since there’s just a bunch of shit that she’s got going on in her life. But she does hang out with Lizzie monthly throughout her childhood with the Azures, and they still visit occasionally throughout Lizzie’s adulthood. she’s more like the cool aunt than the mom)

When the Azures adopted Lizzie, they had a pool installed in their backyard (the Azures are solid middle class. They can afford a pool bc of hybrid pensions. Hybrid pensions are basically just getting more resources to accommodate for your traits. The Azures have the Avian Mansion Pension, which is just a ginormous house because you gotta have space to stretch your wings. basically enrichment/some basic needs for hybrids)

When the kids started learning magic, specifically shifting magic, they wanted to learn how to shift to be more alike to piscine hybrids. Throughout childhood, Pearl, Grian, and Jimmy all got better at shifting to piscine hybrid traits. This hobby was to help Lizzie feel more included in culture stuff, but also if Jimmy randomly started becoming a fish again, his body wouldn’t have to build something from scratch and it would be less painful and easier to adapt to.

Pearl shifted into a salmon piscine hybrid, Grian to a cod piscine hybrid, and because Jimmy wanted to be like his cool older brother, he also shifted to a cod piscine hybrid.

(shifting is a type of Guise Magic. it’s basically glamor from through the sky blue cracks au or the Mist from PJO/HoO.)

Basically, if you draw her younger, it’s totally plausible to draw Pearl as a fish. and you could technically draw them all with fins and gills.

Lizzie never particularly cared about trying to imitate avian wings since she had her own fae wings.

I haven’t quite decided what the social system does about hybrids. Generally, I’ve been trying to make it so that humans and hybrids literally have the same social status and stuff so technically they’re equal. However, I did also make stuff like avian mansion pensions exist so idk. but they don’t need to hide their hybrid traits in public

SUMMARY BECAUSE THAT WAS REALLY FUCKING LONG LMAO:

Pearl and Grian are full avian hybrids. Jimmy is also an avian, although born piscine. Lizzie is a piscine hybrid. (Piscine is like the word avian (relating to birds) for fish.) Lizzie is the only one with fins. She has gills and also has lungs. When born, Jimmy also had gills and fins, but they dropped off and got replaced with wings and ear wings.

We get avian Pearl, but Pearl, Grian, Jimmy, and Lizzie used to roleplay as fish to practice magic for if/when Jimmy ever returned to being a piscine, and also to make Lizzie feel more included and learn some about her culture.

Lizzie does not have bird wings, but she does have fairy wings.

In this AU, hybrids aren’t treated any different than humans. They’re open about it.

Pearl and Grian are full siblings. Jimmy and Lizzie are half siblings. Jimmy and Lizzie are adopted into Pearl and Grian’s family, although Jimmy thinks he’s biologically related to Pearl & Grian (until he learns he’s not, at some point in the plot).

Hope this was clear and interesting :]

[kae-karo]

2023 fic roundup

phew!!! i wrote for four different fandoms this year, which is utterly wild to me given that most years i am writing for one or maybe two...but no, this year we went wild - bnha, genshin, trigun, and blue lock

so without further ado, my faves from each month:

jan 2023: i've made mistakes (but you were not one) - chaeya, i really hit my chaeya stride by this point and frankly i ADORED writing this fic, which was my first t4t chaeya fic !!!!

feb 2023: everything i ask for (and so much more) - chiluc, based on a scenario that my mom said she 'always wanted to see happen at a wedding' which rly made me laugh and thus i had to write it !!!

mar 2023: don't rush - kaeluc (and dilucest?), i just really enjoyed stretching my skills on this one in the vibes and also just. the mechanics of everything?

apr 2023: oh gods, there's two of them - cynonaribedo, which was just SO much fun after that event to consider how they'd interact and what shenanigans they'd get up to. also the smut was a fun challenge lmao

may 2023: don't be too good to me - vashwood, my first canon-universe fic for these silly guys that let me really explore the angst and also some of the lightheartedness

jun 2023: in your dreams - kaisagi !!!!! my first bllk fic!!! these two idiots make me feral !!!! they're so angsty and silly and i love them so much, i had a blast trying my hand at them!!

jul 2023: dark blue - kaisae, my last-minute final fic for kaisae july and the one that i reread and think about regularly lmao. one of my rare 2nd person pov fics, i had so much fun with teasing out all the imagery and emotions

aug 2023: but i'm losing blood and you're warm - bachisagi, currently my only bcis fic but my god was it SO fun to write, i loved getting to play in the horror genre a little and mixing that with romance and just UGH definitely up there as a fave

sept 2023: consumption - kaisagi, like what can i say except (pun intended) this premise consumed me so bad that i wrote it out of order bc i was so hooked on one particular scene. this whole story rly had me in a chokehold in the best way

oct 2023: pink light - ryusae, this is rly my favorite ryusae fic i've written to date. something about the premise and the gentleness and the second chances of it all just really got to me, i loved writing this so much

nov 2023: KNOCK.ME.OUT - ryurin, oh my god this fic....i reread this fic like every couple days for WEEKS after i finished writing it. more than i've reread any other fic, and purely out of a desire to just. live inside the story again. i loved it so much. up there with pink light as a fave for sure

dec 2023: tie me down (fuck me up) - saesagi, which like i feel like i went on a whole Journey abt saesagi within my brain and this is what came out. i rly enjoyed trying my hand at a new dynamic and taking sae out of his place of control for once !!!!

other stats + honorable mentions below the cut!

452,082 words posted this year across 58 fics, 24 ships, and, as mentioned, four fandoms. ended up around 8.7k kudos + 81k hits

some honorable mention fics:

good directions - vashwood, and a fic concept i've been dying to write for ages, which just happened to work incredibly well with vashwood

kinda complicated - plantwood, which was really just an excuse to write so much porn for them lmao but i had a great time both with that and the complex dynamics between the three of them

a tentative ellipsis - kaisae, cause i can't say EVERY kaisae july fic, but this one also was such fun to think about and write, just like. the premise and the execution were so [shakes them in a pickle jar]

we both got stories (but they're not the same) - kaisae, this premise rly cracked me up i had SUCH fun writing it and getting a little silly with it lskdjfklsdjf especially with kaiser and all his denial

make me love like i want to - kaisae/ryusae, which honestly all manifested out of like. the one scene in the fic where sae writes not dead on his arm. and that ballooned into an entire almost 30k story about soulmates that ended up being unexpectedly cathartic

sometimes i wish she was you - tabieita, idk this one really got me??? i had a blast writing karasu's point of view and his manipulative little shit attitude lmao

[yuukei-yikes]

can we get uhhhhhh some hibiya thoughts

yes. yes. yes. i fucking love hibiya. he's LITERALLY A LITTLE GUY when i got into kagepro he was one of my faves actually cuz he was the closest to my age at the time. i was 13… im 22 now! lol thats not weird at all *eye twitch* sry ive been weird abt the passage of time lately. erm wait this isnt my therapy session <- doesnt go to therapy

HIBIYA. LITTLE GUY. my thoughts on him………honestly, i recently reread all the novels and god his intro chapters were HARD to read. all the creepy stuff abt hiyori yknow. i was cringing so hard. i kinda wanna ignore it bc i'd rather do that with the weird bits kagepro has to offer, but not to get rid of it completely. like id take away hibiyas whole thing abt a collection of hiyori pics but still keep the aspect of him that worships her. and how that dynamic would COMPLETELY go away post str.

post str hibiya is VERY different from how he started out. i mean. 10 year old timeloop…. he hasn't grown at all mentally like he has to process all this with his 12 year old brain, but going through all he did he just kinda looks at things rly differently now. not obsessed with hiyori, for one…. and she's also different to him. their relationship changes drastically bc now they both respect each other LOL listen i know im annoying with my codependent relationship headcanons but… eyes hibiya and hiyori

these bitches are 12. spent 10 years watching each other die over and over and literally die for each other. AND THEN THEY GET EACH OTHER BACK? ERM. yeah theyre NOT letting go of each other. its not so much codependency as much as it is awful awful awful separation anxiety. god are there any fics of hibiya and hiyori going back home and having a breakdown at having to separate and go to their own houses (bc in the city they were living together so it doesnt hit that they need to separate until they go home)???

hiyori would still be kinda bitchy and bossy but definitely not horrible to hibiya. and also her attitude hits different when she's also always holding his hand and refusing to go anywhere without him and throwing tantrums when any of the dan members even imply any activity that would require to separate them. and she wouldnt rly be embarrassed abt it i think hiyori would be super open and vocal abt HIBIYA HAS TO BE WITH ME ALL THE TIME !!!!!! and hibiya isnt even flustered hes just like *NODDING NODDING NODDING* bc he's the same with her. girl… SEPARATION ANXIETY HIBIHIYO<3 mekadan so sick in the head <3 they have 78 undiagnosed mental illnesses <3

not to make it abt my future headcanons of psych major hibiya but. new generations man. hibiya is 10000% the one in the dan going like GUYS WHAT HAPPENED TO US WAS SOOOO MESSED UP and everyone's like lol yeah !!!! and he's like DONT LOL ABOUT THIS IM FUCKING SERIOUS??? especially since he's such a fucking outsider to everything like everyone else's been experiencing all these tragedies since they were born and he just kinda. had a normal life before? and like i said NEW GENERATIONS MAN THEYRE PSYCHOANALYSING THEMSELVES AND EVERYONE AROUND THEM…. the dan is so used to this shit that they kinda lmao rock and roll thru it and hibiyas like NO. NO. NO. EVERYONE. THERAPY. NOW!!!!!! it becomes his special interest he starts getting all into psychology and when he comes back to the city for his visits suddenly he's diagnosing everyone with stuff and the dans like *shaking* MAKE THE KID SHUT UP also realises he has separation anxiety with hiyori and works on it. hiyori is surprisingly the one most terrified of letting go. and like i said…. 10 year long time loop being processed in a 12/13 year old brain.. hibiya is SUPER self aware. he makes sure of it

ok and. heh. haruka. THE WHOLE HIBIYA HIYORI AND HARUKA THING COULD BE ITS OWN POST… SO… IM LEAVING IT HERE CUZ THIS IS ALREADY SUPER LONG but im just gonna say. hibiya's IN DENIAL of konoha being gone. he keeps expecting haruka to go away. hibiya THINKS he's super mature, and he is for his age bc of all this shit and his willingness to understand his problems and everyone else's. and everyone else also think he is mature, but this is just something he can't stop being a 12 year old about. his friend is gone! WHY does it have to be gone!?!? especially in an ending where hiyori is back. if she wasnt, then he'd be more accepting of the losses bc there were 2 both konoha and hiyori and like it becomes another whole thing abt letting go and mourning but if she is back…everything is supposed to be perfect!! everyone made it back!! why couldn't konoha? why does it have to be gone? its not fair! he doesnt care this haruka was the body's true owner!! konoha was his friend! it also deserved to live as much as this haruka guy!!! why is HE more important!!!?!?!?!? and he just. he's just insanely immature abt it. and he knows he is but truth is he's just really fucking sad and regretful about konoha being gone. i could also talk about hiyori and harukas feelings abt it but heheh yeah this is super long. erm. hibiyita el chiquito <3 hibiya throwing a tantrum in front of the whole dan abt how it isnt fair and how he wishes haruka would just die. LMAO. he is 12. if anyone has fic commissions open Eye eye

also erm wholesome one before i end it. he makes little miniature dolls of the whole dan<3 he's BAD at typing on his new smartphone but since he lives away hes always texting in the gc<3 he gets super into mobile games<3 amongus fan hibiya asking all his grownup friends with jobs and no time for amongus if anyone can play with him<3 they do bc theyre busy but there will always be time to amongus with friends<3

[pinkmoondoll9shihtzu]

pinkmoonmutual i think i have come to u about my adoring fixations on older men before. I woke up from a dream where I was hanging out with this guy I really like and it was so wonderful and perfect and exactly what I want from him....a very nice dream to have, and it fits into what ive been working on recently which is human relationships and figuring out what I want and how to have it... its difficult for me because I love people SO MUCH often after a very short amount of time, this is especially true of older people because I crave sibling affection I didn't get growing up but it happens with people my own age too. and ah idk I'm never sure how to express it to people because love and intensity are things most people only want and expect from romantic attraction. and I'm not opposed to that but especially with older men this becomes difficult because the people I love are not interested in dating people 10 years younger than them and really it would be inappropriate (this guy was my professor! not gonna happen!) and i just end up feeling really creepy and weird and not knowing what to do with this huge adoration and affection inside me. so tricky I really wish you could just be /in love/ with someone and tell them and have them see it as a nice thing and not me trying to get sex or romantic commitment from them. i wish i was a little dog so i could just curl up at his feet and have it be simple. guuuuhhhhhhhh honestly i just wanted to tell you about my crush. I only knew this guy for like a month and a half so its a bit silly but hes so pretty and smart and cool and really inspired me to live and pushed me in the direction im currently going. its just tricky tricky im probably over complicating it but do you think there's more to love than the relationships that people in our world expect? I love people like theyre a god TT .. even talking about it here feels vapid compared to how it is for me. anyway nice dream thanks universe and i hope the pinkmoonworld is nice today <3

i understand u <3 it is a vary nice day in pinkmoonworld thanku for the wish~~~i know this dilemma tho sigh , my thoughts below..

i always felt like my admiration of people was extreme & consuming , i still do to a certain extent its a big part of the reason WHY i became a bit withdrawn like i struggle w how attached i get to others. i dont want to ask for anything in return but i feel shame when people find me creepy lol. And even then, that shame isnt rly the reason i've become untrusting with my heart, cold ppl r the least of my worries, i understand them.. moreso it's dangerous for me when i encounter someone who recognizes i am This Way & instead of being plainly disinterested or aloof they consciously decide to Use my affections in a sinister manner for their own advantage. that's what's mainly caused me to bcome distant even tho i want to love those ppl too.

so despite distance i still need some outlet for these loveful feelings so i guess i've spent the past 5-ish years working on ways to be overly compassionate in a safer manner.. And a big part of that is that i rly find the purest form of love to be platonic love, when theres not really any expectations or prize for being close to someone yet u still are, that kind of love speaks the deepest to me. and it's funny because really shortly after i surrendered my quest for romantic love, like completely surrendered , is when i met SLIMBO, and thru my efforts to be a really good friend to them we ended up falling sooooooo deeply sincerely in love like nothing i;ve ever known. if we had rushed into a relationship idk if it wld be the same , like having it slowly blossom over the course of a few years w no pressure, it's the foundation upon which we could be SO deeply sure we would always be together.

So the way u speak of loving ur crush, i'd say, just continue to act kindly towards him and everyone else u encounter, with no expectations of them.. people really need this like i think everyone needs to know what it feels like to experience a True Friend a selfless friend. it's rare! i rarely meet anyone who i feel doesn't want *something* from me that i cant give them. and i dont even want to hold that against them! im just saying, what U feel is rare so u should embrace it. allow yourself to exude love as much as u can and that frequency will return to u, just like how it did for me and slimbo...And other friends ive made along the way ^_^ Follow you heart.. maybe he's older but who knows what could happen. i've dated ppl 10 years older than me cus i have always acted like grandpa. sometimes ppl will just see u for ur soul.

and maybe ur dream is pointing u in a right direction, idk, i confessed my love to slimbo a few days after having a dream that we held hands. Ofc we had been friends for 2 years by this point so the time felt right, not every dreams mean u should confess, but i feel like having a sweet dream such as that can be a sort of telepathic experience sometimes.. show a connection between you and him on the astral plane. Take time to enjoy life n enjoy having a crush too cus it can be really fun to feel that crazy over someone :] thats my thoughts.....good luck with your heart, PMD9 out !

[aquato-family-circus]

I miss Harvey so uh

*sits down in your inbox* tell me about Compton's family other than Dogen and Sam? I want to know your headcanons. Any of them.

context for harvey

eeeeyyyyy its been a while since i talked abt him or the boole family let's go

Like I said in the P7 family post I was typing up, Compton's parents were the wealthiest of all the 7's parents. I don't know if they run/own a fancy resturaunt brand or something to do with animals or what but they're like fanciful edwardian non-psychics who care a lot about their Image and how other people See Them. this certainly had no adverse affects on their child whatsoever

I mused a bit about Compton having a sibling or two, but still not sure about exactly how that manifests in the broader scope of things. it just ""sounds right"" whatever that really means

Harvey, my friend Harvey, met Compton in their young adult years because Harvey's family runs some kind of rustic ranch that the Booles held a fancy little charity event at and Compton was like "wow... you like horses....... this must be Romantic Love"

whether it actually was Romantic or just Compton and Harvey being very close i don't know. i like aroace compton and also gay compton. both can hold hands bc orientation is silly like that

the important part is they liked each other enough to get married. or like domestic partners at least. they move in. oh my god they were roommates.

their daughter, dont worry about how they had a kid, i never have a name for her. I'll call her Suzy just to have a name.

but i think Suzy's not psychic and takes after harvey a little more than compton, which was ok for a long while. compton actually raised her with harvey at least up into her teens, because I think she was 16-19 years old when the Incident Happened.

i think this bc i feel like Suzy and Truman have to be around the same age? it makes sense in my head for that to be the case at least. Don't worry about it.

Sam's prison/mom line in the diner gives me a couple options. either Suzy went to prison, works at a prison, or Sam's just being a little sillay.

I tend to gravitate toward "works at a prison" or "sam is being sillay". I saw a headcanon once that the noodle bowl chef lady is Sam & Dogen's mom, which is cute, I think about it sometimes, but i also dont rly think she feels like their mom. to me at least. but it was interesting to bring up.

what headcanons I actually have abt Suzy amount to thinking she's... well meaning but maybe the worst parent out of the Truman/Augustus&Donatella "second gen" of psychonauts folks.

to say the subtext as text, Dogen being cut to when Raz says "your mother is afriad of you", it always gives me autism mommy vibes. like Suzy goes oh my poor little dogen and sam are so Strange, just like my Father. I don't want them to become Criminals, Also Just Like My Father. and she maybe makes some poor decisions because of it. Not as awful as say Loboto's parents. but not great.

Their Dad I think is the most guy ever. just a real nobody kinda dude. he carries a briefcase. works a nine to five. loves to talk about the Big Game. has kind of a minnasota accent when I try to imagine him talking. car grill mustache.

Compton has a weird, awkward relationship with Suzy & her husband bc of all this. He had kind of lost contact with her and Harvey after moving to GNG, and didn't hear from them again until well after the Psychonauts became a government agency because that's when he learned 1) he's a grandparent and 2) little baby Sam is burning the curtains oh god what do i do . I imagine Suzy made a panicked call to the Psychonauts one day and it got redirected to Compton once the family name came up and it was the most awkward phone call in the history of man kind.

Compton does love his grandkids though. And he's tried a lot of times to let his own kid and his ex-husband that they are welcome at the Psychonauts. he might not be available but yknow the other agents here are more capable anyways have you met Truman he's also a dad.

I think that's all I got for now cheif, though if you have more specific questions abt Boole or the other families I'm sure my brain will mix something together once prompted ✌️ it's always fun to answer these kinds of questions

[judjira]

Can we know anything more about parenting au? Or really any of the aus you posted the other day. Every one of them sounds great.

Also, I love apartment au. Thank you for that Misamo fill!

u asked for this anon get ready for a dump (also i know u asked for parenting au details but i just wanted an excuse to ramble hehe)

also take note, these are just the aus that are in progress, not the idle ones that are still in my head and require more fleshing out

if u see one u like, feel free to ask for more details ! who knows, it might give me more inspiration to write it ! i am taking requests, but only if it's from this list below ! i dont mind writing short drabbles on some of these that further flesh out the details and story ! also probably that pressures me to write the full thing so HAHA

nada dul cielo (magical realism au)

dayeon

this one's pretty interesting, it's based on a filipino short story called "kite of stars". basically nayeon, a young rich noble, falls in love with mina, an astronomer who only looks at the stars. to get mina to fall in love with her, nayeon enlists the help of dahyun, a butcher's girl, to create a kite that can reach the stars. this one is mostly fantasy, coming of age, and angst ! i love angst so much

across the (gentrified) stars (space bakery au)

saida, side jeongtzu, mimo, jichaeng

this one is based off a request my friend gave me, literally just "i want a baker au" but i thought that was too boring ! in a hypercapitalist society, sana works as a baker in a mass-produced bakery on a distant moon. when a ship with a foreign model crash lands on the moon, sana meets dahyun, a traveler from a time long past. (loosely based off of outer worlds !)

the last wish (genie au)

dahmo

this one's a sad one. basically dahyun's a genie, and momo's the girl who found her. however, as soon as momo makes her last wish, dahyun will disappear forever. very angsty and very sad i believe.

mosaic (band au)

dahyun/3mix

literally "getting the band back together" the au. basically 3mix and dahyun are a band, but due to an argument they've broken up, and it tells the story of dahyun fixing everything and getting everyone back together. this one starts out angsty but ends fluffy :)

lost in translation (amnesiac au)

dahyun/3mix

this one is a confusing one, i'm not sure where to take it. basically dahyun has amnesia and 3mix try to win her favor as her admirers. now this could go one of many ways, either dramatic, or humorous, or fluffy, or angsty,,,i rly dont know how to go about this one

under revision (writer au)

mihyun, side jeongsa, namo, jitzu

this one's already on ao3 (the first chapter at least) kind of based off of inkheart, dahyun's a writer of a medieval fantasy novel, and writes the main character of her story into existence and promptly falls in love with her. mostly fluff with dashes of hurt and comfort !

office au

dahyo, side ships undecided

this one is rly just indulgent fluff, basically jihyo and dahyun are coworkers, and everyone around them thinks they're dating :)

cheating au

saidahmo, side ships undecided

yknow i gotta save my painful aus for saidahmo hue. i actually want to keep this one a lil secret but all u need to know is that sana and momo have a broken relationship and dahyun is momo's new neighbor :) i'll let u guys guess the rest

god au

dahyo, minayeon, jeongmo, chaetzu

this one is actually a set of oneshots! all of them are gods of specific domains, and all of the oneshots explore the different dynamics between the pairs (who mostly have opposite domains !)

break up au

dahminayeon

still unsure about this one, but basically dahyun comes back from a trip to find that her two best friends, mina and nayeon, have broken up. so she endeavors to parent trap them, while trying to ignore her feelings for both of them, mostly a humorous and fluffy fic despite the premise !

road trip au

mimohyun

this one's a ride (hehe) also ive elaborated on this already, but momo and mina are estranged childhood friends who search for dahyun, their missing best friend. this one explores mina and momo's relationship with each other, while going into their relationship with dahyun in flashbacks !

parenting au

dajeonghyo

already posted the prologue to this ! dahyun's been kicked out of the house for being pregnant, and jihyo and jeongyeon take her in. this one is mostly angst, hurt, and comfort, while exploring themes of religious homophobia so pretty intense !

online dating au

dahmichaeng

also talked abt this one before ! after a few months of a long distance relationship between dahyun, mina, and chaeyoung, they finally get the chance to meet in person ! just pure unadulterated fluff while exploring romance in the pandemic !

roommates au

jidatzu

low on money, dahyun moves into a three person apartment with cheap rent, alongside jihyo, who's just moved into the city, and tzuyu, who's lived in the apartment for as long as she can remember. together, they are all awkward lesbians who are attracted to each other.

revolutionary au

dayeon, side mimo, jeonghyo, sachaeng

this one's pretty cool ! a noble with a talent for painting, nayeon's perception of the world is rendered invalid when she meets dahyun, a member of the revolutionary army whose task is tagging graffiti.

magic school au

danatzu, mochaeng, jeongmisa

another big au with multiple oneshots planned ! ive already written a little bit abt this, but they're all just students in a magic school, exploring love :) mostly fluff, little bit of angst

other aus (not yet written):

hogwarts au, whiplash au, pacific rim au, idol au, nightlife au

[pebblethief]

top five books u want to read but havent yet, and top five tips for beginner knitter/crafter type people!

aaaa. ok

i have 1.5 books left of the Realm of the Elderling series. and i am SO looking forward to the last one as much as i am sure it is going to D E S T R O Y me holy shit. cannot emphasise how much i know it is going to ruin me. i know 2 death spoilers (both of which aren't surprising. cant follow a whole life without...following a whole life. and the other one is Old lol) but i dont know specifics and im fully going to be a sobbing mess when i get there and i cannot wait

legends and lattes is...12th on my TBR but im rly looking forward to it! constantly seeing it at the top of cosy fantasy recommendations and there is a lady orc on the cover, im gonna love it

really looking forward to when i get around to the 3rd Bone Ships book! its a very cool series about giant sea beasts and ships made of bone and just. exceptional wordbuilding. loved the first 2 books a lot. bumping this up my tbr as i type this

have decided 2023 is the year i will get around to starting Wheel of Time. it's one of the Big Fantasy series i havent touched yet and i wanna (i think the only others are Dark Tower which im ehhh about starting and Mazlan which i think i will love if i go into at the right time, and hate if it is the wrong time lol)

hmmmm. god there are so many books im excited to read, this is difficult. i have 3 full amazon wishlists of books lol. just gonna put the next fantasy book Jen Williams puts out. i love her and i love how....maximalist her fantasy worlds are. she doesnt just go "ok this is a world with dragons" she goes "ok this place has mushroom forests and a giant tree that births mythological beasts and sexy vampire elves and life magic and WEIRD BUG ALIEN INVADERS and lesbians and gruff axe weilding gay men and so much more" (go read the winnowing flame series, people!!!!!!!!!!!!) and i will buy her next book without a milisecond of hesitation

ok. *breathes* im ok. promise.

CRAFTING.

[every craft] everyone tells you to start with something simple. fuck that. start with something COOL. you will be 10000% more motivated to work on something if its gonna look rad. garter stitch scarf is gonna be boring even if it is simple. i believe in u, u can google and learn and make that weird project

[knit/crochet] skip the cheapo acrylic yarn if you can. it is cheap but yr gonna stick a WHOLE BUNCH of hours into this, i promise it will be more fun if it feels NICE while yr doing it!! there are some really pleasant feeling yarns that aren't much more expensive, and it will just be a much nicer experience.

[every craft] ignore everyone telling you you need a billion accessories. most of them are completely unnecessary. you dont need the fanciest needles or fancy stitch markers or expensive whatevers. dont sink a bunch of money into something yr just trying out

[all] try out different methods!! i spent ages trying to learn continental knitting when i was starting, bc people said it was Better but. i tried and i didnt enjoy it. but i know more for trying it!

[all] if it works, it works. if u are making fabric and you like it, s'all good!! maybe yr doing it in a weird way but if it is comfy for you fuck what the internet says. things Do Not need to be perfect!!!!!!

[knitting] bonus one: google twisted stitches. this is a common mistake and itll fuck you over if you get used to making them when youre not meant to lmao

thank u for letting me ramble about 2 of my favourite topics lol. and if u want some fun beginner friendly knit projects lmk 💚

[smileymoth]

tw suicide/self harm/disordered eating idk im having a moment

best part abuot being a fucking coward is that i dont think id ever kill myself. like i am too scared to just injure myself . i cant even cut myself too deep without freaking out like i see a drop of too much blood and i feel like im gona faint . but boy if i do not think abt just ending it every day. i sometimes start thinking about details and it freaks me out so i stop but its just like a passing thought of ohhh i cant fucking take this anymore i need to kill myself . it would be better if i just fucking died bc i dont bring any sort of value to society. im deathly afraid of not getting a job. i dont want to live with my mom for the rest of my life like my aunt. i dont think i could handle it. i need to be alone and i need to be indipendent. ive been hurting myself since i was like 10 by just scratching myself or whatever but like actually starting to cut myself at age 22 is kind of embarrassing like. im an adult. what am i doing. i cant fucking do this shit man. i cried today bc i was all nice n cozy in bed and i just cried bc i was like god i wish this could just be how it was every day. i dont want to do anything i dont want to go to work i dont want to do schoolwork i just want to draw and get paid for it. but i just suck at everything. i need help with everything. i need to kill myself. tbf i could probably do the museum job forever. but i am never getting hired bc they dont need me there. i do feel like a job would be better than school. school makes me want to kill myself. im so fucking stressed about everything right now its unreal. i need a scale so fucking bad too and i need to get back into the flow of restricting properly bc ive just been fucked in that department lately bc im so overwhelmed. its so impossible to keep ttrack of what you eat when youre busy. when you dont have a specific routine. im autistic arent i. whatever. i need to just make sure im always under [redacted} kilos so that if the surgeon finally fucking calls i would not have to be like oops sorry i cant im still an obese cunt who you cant operate on. idk. i need to kill myself as per usual. like i cant keep up with all of this shit. i just want to not be so fucking stresserd all the time but life is all jut about being stressed and doing shit and i dont know if i can handle it. i can barely handle school and now im flipflopping between volunteering at the museum and school and im dying im just straightup dying like im pretty surre why i got so sick now was bc i was stressed tf out bout everything and not resting. and yet i feel like i havent done enough. i have done fucking nothing to secure myself a job in the future. i have no plans for the future beside "ill figure it out as i go" but things really dont work like that. im fucking wasting my life away im useless like. i have nothing to offer anyone. who want me no one. shoot me in the headddd nowwwwwwwwww i need to kms and die forever

and like i dont even know why i am like this. like im just fucked in the head. i feel like im gona be like this forever. idk if i can live to 40 like that. i have no horrid trauma that would result in me being this much of a sad freak who keeps whining. like i feel like im just pretending or like playing the victim to get idk brownie points from god or something bc i dont tell shit to anyone beside like 3 of my friends and all of tumblr but i rly doubt anyone reads these anyway like this shit too logn. tl;dr whatever. whatever. it feels like its my fault that im like this. i feel like i fucked my life up on purpose somehow. that its my fault that i want to kill myself. idk if it works like that. but the thought of that only makes me want to get worse. like ive contemplated so many times of just making myself bleed so hard i pass out but i cant bc im a pussy but i feel like it would prove sth to someone. probably to myself. that im not just making it up for attention even though yeah sureeeee the attention you get from slicing your skin and then making sure to always cover that shit up to make sure nobody ever sees . whatever. i hate this shit if you ever think abt cutting just dont you wont get rid of it and if your mental health keeps getting gradually worse so will that bc hashtag coping mechanism. its like the only thing rn that even helps it like calms me down but then its like aw shucks theres new scarrsssss that take ages to heal. fuck my shit life idk. im stupid and stubborn and i dont think ever. i think too much actually. i hate that i dont feel sick enough i hate that i just feel lazy and ungrateful. i hate feeling like im being weak so that others would do sth about it while i push away any and all help i get offered . if i do accept it i feel like shit afterward bc im not enough to get it done myself. i hate feeling like im always behind. like im sdomehow behind all my friends . ill never be good enough. ill always be behind. i peaked in 9th grade and it was all downhill from there. i shouldve been someone else from the beginning. i hate that i exist i feel sorry for my mother for having to put up with me i feel sorry for my friends for having to put up with me . im just pathetic and sad and i do fuckin gnothing to help myself