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spring is the perfect time to write something feral and floral. soft boys covered in blood and daisies. girls with dirt under their fingernails and god complexes.

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The Bet

(The Angel Castiel x Reader)

NSFW

“I’m telling you, Dylan, Cas likes you,” Dean said, tossing back another shot at the booth her, Sam and himself were sitting at.

“Yeah right,” she rolled her eyes, taking her shot. “He can barely look me in the eye.”

“It’s because you make him nervous,” Sam smirked. She furrowed her brow, and Dean cut her off before she could say anything. 

“Seriously, if you walked over and talked to one of those guys at the bar, I guarantee he’d suddenly appear and rip the guy a new one.” She raised a brow at that before sniffing the air. 

“Smell that? Smells like a bet to me,” she smirked.

“Twenty bucks says he comes over as soon as you start chatting up a guy,” Dean bet, holding his hand out.

“You’re on, brother,” she shook his hand before standing up, walking over and sitting next to a young guy at the bar. He was handsome, but not nearly as gorgeous as the blue-eyed angel she was in love with. She flashed him her most flirtatious smile, batting her eyes at him as he turned towards her. She led with a simple, “Hey.” He smirked, turning his whole body to face her. 

“Hey, gorgeous. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” she replied, giving her hand for him to shake.

“Dave,” he smiled, taking her hand. She didn’t see, but Cas had appeared next to her brothers in the booth, nearly startling them to death.

“Jesus, Cas!” Dean shouted, half-choking on his drink. Cas ignored the boys, instead glaring daggers at the man you were currently talking to. 

“Who is that?” Sam and Dean shared a knowing look, smirking at each other. 

“I dunno man, some guy Y/N found at the bar. You better pounce before he whisks her away,” Dean suggested, furthering his own agenda naturally. Cas clenched his fists before sliding out of the booth. 

“Excuse me,” he dismissed himself, walking over to her and “Dave,” placing a hand on her lower back. She turned around at the feeling of a warm, strong hand on her back; her insides doing a flip as she saw it was Cas—who was currently staring down Dave with a predatory glare. 

“Cas, what are you doing here?”

“We need to leave,” he grumbled, not taking his eyes off of Dave, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. She decided to push his buttons. 

“I’m comfortable here, Cas,” she teased, looking up at him with a challenging smirk. He looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. 

“Now.” He gently took her arm, walking her out of the bar. Dean mouthed ‘you owe me twenty dollars’ as she passed them, to which she rolled her eyes. As soon as she and Cas were out of the bar, he winnowed them both into her bedroom, catching her off guard.

“Jeez Cas,” she said, stumbling and sitting on her bed. “What is your problem?” Cas cleared his throat, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. 

“I didn’t like the way that man was talking or looking at you. If you had seen what was going through his head….” She smirked, tilting her head to the side as she rested her hands on her bed. 

“Wait a second. Are you jealous?” Cas’ jaw clenched as he looked away from her. 

“No.” Her smirk grew. She stood up and slowly made her way to him, rubbing her hands up his chest. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in. 

“That is so cute, Castiel.”

“I—“

“An Angel of the Lord, jealous of a human. It’s adorable,” she teased, trying to get a reaction out of him.

“Stop patronizing me,” he growled.

“Then make me.” Cas stared her down at her for a moment, his pupils dilating. Within a second, he was on her, shoving her onto the bed before climbing on top of her. With a growl, he pinned her arms above her head before slamming his lips against hers, hips grinding into her own.

“Castiel,” she whimpered as he moved his lips down her neck, ravishing her skin, sucking and biting. She bucked her hips up in search of friction, and he reached one hand down to slam her hips back onto the bed, keeping her from moving.

“Don’t,” he growled against her skin. He immediately began rubbing against her. He was hard, straining against his pants, grinding into her abdomen. Her own self struggling, soaked through her own pants, trying to find the perfect friction.

“Oh, fuck, Cas,” she moaned, squirming and writhing beneath him. He continued his pace, grinding and rubbing up against her as he buried his face in her neck, and it wasn’t long before he shuddered against her, letting out a small cry of her name as he came in his pants. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he continued to grind against her, and seconds later, she fell over the edge. She gasped and cried out, her hips bucking up into his as he worked her through her orgasm. He collapsed gently on top of her, afterward, but his weight was a welcome comfort. He left gentle kisses to her neck before she giggled suddenly, making him look up at her in confusion.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, I just owe Dean twenty bucks.”

______________________________________________________________

i honestly can't decide who i need more, Dean or Cas; maybe both? they are canon boyfriends.

i hope you enjoyed!!! <3

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so, i have a 28 page doc that's a Newt x Reader (Maze Runner) fanfiction...

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Rough Ride

(Dean Winchester x Reader)

NSFW

“Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes. You know what you did,” he said as he stalked over to you. You bit your bottom lip as you pouted—doing a fairly good job of looking innocent—staring up at him through your lashes as he grabbed your chin. He gave you a harsh kiss, invading your mouth and pulling back with narrowed eyes. “As I suspected: you ate the last slice of my pie.” He seemed to pause for dramatic effect; unfortunately, it worked because you squirm in your seat. “I was looking forward to that all day.” Dean’s pout quickly morphs into furrowed brows, the black of his pupils widening.

“Sharing is caring though, right?” you asked, trying your best to seem genuine. He tilted your head up and only gave you a smirk—there was that look in his eye, and your heart skipped a beat.

“I know you. This was not an innocent mistake, and we both know it. If you want to be treated like a bad girl, all you have to do is ask.”

“Bad girls don’t ask permission,” you said, it coming out more stuttery and soft than you intended. Dean made you nervous though.

“Is that so? Why don’t you sit down, and tell me all you know about being bad,” he left your personal space, and went to take a seat in the chair in the library. You shakily rose to your feet, moving to stand in front of him when he waved his hand, signaling for you to hurry up moving closer. 

“What’s the catch?” you asked, raising a brow with a twinkle in your eye now.

“I’d prefer if you were naked when you sat,” he said, causing your eyes to widen at his disregard for the fact that you two were currently in a relatively public space in the bunker. With a glance around, you hummed and peeled off your shirt—focusing on the sounds, or absence of, around the rest of the bunker. Dean didn’t give any reaction when he saw you weren't wearing anything underneath, so you moved to peel off the rest of your clothes. Slowly, you walked over and straddled his lap; he smirked as he moved your leg around, so you were sitting atop only one of his strong thighs.

“Well, hello, Handsome,” you teased, with his face so close you could count his freckles, and see the brown flecks in his otherwise green eyes. Though, he didn’t return your playful attitude, instead responding in a tone that dropped an octave and gained a gravelly sound: “Move.” You were quick to not let his seriousness dissuade you from further misbehaving. “I just sat down though,” you said, set on making this difficult for him. He only chuckled and grabbed your hips, sliding you against his denim covered leg, the rough material rubbing at your clit.

“You wanted to get off? This is how bad girls get off. Now, I thought I told you to move.” Placing your hands on his shoulders and planting your feet on the floor, you rocked your hips, feeling the drag of rough denim over your bud. It took a few minutes to figure out a good rhythm but once you did, you held your hips at that angle, strung up tight and didn’t stop moving. “You should see yourself right now. So fucking horny for it. You’d do anything just to come,” Dean growled out, though he seemed just as horny for it if the tent at his crotch was anything to go by. This only spurred you to move faster, sweat dripping down your back now as you sought to build up the wonderful feeling growing between your legs. You rested your head on his shoulder, clinging to him harder, tensing your body up as you worked to get closer. After what felt like an eternity, but was really only like ten minutes, you were shaking like a leaf, so desperate for your orgasm but getting too tired to get there on your own. 

“Please,” you whined into his neck, fingertips digging into his back. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. This is what you wanted,” he whispered into your hair, fingers finding your chin to push your head up; Dean pushed some hair out of your eyes, and kissed your cheek. You were so ready to call it quits, but he placed his hands on your hips and slid you back roughly, yanking you forward quick enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Come on, Sweetheart, wanna see you come all over me.” His rough hands moved you like you were nothing, moving far faster than you were capable; very quickly you were coming, body freezing up completely—aside from his movements of you. “You ruined my jeans, Bad Girl,” he said, wrapping his arms around you to keep you steady. “Are you going to behave from now on?”

“If that’s the punishment? Never,” you countered, smiling up at him when you finally raised your head from his neck.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” he said, putting his hands under you, picking you up to move you both towards his room. You mumbled something he couldn’t hear. “Hmm?” he hummed out his question, starting to carry you to the bathroom.

“I’ll make you a pie tomorrow.”

“There’s my good girl.”

______________________________________________________________

this has been trapped in my brain and in my docs for so long. it finally just had to come out.

i hope you enjoyed!!! <3

want more Dean Winchester fics in the future?? lmk

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How do I search specific questions without google thinking I’m a threat to myself and others? I swear it’s just for my fanfic ;-;

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So, uh… if you’re looking back on your writing and you’re cringing at how bad it is…

You know that’s a good thing, right? That you’ve grown?

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i had a dream about a book that doesn’t exist and now i have to write it or the dream police will come get me.

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Languages Shape Worlds — And the People in Them

“Language is a road map of a culture.” – Rita Mae Brown

When creating fictional worlds, don’t stop at borders—let language do the heavy lifting. Dialects, vocabulary, accents, and even how characters switch between tongues can reveal class, power, intimacy, and conflict.

Here’s how to use language as a storytelling tool:

1. Create Language Layers: Dialect ≠ Language

Different regions or social classes in your world should speak differently, even if it’s the same “official” language.

Example:

In your fantasy kingdom:

Nobles say: “I shall accompany you to the citadel.”

Soldiers say: “I’ll head with you to the keep.”

Farmers say: “Reckon I’ll come with, if yer goin’ to the tower.”

Same meaning, entirely different texture. Ask:

• Who has access to formal education?

• Who clings to older versions of the language?

• Who uses borrowed words from other cultures?

2. Portray Multilingual Conversations Without Confusing the Reader

You don’t need to write entire dialogue in your constructed language. Instead:

Option A: Tag and Translate

“Aqele asaar,” she whispered. Peace upon your house.

This works well when you want to signal cultural depth without overwhelming the reader. Use sparingly for ritual phrases, swears, or proverbs.

Option B: Inferred Meaning via Context

He said something in Old Avelan—sharp and soft like a blade drawn from silk. Whatever it meant, it made her flinch.

The vibe matters more than the word-for-word meaning. Use body language, tone, and character reactions to fill in the blanks.

Option C: In-World Translation

Let the characters do the work:

“He just called me a—what, a cabbage?”

“Not quite. ‘Rot-bellied cabbage-eater.’ It’s an insult where he’s from.”

This adds humor, personality, and builds cultural tension or camaraderie.

3. Think About Code-Switching

When do your characters switch languages? It can signal:

Power: A queen who speaks the enemy’s tongue in negotiations to unsettle them.

Intimacy: Two lovers whispering in their mother tongue.

Alienation: A scholar stuck using broken trade-speech with villagers.

Defiance: A rebel refusing to speak the colonizer’s language.

Let language switching mean something.

4. Explore Attitudes Toward Language

What do people in your world believe about languages?

Is one language considered sacred?

Is another viewed as “dirty,” “low,” or “dangerous”?

Are certain dialects banned?

Is writing restricted to elites?

Is there an ancient, dead language used only in prophecy or magic?

Example:

In your desert empire, magic spells are written in a language only the dead can pronounce. Living mages simulate it with song, but it’s imperfect—hence, unstable magic.

Bonus Exercise: The Babel Scene

Write a scene where two characters must communicate without a shared language. Let them gesture, draw, struggle, misunderstand, and slowly begin to trust. You’ll find tension, comedy, and emotional payoff.

Language is never neutral. It’s memory, identity, and control. Use it like a sword—or a love letter.

[dose02]

the way that i miss PBS so genuinely.

Reblog if you’re grateful for your commenters <3

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someday you will write the scene that makes it all worth it. keep going. future you is waiting

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character development is when your protagonist starts saying “i don’t care” and means it. before, they said it with a trembling lip. now they say it with peace. and maybe a machete

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such a good topic of conversation---if those participating are willing to really get into it.

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"If my book is not perfect then-"

Then what? People will actually discuss it? fill your plotholes with fanfiction and headcanons?

People dont care about perfection. perfection is boring. if your story is perfect people will forget about it. its how we are wired. we remember the strange, the weird and all things left open.

Perfection isnt the goal, interesting is

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hehe so...

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man do i wish someone would invent a machine that can take the words from my brain and write it all out for me just by my thinking it...i would get so many more works written.

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Home Sweet Home

(Javier Peña x Reader)

SFW... for now??

It wasn’t shocking to you that there were rumors spreading around Kingsville, the little town in rural Texas that you’d recently moved to. You were just thankful that the ones spreading about you were savory and cautionary—not anything too real. They mostly consisted of stories about why you were here, so young and pretty, yet still unmarried. You have outright claimed to come from Colombia, although you are admittedly not Colombian, which is shocking and something to dig into if they really wanted to. The people of Kingsville found all this to be quite worthy of gossip, though again thankfully they aren’t being malicious about it. It also wasn’t a surprise that you were on the receiving end of a lot of gossip about other residents—ones even more local than yourself. 

The part time job you’d acquired as a nurse at the local hospital turned out to be the center of it all; the constant in and out of the townsfolk with varying medical issues, that required varying drugs or sutures, was a hub for all the talk and topics. Interestingly, the talk of the town was—and seems to have been for a while—one man. There was a new sheriff in town, and he had quite the reputation. Despite being Kingsville born and raised, Javier Peña was certainly a controversial topic around town—not that that dissuaded anyone from bringing him up. Considering his new position, everyone discussed his affiliations with the government, more specifically the DEA, but what they loved to relive the most, it seemed, was his “failure” to marry Lorraine, his failure as a man by leaving her at the altar, shipping himself off to Colombia to hide. 

What was shocking was that the people of Kingsville haven’t put two and two together yet. 

You had met Javier in Colombia, just a few months after he arrived and started with the DEA on finding Pablo Escobar and shutting down the illegal trafficking of cocaine into the United States. Javi curses himself daily for involving you, but he was fresh-off heartbreak and feeling abandoned by his family, simply not thinking straight; he took you out on the two at night—regularly—abandoning any of the other women he’d been with in the privacy of his apartment. Javier felt something he hadn’t in a while—love, cliche as it may be—and he was made dumb, careless, borderline idiotic. It wasn’t long before his minor worries of Narcos morphed into foreboding enemies, much too big for him to handle alone. He just shouldn’t have relied on you so much, or that’s what he tells himself.

You’d had a simple day: waking up to the sun and a warm bed, the luxury of a lazy morning and a day off. Sharing your morning with your neighbor, you spent a decent amount of time with good company tending the garden, then preserving some for later. You ventured out on a midafternoon trail ride, and tried to engage in some training—playtime—with your new young mare. You now found yourself in the only bar in town. The day spent getting to know the older gentleman, who’s ranch is adjacent to her own property, left her a bit drained—that, and the sun which is oddly strong in Texas. Settling your weight on one arm resting on the bar counter, she had her usual dangling casually in the other hand. While you’re still new in town, and a hot topic for gossip, everyone was rather nice—but she wouldn’t expect less from a small southern town in the States; it was certainly friendlier than what you’d experienced living in Colombia. People here were understandably guarded, and occasionally unwelcoming, but never outright threatening—at least, everyone except one other hot topic. 

You were currently not very locked into a decent conversation with a seemingly nice young man, even if he was chewing your ear out a little; you didn’t want to be rude, and already on your second drink, you were alright with listening to him drone on in hopes that good word would spread that she may not be that much of an outsider—more tethered to their home than they thought. Suddenly the atmosphere changed, hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention, with the presence of a new person: said hot topic, the one that has been consuming everyone’s minds lately. Javier had actually been what you were just thinking about while losing patience listening to this boy. Now, seeing him standing there: broad stature, tall posture, but not menacing—at least not to you. His boots were hidden beneath a dark pair of straight legged jeans that looked like bell bottoms with how his thighs filled them out, topped with a wide belt of matching leather and a simple buckle; he had his sheriff's badge strapped at his hip, his hostler hugging his shoulders and back over the maroon button down, gun tucked beneath his arm and into his side. There was also something you hadn’t seen before, obscuring the curly brown mop and enhancing his scowling brows: a dark cowboy hat.

From where Javi is standing, the cooler air of the bar relaxes him a bit. Scanning the room he is instantly met again with the Texas heat, though, one that ran deeper than the weather. There you stood, settled into the bar top, in front of a rather enthusiastic looking boy. While you didn’t look particularly interested in what the kid had to say, given your eyes were now locked on him, something he said suddenly caught your attention. Your eyes grew slightly wider, and returned fleetingly to his own; before he could tense any further the kid had lifted his arm, removing his own hat, and placing it on your head—and not carefully. Before you could breathe out a word, the kid had the audacity to step into your personal space. Javi could see the way your body language changed, how your mind involuntarily took you somewhere else, even if it was just for a split second. Before his brain caught up, his feet were moving, stalking across the room, his vision faded around the edges, and filled with red while a vile, dark, thing burst in his chest. A possession ran up the muscles of his neck and laid itself in his jaw. 

Ignoring the boy completely, Javi only had eyes on you as he crowded into your front, hands immediately finding your hips, eyes searching your own. The kid audaciously gave a small sound of refusal at the proximity and the way he was cut off from you, drawing a gasp that brought her attention back to him over Javi’s shoulder. Disapproving of your lack of eye contact, Javi reached up and grabbed your chin, his larger hand encompassing the skin below your lips and along your jaw. The seemingly constant crease between his brows only deepened as he took in the sight of you, well, not you but you in some child’s hat; while your gaze was no longer distant—somewhere else—you still looked uncomfortable. His other hand reached up to swipe the hat off your head, it was a slightly aggressive movement that messed up her hair and definitely held some intense level of emotion, but you didn’t flinch the same way you did when this stranger did. Unceremoniously, he dropped it to the floor, and then dropped his boot on top, effectively flattening and destroying the hat all together; it wasn’t even worth fixing now—the boy would have to pay for an entirely new one.

The young man gasped again, louder this time, and reached out quickly to place a hand on Javier’s shoulder. In his attempt to spin the man around, he received the hard bone of an elbow to his chest that threw him back into the bar as Javi turned himself square towards the boy. You could tell, even from an angle that was largely behind him, what Javi was doing: his stance grew wider, shoulders broadening as he crossed his arms—one at a time, intentionally—to first, place one hand around his gun, and then, cross his other over top to hide the image—but not erase it from the other man’s mind. Speaking of said young man, he was sputtering slightly with his eyes wide, and face fear stricken as Javi was now shifting his badge to the front of his jeans. 

Javi’s head swam even as his body seemed to settle into the position. Your shocked expression and worried gaze were enough to send his mind wild. Further under the dim lighting in the bar, the once cool air, occasionally blowing in from the doors opening, now only smelled of alcohol, piss, and too many bodies—a familiar and quite threatening sensory reminder. The unexpected touch on his shoulder had just sent him reeling: he’s immediately back in Colombia, and you're too close to a threat—again. His body is reacting without any real thought or recollection of where he actually is: no longer in Colombia—safe; at least enough to be out in public with you. Before anything other than his stare and shadow—also his elbow—can hurt the man, your hand is pressed against the back of his bicep, feather-light so as to not startle him more. 

Javi's attention back on you quickly, sharp, and he’s reminded of why he ruined the other hat in the first place. Snatching his own hat off his head, curls left a mess, he unceremoniously plops it onto her head. Turning, almost triumphantly, back to the young man just to continue scowling at the kid; thankfully, he’s back in his own shoes, present again. Too suddenly his thoughts change as her presence steps closer: even with all of the shady things that Javier has done, there are a lot of lines that he would not cross, but it hits him that those lines are wholly blurred out when it comes to you—it scares him a little bit. More worrisome is he has been close to losing you before, so now, at even the slightest threat of the possibility, he would easily erase every single one of those lines. Before he can stop himself, Javi’s right back in Colombia: the yellowing staircase he climbed, and the curtain he faced before finding you—fetal position on the floor, not even clothed, shivering and crying. He’s trying to shake his head, reminding himself that that was over, but his body won’t listen to his mind's command. You are safe, yes, but he won’t ever be able to shake the damage that image has done to him, or what it could make him do now.  

Noticing the now very distant gaze of Javi’s, you flex your hand against his arm a few times. With no response, you take that as your cue to keep your hands attached to him. You’re very aware, painstakingly, that everyone in the bar had witnessed that scene, and that there would be a new rumor tomorrow: one about the sheriff and the new girl—a true one at least. It wasn’t until you two had escaped into the live heat of the evening that Javi uncrossed his arms releasing his grip on the gun to instead let his hands twitch—fingertips anxiously rubbing across one another at his sides. Knowing when you were needed, your own hands gathered his, swinging one of his arms around her shoulder, holding tightly to both hands the entire time. You led the two of you towards his truck, leaning into him the whole way over.

There weren’t many times where Javi was totally incapacitated by this paralyzing terror, that, somehow, only seemed to worsen as you helped him into the passenger side; he hadn’t experienced a panic attack like this since they’d landed on U.S. soil—weeks ago. When you went to pull away, the warmth of your hands leaving him, even just for that moment, the panic set further into his eyes, and his breath increased. You, opting not to push the boundaries of his comfort right now, chose to climb over him into the driver's seat which wasn’t that much of a challenge considering the lack of center console in the bench—lacking also gave him the opportunity to keep his hands on you, even as you drove. He scooted closer, towards the middle of the seat and foregoing his seatbelt entirely, to hold on firmly to the nape of your neck, just needing to know you was there; his fingers curled around the side to press lightly at your pulse point, again, grounding himself with the fact that you was alive and beside him. 

Concern furrowed your brows as you drove—slightly buzzed but not worried about it enough to make him drive back in his current state. Besides, the town was small and quiet at night, consisting largely of straight roads; plus, you had the sheriff sitting beside you, so you doubted you could even get in any trouble. The breathing that came from next to you turned more labored, and with a glance out of the corner of your eye you saw Javi bring his other large hand towards his chest. His hand clamping tightly into his shirt, your foot pressed onto the accelerator, set on getting them home before this got much worse. Javier just sat there, trapped in his head. He could feel the warmth and pulse of you beneath the fingertips of one hand, his other was grasping desperately at his chest. It felt as if his heart was stopping, all he could think to do was try and claw it out—his veins were rumbling and coursing with the residual adrenaline, needing to protect you.

His mind elsewhere, caught still in the whirling memories of his flashback: the wallpaper was peeled off in parts, and already the place stank of cigarettes and piss. The stairs beneath his feet were too in rough shape, though thankfully, didn’t creak when holding his weight. The atmosphere was tense—his gun, unholstered from his side, was held tightly to his chest; he was led, and followed, by men in more gear than himself, who were holding firmly to guns larger than his own. Ahead, the walls were yellow as he climbed. They paused at the top to confirm their position with the other men with him, and the others—more men also heavily armed—that were stationed on the other side of the building. Before the man in front of him was a curtain, a faded blue that had been dark once. With a swipe of the nose of his gun, the lead in their party pushed past the cloth and surged forward. 

The guns were firing a moment later, and Javier should’ve been worried about being caught in the middle of it, but his body is reacting before he can even process what’s actually in front of him. You are in the fetal position on the floor shivering from what he initially guessed to be your lack of clothing. Laid with nothing but a tiny mattress, that actually looked more like a cushion, facing away from him. He reached you, unable to lose a breath as he knelt over you in an attempt to protect you from what was going on behind him. Suddenly, and much to his horror, you were crying, begging with him, pleading that you’d had enough. Having sat you up onto your knees, he gripped your shoulders, trying to turn you towards him; reassuring words leaking from his mouth to convince you he was there, uttering his own name along with yours repeatedly. Weakly you started to writhe and pound on his chest, throat raw as you shouted you’d never tell him anything, vision blurry from more than just your tears. He reached out, so torn with himself, wishing you were never in this situation to begin with, and knowing that he has to get you out of it. 

With total disregard for himself, he removed his bulletproof vest and threw his shirt off his shoulders. A brief glance behind him showed that the situation had been handled, calming him enough to realize he wouldn’t have to escape with you, or worse, not. The draping material over your shoulders caused your head to lift, eyes more clear now but broken, and he took the opportunity to cup your face between his hands. “It’s me, Cariño. I got you.” He could vaguely hear himself repeating a variety of that phrase to you, and when you hang your arms limply over his shoulders, he takes you in his arms, bridal style, to carry you from that yellow place—now, stained red.

Pulling up to the small two story house, he is too caught up in his own mind to register your absence, or your walk up the porch and through the front door. Only when you lower him, still rigid, onto the well worn couch does his focus shift again, back to you. Trying to take advantage of his supposed paralysis you go to move away from the couch once he’s fully settled. Although, that doesn’t last as his hand shoots out to take hold of your wrist, almost too strong, not that you would ever voice it out loud. 

“Cariño–” his voice seems to catch in his throat. The tone he used, more specifically, is enough to have you turning and falling into him; your arms hold tightly at his shoulders, knees falling to either side of his hips, your guys’ thighs pressed tightly together. At the first slight contact he had engulfed you, pulling you as close as possible, actively working to mold you to him; his face shoved into your neck, hiding himself away, shrouding himself in you. His nose pressed so tightly under your jaw he worried briefly about any bruising he might cause with his grip, but when you returned his strength with all of your own those thoughts quickly vanished. Your head was tucked similarly, but, while his hands were surrounding your ribs on opposite sides, yours were meticulously threaded through his hair. He was practically quacking around and beneath you, to the point where you shook with him.

“I’m safe, Javi. We’re safe.” You muttered, making sure to keep your voice low and soothing. As you spoke he could feel you move, racking your fingers through his hair, alternating that with smoothing your hands down his back, your nails dragging harshly following the path your hands took. Your nose wove upwards, following the loosening tendons of his neck before he felt your lip tag along, burning your words into his skin even if he didn’t fully register them. “I’m here. We’re safe.” You repeated it like a mantra, one you’d remind him of every day if necessary. Determined to force the words to sink in, for him to really hear what you were saying, and hopefully come back to you. 

It appeared to be working, his grip was loosening, though still firm, and hands moving to sooth the sides of you, from your ribs to your thighs and back again. His breathing was no longer so labored, rising more steadily in time with your own, and his eyes fluttered beneath his heavy lids, drooping, but no longer unaware. He’s taking deep breaths, inhaling as much of you as possible, intaking the sensory overload of you as he returns to the present. He’s now the one moving with assurance, nose blazing a trail up your throat, jaw, and lips, to land connected with the side of your own. His hand quickly followed, resting along either side of your jaw—still trying to burn himself with the feeling of your skin; his hooded eyes were now busy, flying around your features, but settling on holding your gaze. All the words that he could not force up and out of his vocal cords caught themselves a ride out on a groan that ripped through him as your lips collided with his own. There was a knowing look shared, one that read easily: you needed each other as close as possible—a reminder: that was all in the past. Right now, you were still wearing his hat.

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Would you guys want a Part II? Keep the story going?

Let me know what you think, or if I missed any typos/grammar! <3

I hope you enjoyed :)

[dose02]

I’ve come to the harrowing realisation that the only way to write my book is to write my book

I may never recover