#ava's recs

[tacobacoyeet]

yeah something is most certainly giving an anticipatory clench

Thinking about being Dilf!Art's free use girlfriend🤤🤤

no bc this is sooo. yeah to me like him just coming home after getting his ass chewed out at practice n you're just so willing to let him do whatever agrhedffjkdsjf

warnings: 18+ smut (p in v), dom!art, f!receiving oral/fingering, free use mentions/mild degradation but not much dialogue

When Art is tense, there's only one thing that really calms him down: sex.

Any form of it, really—whether it's just heavy petting that ends with his boxers warm and damp, a blowjob, or him having you bent right over the kitchen counter in the middle of cooking dinner. At first, he used to whine and groan about it until you relented, but over time you've realised it's just not worth it. It's why you don't even bother wearing panties at home any more; he'll always find an excuse to get them off.

"Hi, baby," you coo as the door clicks shut behind him. You catch a glimpse of his tense shoulders through the open door, his bag dumped alongside a racket that looks like it's seen better days. Frayed strings, the head of the racket crumpled in on itself. You can practically hear the way it must have rang out against the court.

Rough day. Your thighs give an anticipatory clench.

He mutters a cursory greeting under his breath, shoes kicked off before he pads across the living room to join you. Not on the sofa, though—on his knees, palms resting on your own to part them.

In one breath he's kissing up one thigh, then the other, a little rougher each time. It feels like he's getting some frustration out, as if he can work the tension right out of his arms while he holds you open. To fill the hole where his sour mood used to be with just the taste of your sweet cunt.

Impatient fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your thighs until they fall to the floor. He has the grace to help your ankles out of them, at least.

Art’s breath fans out over you in soft, warm bursts before he's even made contact. "So fuckin' pretty, babe. Waiting around like this just for me." You'd laugh about the first words he's said to you since 6am this morning being about how beautiful your pussy is if your breathing hadn't quickened in excitement.

His tongue presses flat against you, lapping up whatever mess it finds. You’ve been wet since you saw that battered racket upon his entry. He makes a low groan of satisfaction when you sigh softly at the feeling of his warm tongue. By the time the tip of his tongue flicks over your clit, you know his mood is already shifting. He always starts so desperate, licking messy and deep like he's trying to prove a point (if there's one thing that can absolve the feeling of self-loathing after a bad practice, it's making you feel good), but his hands slowly ease on your thighs as he settles into it. His mouth gets a little softer, a little more determined.

The tip flicks over your clit, coaxing it to swell. Just like that, he's relaxing into it.

You reach down and start to scratch at his scalp, fingernails dragging across it. It's just long enough to grip in your fist, and you pull on it to earn an approving hum. His shoulders relax, tension seeping out of him—you can feel it in the way he grips your legs, the way he runs his tongue around your clit with relish.

"Taste so good," he tells you, words breathed into your heat. "You always taste so good."

When he pauses to take a breath, his fingers push between his own lips to coat with a layer of saliva. He runs the two of them over your swollen bud, just enough to make you inhale sharply. If you weren't already worked up, that would have done the trick. His eyes flick up to catch your own, pools of blue studying the way your jaw slackens and your brows peak when his fingers slide into you.

You clench instinctively, and he tuts in warning, fingers crooking cruelly in a way that has you whimpering out apologies. Your eyes are too heavy to catch the way the corner of his mouth quirks up at that reaction. Bingo, you're in for it now.

The first few slow slides of his digits in and out of your tight cunt seem to be perfunctory. After that, he's really going at it. Fingers scissoring and thrusting, curling up against that spot that has your eyes rolling back and moans of his name spilling past your pretty lips. One hand still nestled in his cropped blonde hair while the other grips at the cushion next to you for dear life as he drinks in the way you fall apart around his fingers.

He's clearly enjoying himself at this point, chipping in with the occasional low "right there?" or "someone's desperate today." He can play your body like a fiddle at this point—a curve of his fingers here, a brush of his thumb there. He's even memorised the pitch of your whines to know when you're achingly close, walls fluttering around him as your peak nears.

He pulls away from you, fingers sliding free with a whine of complaint from you, and your hands reach to tangle in his hair to pull him back before he's even had the chance to stand. His knees are burning, but he ignores the pinch of the rug underneath as he pushes himself up.

His hands catch in your hair to yank your head back, forcing you to look right up at him where he's looming over you.

"Need me that bad?"

Your words feel stuck in your throat and he tsks softly at the way your mouth only falls open soundlessly, the grip in your hair preventing you from moving.

"Tongue-tied, huh? All that talk last night just to get you like this." He grins down at you, a flash of white teeth caught between his lips, still shining with your essence. "You know we could just go through the list until you find your voice back."

His hand releases your hair to reach between you. When you can think clearly again, you can't tell if you're grateful, or if you miss the painful prickle of your roots. But you're definitely thankful when his fingers are back between your legs—a reward, of sorts. You let out a low sigh when he brushes against your clit and he groans in acknowledgement, like he's just reminded himself of how wet you are.

"Oh, I think I know where the list should begin."

The pads of his fingers run in a slow circle over your clit, as if the only thing he's interested in the world is how much he can make you squirm. It seems like now, with some of that initial tension drained, he has no qualms with making you suffer. Your fingers dig into the couch instead of reaching for him again, nails digging into the fabric. You can only watch up through your lashes; it’s a lovely sight, his head tilted downwards to look at your body, eyes dark and a look of concentration on his face.

He looks down at you the same way he looks at his opponents' during matches; analysing the way your knees twitch towards each other. Like you're just another opponent to get the upper hand against.

Another hum, like he’s thinking, and then—

Hands on your hips, he turns you around until you’re facing away from him and shoved up onto the couch. You brace yourself on your knees, but he doesn't wait for you to find your footing before one hand is pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you down with a hand between your shoulder blades—back arched beautifully, cheek pressed into the fabric, cunt dripping with anticipation

Art’s other hand pushes at the waistband of his shorts, boxers dipping down with him to pool at his ankles to free his aching cock. The couch dips under the weight of you both when his knees hit the cushion.

"Fuck. Just like that. I need—" He inhales sharply, hard length pressed against the back of one of your thighs. "I need to be inside you.”

He takes himself in hand and leans over you, free hand on the back of the chair.

"You need this too, right?" He murmurs, low and rough in your ear. His eyes are a little glassy, still hazy with a day's worth of frustration. "Been thinking about you all day."

You moan your affirmation into the cushion.

“Be a good girl and use your words for me.”

“Y-yeah. Need it. Need you.”

Good enough for him. When you finally feel him sink into you—slick, hard, thick—your legs almost buckle beneath you. All you can do is curse out a series of profanities that would make a sailor blush when you feel that familiar stretch as he bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against your ass.

“Say it one more time for me,” he instructs, hand sliding down your clothed spine until it finds your hip again.

You’re barely coherent enough to register that, but you manage a, “I need you, Art.” Breathy and weak, no more than a mewl.

He withdraws then, tip still pressed into you, before sinking in again. A punishing rhythm right from the get go, enough to have your couch rocking dangerously beneath you every time he snaps into you. Skin on skin, your moans reaching new octaves to harmonise with his grunts of effort as his cock drives into you.

Relentless, precise, deliberate.

And you’re content enough to just let him use you like this. An outlet for all that stress.

“You get off on this, huh?” He rasps in your ear. “Just sitting around waiting until I’ve had a bad day?”

You moan something that vaguely resembles a slurred “yes” into the cushion, senses clouding entirely by the brutal onslaught of pleasure when the hand on your hip slides down to rub at your clit.

“There’s my girl. Always so eager to be of use.”

The praise is condescending but it makes you clench around him nonetheless. You love when he gets like this—just a little bit mean, using the way your bodies collide together to relieve his tension.

Everything he moans into your ear blurs together after a while.

“So fucking tight. How’s a man supposed to be angry when he comes home to this?”

“Fuck, you were made for this. Perfect little slut for me.”

“Just you lay there and take it. That’s right. Atta girl.”

You think you reply, but all he can make out is senseless babble into the pillow your face is half-pressed into. He still has a hand between your shoulder blades to hold you in place while his fingers, coated in your slick, continue to circle mercilessly at your aching clit.

He can tell by the way your walls flutter around him that you're close, knuckles curled into a death-white grip on the back of the sofa. He doesn't have it in him to make you beg—not when his own orgasm is so close. His place slows down a little. Slow, deep, tip nudging that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. The deliberate drag is enough to push you over the edge with a cry of his name.

Art groans in satisfaction. "Fuck. That's what I wanted. That's it."

He fucks you through the intense wave of pleasure, fingers finally stilling to grip your hips again. Another few sloppy thrusts and it's impossibly not to cum with how your cunt is gripping him just right.

His moan is guttural right by your ear. Inhumane, even, as he rocks into you to prolong his pleasure, spilling into you until your thighs are sticky. The pair of you stay there for a while. You still arched forward, panting into the pillow. Art massaging your hips, murmuring words you can't quite make out into the back of your shoulder. It's almost comedic the way his own shoulders have relaxed since he first sunk into you.

"Can you move? My knees are killing me," you manage eventually, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of him pressing a kiss to your shoulder over your shirt.

"Yeah, sorry."

It's the same way he says 'sorry' to the chair umpire when he smashes his racket against the ground—a quick apology, a flash of an almost-there smile. You know there's no remorse behind it at all. Not when he gets to see you so thoroughly wrecked and he's too blissed out to remember why he'd came home in such a mood in the first place.

He pulls out of you (and takes a moment to admire the way you look with your back arched and your cunt dripping with his release), and then helps ease you up.

"Wanna talk about it?" You ask, voice still wrecked as his arms circle around you and a kiss is planted to the top of your head.

"No need. I feel better."

You can feel him smiling against you as he gives your middle a light squeeze. All you can do is roll your eyes fondly and usher him off to fetch something for the mess between your thighs.

—

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[tacobacoyeet]

ava. she/her. gemini. gryffindor. brown. inconsistent poster. mediocre author. psychoanalyst. love child of donna paulsen and jessica pearson. patrick zweig artist. both halves of kathani bridgerton. caffeine snob. professional doormat. thinker. d/m-ilf scholar.

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current events: ava's 600 follower celebration

#ava yaps | #a writes | #ava's asks | #ava's recs | #ava's moodboards | #ava's bots | #ava edits | #ava's 400 follower celebration | #ava's 500 celebration! | #ava's challengaversary |

i always want to hear from you! asks are always open for requests, thoughts, confessions, chats, etc.

challengers. la la land. palm springs. the social network. knives out. harry potter. suits. brooklyn nine-nine. bridgerton. superstore. psych. saturday night live. scandal. white collar. abbott elementary. tyler james williams. chris evans. andy samberg. john mulaney. colin jost. seth meyers. bryan greenberg. the lonely island. fall out boy. beyonce. justin timberlake. kendrick lamar. michael jackson. paramore. idkhow. coldplay. brahms. leonard bernstein.

if you don't see a fandom you like and you want to know if i write for it, please send an ask!!

[is9vhl]

more thunderbolts because i literally cant stop drawing them please send help

[incorrect-thunderbolts]

[standing by a broken coffee machine]

Alexei: So. Who broke it? I'm not mad. I just want to know.

Yelena: I did. I broke it.

Alexei: No. No, you didn't. Ava?

Ava: Don't look at me. Look at Bob.

Bob: What?! I didn't break it!

Ava: Huh. That's weird. How did you even know it was broken?

Bob: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken!

Ava: Suspicious.

Bob: No, it's not!

Bucky: If it matters, probably not... Walker was the last one to use it.

Walker: Liar! I don't even drink that crap!

Bucky: Oh really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Walker: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Bucky!

Yelena: Alright, let's not fight. I broke it, let me pay for it, Alexei.

Alexei: No. Who broke it?

[later]

Alexei: I broke it. It burned my hand so I punched it.

Alexei: I predict ten minutes from now they'll be at each others throats with war paint on their faces and a pig head on a stick.

Alexei: Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.

[tacobacoyeet]

oh diya. time for me to print this out and frame it.

no pomegranate trees

patrick zweig x reader, 4.9k words, features mentions of blood

I was treasuring my past, I was treasuring your future [taken from in our garden there was no pomegranate trees by Şükrü Erbaş]

Patrick’s made the street vendor blush now. A soft rosy color against the depth of her cheekbones, only emphasized by the way her gaze sheepishly flits down to the table in front of her. Her eyes run over the piles of citrus and pomegranate. A futile attempt to regain some composure that only serves to make her look more flustered. 

The slight upturn of his lips becomes more defined as you both take her in. It’s the same smirk he would use to convince a caterer to give him a bottle of champagne when you were teens and too bored at whatever gala you were dragged to. Or at one of those dinner parties to deflect questions when everyone felt entitled to know your dreams and mock you for it. He’d use it when visiting you in a new city to snag a few extra drinks at a club or get out from paying the full taxi fare. So routine, it feels intrinsic to his spirit. The sharp, lopsided smile blooms an odd sense of comfort in your chest, its familiarity mildly drowning out the worry about this random trip to visit you. 

He took a red eye after some challenger in the midwest, and landed in Istanbul at eight in the morning. When he called thirty minutes later to tell you he was here to visit, “What? Can’t I surprise you?” was the only thing he said when you asked if everything was okay. Right before he hung up, he let out a laugh. A small chuckle that felt pushed out of his throat, and you regretted not asking about the tournament before the call ended. 

He leans over the table, closer to the street vendor who’s flush deepens at the action. “Please?” he asks, still grinning like the Cheshire cat. He fiddles with the money in his hand, thumb running over the wrinkles of the dollar and folding the edges aimlessly. She lets out what you think is a quiet giggle, but the bazaar is too loud to actually hear. Tired of watching the exchange, you look around to the other stalls by where you stand. Tables of produce and barrels of spices mostly, with booths lined with Persian rugs and copper pots in the distance. If you squint, you can see the fragmented light of mosaic lamps as afternoon descended into night. 

Even with the sunset around the corner, there’s a lingering sense of spirit to the market. A potent vibrancy of sounds, smells, and people, that navigating made you feel close to the heart of the city. Or as close as you could, only living here for a month. It wasn’t like any of the other places you lived. Not that you could really group any together, each with their own withstanding singularity. 

Often you’d wonder if Patrick felt the same way about the places he went to on tour. If every country club had its own energy or if any city struck out more to him. Although, you’d never ask. He’d answer it of course, but you couldn’t help thinking it’d be an insult to you both, and frankly it was just another question on the long list of things you wanted to ask him.  

You turn to look down at the piles of pomegranate in front of you, aimlessly reaching to cup one of them. The fruit is a little larger than your palm, firm to touch and vaguely leather-like. You squeeze to see if you can make some sort of mark on the hard exterior, but when you move your hand to the next pomegranate you see no indication you ever touched the first. Your fingers draw small shapes against the rough skin of the second, slowly stopping when you see Patrick’s hand come up to touch the same one. His thumb brushes against yours, the rough skin of a callous sending a pleasant shiver up your spine before he moves to pick up the pomegranate, along with the first one you touched. 

“We’ll take these,” he tells the shop vendor, reaching over to give her the money in his hands. 

“Seriously?” 

It takes Patrick a moment to even register the question, too occupied in trying to capture every detail on the walk back to your apartment. Sometimes he imagines a common thread between all the places you’ve lived. An intangible likeness that calls to you, even if the only true connection is the fact that you’ve lived there. 

When the playfully sarcastic tone of your voice pulls him away from the stray cats and street signs, he laughs. Deep and genuine, the sound seems to echo down the street. It’s a stupid question, but he can hear the slight undercurrent of unease in your voice. 

 “I haven't converted any cash since I got here,” he starts, with a small chuckle, thumb pressing into the skin of the pomegranate in his hand. He has one in each palm. The globe-like fruit fits perfectly in his grasp. “It makes no difference, she can just go take it in for whatever they use here.”

“Lira,” you sigh with a delicate smile. The edges of your eyes move in turn with your lips. Titled up to the sky with a ripple of gentle wrinkles bound simultaneously in content and worry that fill him with warmth regardless. The sight prompts a grin on his own, and he looks away in front of him, hand flexing against the firm curve of the pomegranate as you get closer to your apartment. Of course you’d know that. Now living in Istanbul for how long? Three weeks? A month? It’s not like you stayed long in one place anyway.

You moved to London after he first went on tour, in pursuit of some vision for yourself. It wasn’t a surprise, you and Patrick spent years discussing it. Him playing tennis and you traveling the world in search of something deeper. While he didn’t understand exactly what you’re searching for, he assumed your heart would eventually guide you to it. He just hadn’t expected it to take you to so many places. 

“Well she can go convert it for lira then,” he adds jokingly, voice slightly clipped. He wants to make some joke about how you’re settling into the country, but in between the jet lag and the thoughts in his mind nothing comes. He should have told you he was coming to visit. Called at least before the flight took off, but it’s all a blur to him. He was driving by an airport after his game, and the next thing he really remembers is the flight attendant telling him they landed in Turkey. 

His hand squeezes the pomegranates, the friction stinging against his skin. 

“I had lira, you know. I could have given it to you,” you suddenly say, stopping in front of the door to the apartment building. He turns to see you looking up at him with gentle concern. Eyes wide and lips parted like you have more to say. He has to physically restrain from pressing his thumb against the space between your eyebrows and pushing away the knit of worry that’s formed. He can’t decide if you look like an adult waiting for an explanation or a child waiting for an apology. 

He shakes his head, but can sense you’re about to protest anyway. Shifting both pomegranates to the same hand, he steps to open the door. “Now where else would I practice flirting in Turkey?” 

He’s been holding the pomegranates the entire way back. A tight grip which you’re convinced must sting. He has more calluses now, you think. Physical burdens of the tennis racket which hurt just to look at. 

You press the elevator button, and sneak another look at him. Tennis has always more or less left Patrick tan, but it’s more prominent now. Each day in the sun marked with a new freckle or wrinkle. Delicate little things which emphasize his age, no matter how much the boyish smirks or humor clings to his youth. 

Your gaze drifts down, following along the vein in his arm back to his hand, still clutching the pomegranate. Your hand gravitates to his, reaching for the fruit, but he moves just as your finger grazes it. The elevator doors open with a ding and he steps in, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. 

“Whatcha doing?” he asks, the smirk teasing a reappearance. 

“I can hold one,” you insist, stepping in beside him. You try to take it once more, and again his hands move before you can. He holds it up, too high for you to grasp as the elevator doors close with a metallic thud. 

“I mean sure…if you can reach it,” he grins, immaturity pushing its way to the front.

When you roll your eyes and lean against the elevator wall, his look softens to something gentler. His hand comes down to his chest and he cradles both pomegranates as the elevator moves up. The weight of his gaze remains on you, pushing your own to the ground. Now you stare at his mud stained shoes, an exhausted greyish brown against what was once white. It’d probably take at least five washes to get the stains out, stomach churning at the thought. With a stronger resolve, you look up again. “Give me one” 

“It’s fine” 

“Just give me one, Patrick” 

“No,” he chuckles, shaking his head. You don’t have another chance to try grabbing it as the elevator opens to your floor, his free hand extending to guide you out. With a sigh, you step into the hallway, hand digging in your back pocket for the key as you walk towards your door. Patrick follows, pomegranates still pressed to his chest as you come to a stop. He hovers closer, as you move to push the key into the lock. 

He’s never had any concept of personal space. You can feel him next to you without a glance, heat radiating off his body in waves. The smell of cologne and sweat fill your senses. Distracting enough that you hold your breath to unlock the door. Finally pushing it open and stepping in with a deep exhale.

You turn on the lights and look at Patrick. With his free hand he closes the door, locking it before turning back to you. The slight reddish stubble against his chin catches the light with a sharper shine than the browned undertones of his unruly curls under the light. His hair isn’t long, shorter than when you were teens, but the dark curls still move without any order. 

Closing the door and kicking off your shoes, you ask, “I’ll put the pomegranate in the kitchen?” 

He steps away, not even letting you reach for it this time. “I'll cut them soon.” Still holding them tight as he moves to kick off his own shoes. For a moment you imagine just grabbing it and running away, not giving him the option to say no. A silly thought. He’d be fast enough to stop you anyway. 

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, turning away before you unwillingly give into impulsivity. “I’m making tea”

He followed you into the kitchen, unsure what else to do with himself. The apartment is furnished and decorated. Warm in its own way, but he’d much rather stay closer to you than just wander back and forth taking in the pictures on the walls. The pomegranates remain close to his chest as he leans against the fridge, watching you standing over the stove and pouring water in the dual teapot. He imagines you every evening coming back to this apartment alone and making tea for yourself. 

He likes to imagine what you do in each city. How your life is spent in a new place each time. Years ago he’d picture you moving somewhere new and exploring, making friends, and finding time to write and draw and do all the other things which made you happy. Now he isn’t really sure what you do besides what he sees in front of him. 

What would you tell him if he asked? Would you be honest? Lie about some grand adventure? Probably just deflect the question as a whole, but he wants to anyway. It's a desire rooted in concern that reeks of greed. 

“Jet lag?” you ask softly, shaking him out of his thoughts. “It looks..” you purse your lips, “like you may pass out.” 

Something about your voice makes it seem like he’s going to fall apart in front of you. As if there were stitches between each limb that would come undone, reducing him to a pile of bones that you’d have to put back together. He can’t help but snort out a laugh. 

“I’m serious,” you add, and when he looks at you he sees the knot of worry between your brows again. The worried wave of wrinkles scrunching tighter than before. 

For a moment he debates explaining the image in his mind, about him falling apart and you slowly rebuilding him, bone after bone, but it’d probably just make you more upset. No words come together in apology, so he sighs. With the deep exhale, he murmurs, “Just tired… I’ll sit down.” He pushes his back off the refrigerator, taking one last look at you and your worry, as he forces himself to the living room taking the pomegranates with him. 

The sharp smell of tea circles around the apartment as you pour it from the pot. You can feel Patrick watching you from where he sits in the living room, looking a little too out of place in your apartment. Both too big for the small ottoman he’s sitting on and for the space at all.  His hand is playing with the flimsy crown of the pomegranates on the coffee table in front of him, and you look away to stare at your faint reflection in the black tea. Slowly, you move your hands to the tray the thin-waisted cups rest on, carrying it with you to the living room. You sit on the ottoman across from Patrick, and place the tray down by the pomegranates. 

A weird sort of silence has formed between the two of you. The sounds of the street come in from the window, a honk every now and then, but neither of you have made a noise. It seems as if time has stopped within the walls of your apartment, giving birth to some half-silence that is too much to bear. Trying to fill the void, you pointlessly murmur, “Turkish tea.”  

Thankfully,it’s enough to break the quiet. “Didn’t know,” he quips sarcastically, bringing back some sense of normalcy to the moment. You both reach to take a cup, but you just hold yours as you watch him bring the glass to the plush of his lips. He takes a sip and his nose slightly wrinkles as he puts it back down on the coffee table. “Strong…,” he says, kissing his teeth. 

Weakly you chuckle, looking down at the deep brown of the tea which is too dark to be anything but over brewed. “I’m still getting used to making it.” 

Now he laughs, an odd forced sound that reminds you of the call when he arrived. The same one from right before he hung up. “So not fully settled then” he says, tone weighed down by something heavy. Some mix of frustration and worry you can’t pull apart.

You look back at him, but even he feels the weight of his words. He looks to the side, before you can even look him in the eye. You bring the glass in your hands up to your lips, trying to push it down with the tea, but it makes the feeling sting down your throat. 

When he finally looks back at you, he lets out a shaky exhale. His exhaustion is so glaringly obvious, you think the only way it could be more apparent is if he wrote “I’m tired” with a marker on his forehead. There is not a part of his body or any action not tinged with a weariness you knew was because of tennis. 

His lips part to say something, but without much thought you interrupt to ask, “How’s tennis?” 

“What?” he asks back, eyebrows furrowing as he sits up straighter. 

With more determination, you repeat, “How is tennis?”

He lets out that awful laugh again. “You’re asking me how’s tennis?” mockingly shooting the question back at you, voice tinged with an incipient anger. 

“It’s just a question,” you sigh, shaking your head. Placing the tea down in front of you, you momentarily look at the pomegranate on the table before turning back to him.  

Patrick huffs, looking at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes pierce into yours before they go downcast. “I know,” he concedes in a murmur, still not making eye contact. 

He says nothing more as you still wait for some answer to your question. It’s almost as if the half silence has returned, but this time you can hear the faint sound of his breathing. You open your mouth to ask once more, but he speaks before you can. 

“What do you do here?” he asks, eyes suddenly looking right at you again. 

It takes a moment to even process the question, and in the confusion, you only repeat, “What do I do here?” 

“Do you have friends? Or are you writing something? Painting? Music? What?” he spits out quickly, volume increasing with each word. 

“Patrick–”

“I mean what do you tell people when you move to a new place? You have to say something when they ask!” 

“What?” 

“What do you do!” 

His voice is sharp, with a contorted sense of urgency that causes your heart to speed up. He’s out of breath, just looking at you with furrowed brows. A knot in your chest, as you watch his own heave up and down. 

Then, unexpectedly he asks, “Are you happy?” 

“Happy?” you repeat, more to yourself than him. 

“Like here, are you happy?” He leans across the coffee table closer to where you sit. You hear your heartbeat in your ear and the knot in your chest hardens to exasperation. 

“You’re asking me if I am happy?” you snap, your own frustration seeping into your voice. “You randomly show up and now you sit here asking me if I’m happy?”

He doesn’t wait a moment, moving in even closer. “Well are you!” 

“Yes!” you scoff. 

“You’re happy?” he repeats with the awful laugh, the question now rhetorical and cruel. “You’re happy moving from place to place. Just wasting away the trust fund throughout Europe?” making a sharp hand motion alongside his words. 

“Jesus,” you mumble, looking away. 

“What?” he questions, sounding offended at your dismissal. “You used to make things, be…be passionate…” he pants, clearly out of breath. “And now…you just keep moving from one place to another and for what?” 

“You don’t get to judge me!” you shout back, head snapping in his direction. “You’re the one wasting away because you can’t even hit a ball right”

He says nothing, staring at you. Breath ragged as he takes in your words, face twisting from anger to hurt. The reality of what you said sinks in, clarity coming too late. Your lips part in apology, but he just forces out that laughs again. 

“Okay,” he says, pushing away from the table with a force that knocks the pomegranates to the floor. You watch the fruit roll away as he walks out of the apartment. 

He dangles the cigarette between his lips as he searches himself for a lighter. To no use, of course. It takes him a moment to remember he couldn’t bring one on the flight, and that he’d probably have to go back up to the apartment to borrow one from you. He huffs, just keeping the cigarette between his lips. 

The night wind hits him gently. He wants to take a walk, but his legs feel rooted to the ground. Leaning against the building wall, he looks up, trying to see if he could see your apartment from here.

Patrick remembers you called to tell him about the move. You were still in Berlin then,  and he was at some tournament in the Midwest. An irrelevant challenger he only made a hundred from. He tries to remember exactly how you told him, but your words are hazy. Now some deformed product of his own mind, born in some desperate need for clarity. 

Instead, what he does remember is the musky smell of motel sheets he laid on, spent from the game, and confused by the news.

 “Istanbul? Like Turkey.”

“No, like Italy,” you laughed, before pausing with a slow exhale. Then softer, you said,  “Of course Turkey.” 

He remembers laughing at the joke, before his chest constricted at your tired breath. “I thought you were enjoying Berlin” 

You didn’t respond at first, but he remembers your soft breaths into the phone. Measured and deep, to a rhythm he memorized when you both were sixteen. “It was just… time for a change.”

“A change?” 

“Yes,” you whispered. “A change”

He accidentally bites down on the tip of the cigarette between his lips. The bitter pungent taste overtakes his mouth, but he still doesn’t move the cigarette. 

You don’t move for the next couple of minutes, just staring at the pomegranates as they come to a stop. They rolled alongside each other, before getting too close, and pushing off the other in opposite directions. One to the left and one to the right, now both standing still on each side of the room. Slowly, you push yourself to stand and move towards them.  

You bend down, reaching to pick up the first pomegranate, now slightly dented from the fall to the floor. Your hand runs over the soft dimple, taking in the purplish tint of the area. A growing bruise that would only darken with time. Your legs guide you to the other pomegranate across the room and as you hand wraps around it, you feel another dent. Just as deep and big, it feels identical to the first. You run a finger against the concave curve trying to find some difference, but both dip in the same formation. Holding one in each hand, you straighten each arm to properly look at the subtle marks. Barely visible against the deep red of the skin, but there nonetheless. 

You walk to the kitchen, placing the fruit on the counter. Stacked in a way so the bruises rest against each other. You hold them like that, before slowly stepping back and just looking at the two fruits. The dents press into the other with ease, each fruit supporting the other, and it dawns on you it’s probably from when they hit each other rolling, not from the fall itself.

You leave them like that before going to your room.

He’s not sure how long he was outside, but by the time he forces himself back into the building, he is relieved you didn’t lock your apartment door. Quietly, he rotates the knob and pushes it open, to be greeted with nearly the same sight he left. The lights are on, and the two cups of tea rest on the coffee table, but you’re nowhere in the room. Neither are the pomegranates. He walks around trying to find wherever you moved them, before finally stopping in the kitchen. Both on the counter top, one leaning against the other. With a deep exhale, he moves in front of them. He picks up one in each hand, both feeling heavier than before. 

Knives, he thinks. He needs a knife. 

He puts the pomegranates down and looks around again, trying to find something to cut the fruit with. When he finds the thin knife block, he pulls out the first one he can reach. He turns back to the fruit, gripping the blade in his left hand and moving his right one to hold the pomegranate steady. He takes a deep breath as he tightens his grasp on the fruit. 

There are gentle thuds from outside your room. You didn’t hear the front door open or close, but you know it’s Patrick from the sound alone. It’s the thud of his steps, steady and gentle, becoming softer as he walks farther away from you. 

You close your eyes as you lean against the bedroom door, not ready to go back out, as you try to follow the sound. In the distance you can still hear him walking. Shorter steps, but still steady and gentle.

The pomegranate has a soft waxy sensation, slightly slippery. His hand squeezes again around the rough surface, pressing the fruit to the counter. He moves the knife to the dense exterior, trying to push its way down the middle, but it remains stuck in the width of the peel. He tries pushing it again to no use. With a huff he pulls it out all together, trying to steady himself before thrusting it into the pomegranate again, getting deeper but still barely into the flesh.

The sound of the steps are replaced a more aggressive thud in the distance that keeps repeating. For a moment it sounds like he’s punching the wall or something like that, not enough to make a hole but enough to create a vibration that lingers. You step away from the door, and still hear the harsh thumps. Your heart picks up beat to the disjointed rhythm of the noise, as you finally open the door. 

What are you doing?” he hears, looking up to see you now walking towards the kitchen. 

Aligning the knife with the valley of the first cut, he harshly retorts, “What does it look like I’m doing?” He lifts it up and hacks into the fruit with a force unstable enough that it shifts in his hand.

You step closer to him, opening your mouth to say something to no words. Each movement of his arm is ragged and sharp, no fluidity as he pushes the blade into the fruit. His grip on the fruit jolts which each cut, getting closer to the blade each time.

The subtle grooves of the fruit press into his callouses. You're standing close, he can tell, but his eyes remain on the pomegranate. It's almost fully split. He holds it tighter, as he brings the knife down again. 

He’s not lucky this time. 

You hear him before you see the blood. The guttural groan of pain, accompanied by the clang of the knife falling to the floor. 

The fruit, now cut down the middle, leaks red all over the countertop, merging with the stream of blood from his hand. The same deep shade, indistinguishable from the other.

His eyes close in pain, hearing your frantic steps in every direction. The sound drowns out as he draws in a breath and is met with the smell of tart and metal. A bitter sweetness that overcomes him, only to be pushed away with the sharp ache of the wound. It shoots up his arm to his head, which now throbs to the rhythm of his former cuts to the pomegranate. He leans against the counter with short, panting breaths.  

Suddenly, he feels you take the injured hand. The touch sends a wave of relief up his arm now, followed by a guilt that constricts his chest. You press a soft cloth to the wound. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Stay still,” repeating the words in a hushed succession. You hold it tight to his skin, burning in an oddly comfortable way. 

Slowly he opens his eyes and looks at you hunched over the cut. He can feel the depths of your breath brush against his hand with each exhale. He turns to the counter, pomegranate finally cut open, laying in a pool of red. The other one has someone rolled closer to it, both resting in the combination of juice and blood.

“You’re fine," you repeat once more. His eyes turn back to you, still hunched by his hand. The white cloth you hold is stained red, and the guilt grows tenfold. 

He rasps, “I’m sorry.” 

You say nothing, too focused on the cut, so he repeats louder, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, not looking up at him. 

He lets out a tired exhale, as he says your name. Quiet and firm, wanting you to meet his eyes. When you do, he repeats, “I’m sorry.” 

Eyes wide, you stare at him for a moment. He watches the familiar knot of worry between your brows slowly come undone, as he feels your grip on the cloth relax. You nod softly with your own exhausted exhale, “I know.”

“I am too,” you add in a quiet whisper. “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah” 

author’s note: hi!! it's been some time since i've written a longer piece, and this idea has been lingering in my head in November. a combination of an old poem i wrote and a specific scene which came to me during a fever dream when i had the flu, so silver lining of that experience i guess. been feeling very unsure about my writing, but i needed to get the idea on paper. special shoutout for @cha11engers to beta reading certain scenes and motivating me to not let this rot in my drafts!!! thank you all for reading and please please please tell me all your thoughts <3 i love you guys!!!

[beeandthescreen]

Somebody please write a fic where the Thunderbolts have to visit like, an elementary school for good PR.

[princington]

Another gifted commission for AlmsForOblivion's Bridgerton AU - Chapter 7 of the bane of my existence

[germesthegenie]

Did some doodles of the Chicago Wards spending their time out of costume! Because they are still my favs despite not only Wildbow but the fanfic writers forsaking me on more content of them! So guess I’m filling the void myself!

Jokes aside, wanted to do some practice on character designs and a bit of background/foreground and decided to take the opportunity to do some more drawings of these guys. Designs and stuff are I think like 75% canon compliant and 25% headcanon / personal intepretation of the characters

[tacobacoyeet]

god

sneaking away with james becomes a habit. 🍻❤️‍🔥

PART ONE

🎧 supermassive black hole- muse

warnings: smut. 18+, MDNI. unprotected sex, like VERY unprotected, mirror sex, rough sex, slight emetophobia warning, tipsy sex, james being a sex god (canon), james loving doggystyle bc he’s a man

You always sat next to James in the Three Broomsticks. Remus and Sirius usually sat across from you. Peter usually sat on a stool at the side of the table, but today he had swanned off to visit Zonko’s with Gilderoy Lockhart, a new friend of his. When they first started doing things together, James sulked for three days. Didn’t talk to anyone, not even you- he blanked out everyone who told him to get a grip.

That was by the by today, though, since James was in a good mood. You chalked that up to the fact that he had fucked you like it was your last day on earth approximately ten minutes before you left the castle.

You looked up at James through the corner of your eye while Sirius was off getting a round of drinks in. Sure enough, he was gazing right back at you. It made you laugh.

“What are you looking at?” you asked, catching him staring.

“Nothing.” he insisted, even though the look in his eye was suggesting the complete opposite.

“Don’t start being disgusting in front of me.” Remus protested, folding his arms. “I want no part of your weird foreplay, I’m telling you now.”

You dropped your head back and groaned, stomping your leg down onto the floor as you leaned back on the creaky wooden bench seat. You folded your arms in a huff, pulling on your best Moody Moony face.

“My name’s Remus Lupin, and I hate fun, because I’m all brooding and I smoke cigarettes while I pretend I’m not mentally shagging-”

“That’s enough.” 

“Oh, it’s true though, you moody bastard.” you said quickly, slapping your hands on the table.

James was chuckling boyishly at your ridiculous impression, just happy that the conversation was deflected from his staring. James had a habit of getting carried away when he looked at you. His mind wandered frequently.

“Look who I found.” came Sirius’ voice, who was returning to the table with two drinks. He had Peter in tow, who was precariously balancing the other three in his hands. Impressively enough, he managed to set them all down on the table without spilling them.

“Finished with your boyfriend, Pete?” James asked, bringing one leg up to cross over the other, before resting his hand on his ankle. James was over the worst of his dramatics now, but he’d be a sad excuse for a marauder if he resisted the temptation to take the piss.

You kicked James sideways under the table and scooted up along the bench so that Peter could sit down next to you. You hooked one of your legs over James’ lap, letting it rest in between his own legs so that there was enough room for you all.

“You get anything good in Zonko’s, Worm?”

That prompted Peter to divulge into a several minute long rant about the haul of tat he bought from the joke shop down the road. Subsequently, because none of the marauders can ever shut up about anything, you ended up spending an hour planning your next six or seven pranks.

An hour of serious prank planning, though, meant another couple of drinks that got drained quicker than they would if you had nothing to talk about.

Which meant that by the time you shoved James out of his seat and stood up because you were gasping for a cigarette, everyone was a little unsteady on their feet.

You all stumbled outside, through the pub door and into the fresh air. You stuck a cigarette in between your lips, then one between James’, who was only a smoker when he’d had a drink- a smoker through association. Most of your friends had picked up the habit from Remus. Even Peter smoked occasionally when he wanted to look mysterious. James lit both of your cigarettes and shoved the small lighter in his pocket.

You gazed up at James as he leaned down to light your cigarette, smiling around where it was perched between your lips. You shot him a quick wink as you stood up straight.

“Behave.” he warned.

“Why?” you pressed, taking a step towards James and dropping your voice to a whisper. “I’m waiting for you to get wound up enough to actually take me in the bathroom.”

“You’re filthy,” he responded, in a low voice. James was very aware of the fact that not many people in the courtyard outside of The Three Broomsticks were still in possession of their hearing, so maybe he needn’t have bothered.

You giggled, nodding as you took another long puff of your cigarette, dragging your eyes painstakingly slowly over James’ figure. How nobody else had snapped him up by now was beyond you, but you weren’t complaining.

“Am I?” you asked, pulling your cigarette from between your lips, unconsciously darting your tongue out to wet them as you gazed up at James with an expression on your face that couldn’t have been interpreted any other way than please fuck me right fucking now.

That did it.

You felt James’ hand on the small of your back guiding you inside, and you followed because you knew what you were in for.

“Where are you two off to?” asked Peter, eyeing you suspiciously as you turned your back to him.

“Get another drink.” you lied over your shoulder, shrugging sheepishly at Pete as James whisked you off through the pub, straight past the bar and towards the little bathroom in the back corner.

It took a significant amount of restraint on James’ behalf to not manhandle you into the bathroom in a pub full of people. He wanted to drag you by the hair and throw you through the door. You wanted him to do the same.

He was, however, completely incapable of resisting once the door closed behind the both of you. James grabbed your hips and pulled you towards him. kissing you hard as he pressed your back up against the nearest wall- which happened to be the one with the sink on it.

“Merlin-!” you gasped, kissing him back as your ass found the edge of the sink, and you perched on it, back resting flat against the mirror above it.

As soon as you were sat down, however, James was gripping your waist and pulling you off of the sink, yanking you back to your feet. James quickly spun you round so that your back was to his chest.

“Look at you.” he muttered, leaning down so close to your ear that you could feel his breath on the side of your face.

“Please.” was all you could manage to say, your eyes locked on James’ reflection because he was just. so. fit. He was holding you by your hips, and you could feel him against you, already rock hard.

James would be damned if he wasn’t going to give you what you asked for, every time you asked for it. He winked at you in the mirror, and you just about died, before he hooked one hand over your shoulder and kept the other on your hip, hinging you swiftly forward until you were bent over the sink in front of him.

“Fuck-” you gasped, grabbing the sink for support and gazing at yourself in the mirror as your hair fell down around your face.

“You’re so beautiful.” James promised, eyes catching yours in your reflection.

You nodded slowly, almost believing it. You watched intently in the mirror as James bunched your dress up. Then you watched as he ripped your underwear down your legs so it was hanging around your knees.

James placed a hand flat in the middle of your back to gently push you further forward, so you were well and truly bent over for him, your hands steadying yourself by gripping the white porcelain of the sink.

You gasped when you felt James sink two fingers into you, but as quickly as they were in, they were out, and the feeling was replaced by him pushing all the way into you.

“Oh, fuck!” you whined as James slipped inside you, your thighs clenching around his hips. You were already a mess. You watched him in the mirror as he looked down to focus on where your body joined his, and you could see his eyes flutter shut as he drew almost completely out of you, then pushed all the way back in.

He had one hand splayed flat over your back still, and he was gripping your hip tightly with his other. Once James had established a rhythm of fucking in and out of you, the hand that was holding your back down against the sink slid up across your back and into your hair.

You moaned when you felt your head being jerked back by James grabbing a handful of your roots, and you caught his gaze in the mirror.

“Fuck me, darling,” James fawned over you, as you looked up at him in the mirror. “You’re perfect.”

His hand stayed twisted in your hair, so even if you’d wanted to look away, you couldn’t. But you didn’t want to.

You just nodded, whining indiscriminately about everything and nothing at the same time. You weren’t speaking to be heard, you just wanted to release some of your pent up energy.

“I know, my girl, I know,” said James softly, as you whined. It was a beautiful sound, but he couldn’t have you being too loud. “Shh.”

“Fuck, fuck! James, fuck, feels so- oh, fuck,” you rambled on and on, hands still gripping the sink for dear life.

“I know, just be quiet, darling,” said James, gripping your hair a little tighter to drive the point home. “Don’t want anyone to hear, do you?”

You were really had at remembering to have your wands on you for a silencing charm. You chalked it up to the fact that James got off on it, really. Filthy bastard.

You nodded, but it wasn’t much use, because the whines and curses were still spilling from your lips as if there was more than a flimsy wooden door separating you from everyone outside.

James leaned down over you, his hand slipping out of your hair and round to grab your face so tightly that it squished your cheeks together. He brought your back up against your chest, and dipped his head down to speak lowly in your ear.

“D’you need me to shut you up?” he warned through gritted teeth, staring down at you.

“Please-!” you mumbled, barely understandable because of how hard James was holding your face.

James got the message, and used the hand that he had holding your chin to push two of his fingers into your mouth, holding it open so that the sounds spilling from you were even less comprehensible.

“That better?” he asked.

You nodded, leaning slightly further forward and trying to tell James around his fingers that you were close, but you gagged around them and it all came out as a bit of a choked out mess.

“I know, sweetheart,” he assured you, and he was using that voice again. The voice that was only reserved for you, where his tone was soft against your skin, and he didn’t sound half as condescending as he did to anyone else. James knew that talking to you like that would let him get away with murder. He took his fingers out of your mouth and moved his hand around to the back of your neck, bending you roughly back over the sink.

You felt your legs starting to quiver, because being bent over like this meant James was hitting just the right spot. You had come to realise today that you were a complete and utter fool for James when he had you like this, because there was something so otherworldly about the way he looked when he was holding you down and drilling you like his life depended on it.

When James noticed that your legs were shaking, he knew you weren’t going to last that much longer. He brought his free hand round to your front, slipping it between you and the edge of the sink so he could reach down and circle his fingers over your clit.

James decided then and there that he loved having you like this, bent over for him, completely at his mercy, and resolved to bend you over more often.

“Fuck-” James huffed, snapping his hips harder against yours every time until he was lurching you forward every time he fucked into you.

“Please,” you begged. “James, I can’t-”

“S’alright, darling,” he told you soothingly. “Take it, you’re nearly there, I’ve got you.”

His fingers were digging into your hips, leaving little red marks over the ones he’d left earlier, which were already starting to transform into little pink bruises. They were tender, so the pain of James gripping you in the same spots was blinding, but so, so good.

“So gorgeous, darling, m’gonna- oh, fuck.”

It was at that point that you saw stars, because as soon as you felt a rush of warmth shoot up into you, your knees pressed together and you slumped against the sink, coming all over James’ dick for the second time that day.

James stilled as soon as he came, giving you the space to ride it out, but he twitched inside you involuntarily, your name spilling from his lips louder than it probably should have.

You couldn’t quite catch your breath as you went lax against the sink, hands pressed up against the mirror to try and keep you from hitting the floor. Your hips stuttered downwards and your thighs shook like you were freezing cold.

“Fuck.” you groaned, voice muffled by your own skin as you rested your head on your arms.

James watched your reflection for a moment, taking in how pretty you really were when you were like this, flushed bright red and bent over in front of the mirror.

“Love you.” he mused softly as he pulled your underwear back up over your ass before tugging at your dress so that it fell back down to where it was meant to be, the hem around your ankles rather than around your waist.

You hummed in response, sighing as you stood up straight. “Love you.” you echoed. “So much that I’m going to go back out there and sit with your friends while I’m leaking your fucking spunk.”

James laughed at that, pulling his underwear and jeans back up. He leant against the wall, still a little out of breath, eyes running across your face with adoration.

“It’s never ending with you.”

“You love it.”

There was no word of a lie. James did love it, almost as much as he loved you. You were kindred in your senses of adventure, and that was the most attractive thing about you in James’ eyes.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, opening the door for you and watching you duck under his arm and out of the bathroom. “I do.”

[littledata]

what are these "best fics youve ever read that barely have any hits" you mentioned? can you give us a top 5 or sonething?

Oh God, you've really shamed me here because I read a LOT of random fics from fandoms I'm not even part of and the stories I was referring to largely come from there.

However, in the interest of practising what I preach, I sat down today and read a bunch of Warrior Nun fics I'd never read before so I could rec you some. To be totally clear, these aren't necessarily going to have "hardly any hits" but are fics that I think could use more love in general.

In no particular order:

I was seeing black and white (and now I'm living in color) by gayestcatra - 1281 words, a beautifully soft fic set in Switzerland with gorgeous description. By the same author I also enjoyed (your life was) my life's best part, an angsty Mary/Shannon exploring Mary's (heartbreaking) grief after Shannon's death.

Cat’s Cradle security checkpoint logs by @jtl07 - 518 words, have I raved enough on tumblr yet about how much I love their writing? No? Oh okay I'll do it again then. JT is one of my favourite writers in the fandom and I love this series of fics they did giving creative looks into the characters - this particular one is the contents of their bags but the whole series is worth checking out (and everything else they write too, obviously).

Lauds by @sisterdivinium - 3152 words, Mother Superion/Jillian Salvius. WE LOVE A RAREPAIR. Gorgeously written fic where you feel the weight of every single action. The author has a TON of fics if you liked this one too.

you're my best friend (in a world we must defend) by @daisychainsandbowties - 3980 words, avatrice and Pokemon. Beatrice's characterisation in this drives me insane. I MUST know more. If you know nothing about pokemon here's your primer: they're funny little guys you catch and make fight, exactly like the Catholic church did to Ava. There, now you've got no excuse not to read it.

Dead People Don't Shiver by waterintheshadows - 2068 words, avatrice soulmate AU set in a morgue FUCK YEAH. This is the kind of shit I live for. Great concept, great execution.

Where The River Bends by @itchyouchyz - 100,750 words, avatrice 1960s midwife AU. Full disclosure - it's 100k - I haven't finished it yet. But I LOVE what I've read so far, tender and lovely. Check the tags for trigger warnings on this one!

keep me in your mirror (but don't take your eyes off the road) by minutetuna - 26,343 words, avatrice season 2 road trip au. It made me feel this precise emotion: hnnnnnnghhhhh. There is a particular style of writing which is just bouncy and pacy and still draws you into every single emotion and this author has it in spades. LOVE.

This was so much fun! If anyone else wants to hit me up with some recs I'd love to hear them - even if (especially if) they're your fics. It's a long weekend, might as well spend it reading fanfiction.

[whilereadingandwalking]

Lady Macbeth by Ava Reid is a really fun page-turning read that reimagines the Scottish play in a historical-fiction approach, imbued with some fantasy and led by Roscille, a young woman married off and rumored to be cursed by a witch.

There were parts of the story that stretch credibility a bit, and Roscille can be a frustrating lead in that she’s extremely sharp and seems to know what she’s starting, yet is often surprised that her actions have consequences. And I’m always a skeptical reader when it comes to insta-love, which I think this book honestly could have simply allowed a little more time for.

But ultimately, I blazed through this book. The historical politics of culture and prejudice were fascinating adds to the story. The magical realism–ness of her veil (“her eyes can cause madness in men,” or can they?) was genius, and has the most exciting implications of anything in the novel, still presenting me with new doubts and questions now. The interpretation of the witches, the introduction of a compelling succession story, and the ever-present thesis that men are the worst make this a fast and furious read.

Content warnings for suicidal ideation, violence, domestic abuse, sexual assault, ableist language, torture.

[yaboisbullshit]

I need any headcanons that you people have of Yelena and the little adorable guinea pig that she rescued from the lab in Thunderbolts

[tacobacoyeet]

i will not be available for the next 24 hours

BOT DUMP by @ 222col ✧˖°⊹♡

fine line - harry styles ꩜

꒰ notes ꒱ 1000 followers on c.ai??!!!?? holy shit that's insane !!!!!!! & 400k interactions. wtf thank u all so much. the final harry album i've yet to do, apologies a lot of the bots are sad/breakup bots, the album is very breakup heavy </3 but there's a lot of angsty fun to be had <3 enjoy angels!!! any feedback is welcomed in my inbox <3

ART DONALDSON (challengers) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( golden )

✩ you were the light in art's life, you lit up every room you walked into. art was ready to risk getting burned if it meant he had a chance of getting closer to you. but god, did that burn sting when you told him you were going on a date with someone else. ( partly inspired by laurie's monologue in 'little women' (2019) )

ART AND PATRICK (challengers) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( watermelon sugar )

✩ the three of you had been friends all throughout boarding school, but you were blissfully unaware how much both art and patrick had many more-than-friendly thoughts about you. a day at the beach after graduation brings those thoughts to the forefront, and art and patrick realise— they'd be more than willing to share.

ROMAN GODFREY (hemlock grove) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( adore you )

✩ roman was beyond in love with you, would do anything for you. everyone could see it, how different he acted around you compared to everyone else. the only person who couldn't see it was you, you were completely oblivious to his affections, and driving him crazy.

ART DONALDSON (challengers) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( lights up )

✩ it came as no surprise that art's new band were making waves in the music scene. challengers were taking the world by storm, small shows were a thing of the past. art became a new person, and lost you in the process, all because of a fuckin' groupie. thing is, art has no idea who he is without you.

PATRICK ZWEIG (challengers) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( cherry )

✩ you'd been broken up a year, yet the sting of hearing you call someone else baby hit patrick deep. he needed to be the one you called baby. hence why after some light stalking of your instagram, he's showing up at the bar you're at, midway through a date.

ERIC DRAVEN (the crow) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( falling )

✩ eric was heartbroken, so pained by your breakup that all he could do was sit alone and write songs about you. dreaming of you, wishing you were next to him again. seeing you in the crowd after the end of his show, all he can feel is himself falling in love all over again.

PATRICK ZWEIG (challengers) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( to be so lonely )

✩ 7 missed calls and a stream of drunken texts at 2:30am from your ex-situationship, what a treat! patrick's drunk, missin' you and feeling bad. it's been months, yet now he wants to apologise (oh! and sleep on a bed, not in his car).

ROMAN GODFREY (hemlock grove) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( she )

✩ roman had been having dreams again, but this time they weren't scary. they were all about you, but he didn't even know if you were real. you were haunting his daydreams, he was desperate to find you. he can't believe his luck when you walk into the bar he's in, his dream girl, in the flesh.

ART DONALDSON (challengers) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( sunflower, vol 6 )

✩ the flowers patrick had given you before he dumped you had barely died by the time art was swooping in to pick up the pieces. the petals had just fallen off as art grows desperate, he can't hold back much longer— he's wanted you since he laid eyes on you.

LEE (bones and all) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( canyon moon )

✩ lee never thought he'd miss virginia, never thought he'd go back after what happened with his dad. but god, he was missing nights under the stars with you. regretting ever leaving you, he's driving back with one thing in mind, telling you how sorry he is for leaving.

RIFF LORTON (west side story) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( treat people with kindness )

✩ riff's whole life changed the day tony died, he was ready to start a war. until he laid eyes on you, and you told him he wasn't getting a dance with you until his fighting days were over. riff never thought he'd disband the jets, but for you? in a heartbeat.

PATRICK ZWEIG (challengers) `✦ˑ ִֶ ⊹

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ( fine line )

✩ you and patrick met at the worst time for both of you, and almost immediately knew it was right person, wrong time. after tashi's injury, patrick's too scared to hurt someone else again, that all he can think to do is end it, but god is it killing him.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work.

[alms4oblivion]

What if you met the love of your life and built a life together and everything was perfect until one day you woke up in the hospital and couldn't remember her? What if you couldn't remember being 17, or falling in love for the first time, or finally telling off your abusive dad, or earning your doctorate, or that your mom remarried, or any of your friends? What if nearly everyone who loved you and wanted to be around you was a stranger, or so different from what you remember that they might as well be? What if they wanted you to be someone else, some other version of you that you can't remember and can't imagine? What if every time you spoke to them or thought about them it HURT in a way you can't explain?

What if the love of your life looked at you and felt nothing?

This is Timely Fractured, sequel to Timely Suited, one of my favorite Avatrice fics. Posted through Chapter 6 at the moment, and I highly recommend it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65002456/chapters/167123698

[deb-ava]

please drop some avaxdeb fic recs!!

Strap in folks, you asked for it!!!!

Some authors I highly recommend straight off the bat, literally read it all or you know see what stuff floats your boat: FakePlastikTrees, SapphicScholar, mouthyhack, augustwind, Bluebluebaby, fleaflofloyd & jennamacaroni

On to some select favorites in no particular order:

You're Not A Fucking Hack by MrsHurricane

Like A Friend or 5 times they were just friends, & 1 time they knew better by FakePlastikTrees

Triple Cherries in the Payline by ludling

i see it written on your face by overtureenvelops

ring the bells that still can ring by Bluebluebaby

i don't want a war with you by eddis

weeks have to do time (for years of missing each other) by SapphicScholar

On the Road by SapphicScholar

ENGL-324: The Erotics of Hand Jokes by SapphicScholar

Illicit Affairs by mouthyhack

All The Other Girls Here Are Stars; You Are The Northern Lights by twtd

Hot as a Pistol With Flaming Desire by augustwind

Diner Conversations (Small Revelations) by augustwind

that ain't half the gold treasure in your soul by debsava (that's me!!! this is still one of my favorite things that i've written)

famous last words by berghain (this is the only incomplete fic i've included but listen when i tell you that i am obsessed!!!!!!!)

[tacobacoyeet]

need him... biblically

priest!patrick… he is a priest — a bad one, but he still gets the title. he’s this strange mixture of cynical and disgustingly poetic, like he knows more than everyone and nothing at all at the same time. he’s spent the last month highlighting lines in the bible he gifted you, coming over at all hours of the night to act like he wants to kiss you, just to leave an hour later and halfway through a twelve pack. priest!patrick who considers breaking his vows for you everyday… who already has broken one when he’s all alone and way too hard to ignore…. yes!