#dopamine depletion

[creatingnikki]

notes to self: existing delulu land edition

knowing yourself and your needs and accepting then instead of ignoring them or forcing yourself to change is the first step towards most of what you want. once you understand that, you can work around it, you can work with it.

your need is connections. human connections that are authentic and warm and present. you don't like people who are absent and those that are inconsistent in their communication. it makes you anxious and triggers your overthinking qualities. you want to feel secure in the connection you share with the person and presence, consistent communication, and actions aligning with words are the basics of that.

so you don't force yourself to not want connections. you just make sure your life is full of wholesome, fulfilling, beautiful ones. you pick the good ones and you say bye to the bad ones before they develop into sources of unnecessary agony and hurt. you realize how to limit the impact of a connection with someone and how to deal with disappointment.

feeling good about yourself and being at peace with yourself, at least a little bit, is what will help you have clarity about what you want in a relationship and in your life. because then you won't be using people and situations as maladpative coping mechanisms or a way to soothe your insecurities or fill holes instead of fix them.

what do you not feel good about right now? the lack of stability across most aspects of your life? you're working on it, I know. and it's hard, I know. but you have to continue. for yourself. and to also form the kind of connections that you seek the most with others in life.

you have to lower the volume of social media and all these cross connections. meme culture and reels and echo chambers that make you feel like being delulu is the only solulu and that everyone is depressed and everything is fucked and adulting is the worst. because the truth is that it may make you laugh and humour helps but subconsciously you start believing these narratives and then it becomes the normal. but when the fuck did it become okay to normalize feeling tired and sleepless all the time? girl dinner and sad boi hours? situationships and casual dating when such intimacy means something to you? if you were 19 maybe you could let all this be a part of your vocabulary and life. but at 26 when you're seeking a balanced, healthy, good life and future, you have to reduce your consumption of the internet content and really protect your brain.

[pastlivesandpurplepuppets]

[...the only emotion that I could arouse were feelings of anger and after staying mad all day and half the night, I was just plain tired. Mad at what? Just about everything, for just about everything was done wrong or it wasn’t done perfectly. Since nothing but perfection was acceptable, I stayed mad. What struck me most was how damn tired I became by the end of each day and how difficult it was to concentrate. I now had people asking me questions about weapons, targets, harassing fire, grazing fire, chow, transportation, and base of fire. It never ended. I had no time to consider a person’s feelings or devotion to the point, or incidental matters. Combat required that my thoughts and feelings remain hard, cold, indifferent, and effective. As to any tender thoughts I might have possessed before the war, I had left them behind in the marshalling area in England. There was no room for trivialities. I did, occasionally, think about death. Sure, I thought long and hard about the paratroopers who had paid the ultimate price, but there was no time to mourn them. Whether on the front line or in a rear area, I refused to lower my guard. Commanding a battalion required every ounce of energy that remained—no time to let up now that the war was drawing to a close.

~ Dick Winters

[brightlotusmoon]

Summary: Dopamine plays a vital role in why exercise and physical activity feels easy to some, but exhausting to others, a new study reports. The findings could lead to more effective ways to help people begin and stick to exercise regimes, and sheds new light on fatigue associated with depression and Parkinson’s disease.

[hewasanamericangirl]

having to hyperfixate on people in order to create bonds with them isnt normal

[riz-key]

[moodytoots]

one designated morning w out getting on the clock app and it's like i can do things again

[bamsara]

BAM WAKE UP NEW COTL MERCH JUST DROPPED ON YOUTOOZ

DO YOU KNOW WHATS FUNNY ABOUT GETTING THIS ASK

I WAS ALREADY ON IT SDHLSDHGDKSHLKSDHLSHGDLSHG

my monthly budget for 'life enjoyment items' has been mostly depleted but i cant wait to forget about this order and then suddenly its gonna appear and be a straight shot of dopamine to the brain

[covid-safer-hotties]

Published Jan 19, 2024

A recent study has uncovered a potential biological reason for mood changes and cognitive symptoms experienced by some individuals after recovering from Covid-19. 

Researchers have found that the virus can infect brain cells related to mood, stress, and movement, leading to a disruption in dopamine production. This discovery offers insight into why Covid-19 can cause symptoms such as brain fog and feelings of sadness.

For a link to the study and more, check out our covid archive:

[blissfulip]

Dopamine

On AO3

Viktor x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, idiots in love (?) dubious science, mostly canon compliant, no use of y/n, chemist!reader, eventual smut, masturbation, angry sex, unprotected sex,

Cw: lot's of blood, slight spice if you squint

Words: 1.7k

[A/N: bit of a shorter one this time, in preparation for the teeth-rotting fluff and filth that awaits in the final chapter~ tags and content warnings to be updated in each chapter, updates weekly(ish). (also, let me know if you want to be tagged in fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201

Previous Next

Chapter 8: Blood-tinted

You had become so small all of a sudden. The earnest compulsion to scream at Viktor, to tell him how much his constant presence in your life lately had exerted an influence over your thoughts—a negative one you planned to clarify soon thereafter—was brought to a halt. The blood made you panic, and seeing you there, his own shoulders depleted into a pronounced hunch, as if he expected you to pester him with questions he did not want to answer. 

You didn’t; instead, your hand swiftly held his wrist as you conducted him out of the bathroom, and out there, you swerved through the commotion of people clustering in the middle of the room to make your way to the infirmary. It was too late for the nurse to be there, but the room itself was never locked, you knew, so you turned the door handle without a second thought and dragged what remained of Viktor inside. 

Viktor sat on one of the cots, lifting his head up with what you assumed was the intention to stop the bleeding. 

“Don’t do that; the blood is going to end up in your throat." You said as you grabbed a towel and placed it in front of his face, “Pinch right there—yes, there you go." You continued gently nudging his head forward with your other hand. You noticed the bleeding was also coming out of a small cut on the bridge of his nose, so you needed to find some gauze. You heard Viktor sigh audibly behind you as you rummaged through the drawers. 

“Care to explain?”

Silence 

“Viktor, what happened?” You said this time, looking at him. He closed his eyes and breathed in. 

“I got punched in the face; I believe you’re smart enough to figure that out.”

“Color me shocked!” You said in a sardonic hiss. “By whom and why?” You said punctuating each question with an ironic stare at the same time as you soaked a small piece of gauze in saline solution. Viktor winced slightly at the pain. 

“That vacuous donkey, and I suppose he was unhappy as a consequence of me preventing him from following you into the bathroom.” 

“Asher?” He chuckled at how fast you got to his name with only that description. “Why would he follow me into the bathroom?”

“Judging by my state, I think you can presume I did not ask any questions.”

Although your knitted frown made it seem like you were upset, it was confusion that bounced all over the walls of your skull. 

“Why?” You managed to ask, finally.

“I’ve already said—“

“No, why did you do it? It simply doesn't make any sense to me that you would put yourself in jeopardy for me.”

Silence once again. 

“A jumbled mess, selfish, intolerable, and big-headed, remember?”

Silence. 

“I don’t actually believe you are most of those things.” Viktor started in a timid voice. “You are not selfish; eh, I suppose I feel a sense of longing for the time in my life where I would take risks the way that you are allowed to do now. I envy that freedom, that’s all.”

The hand you had holding his face in place had long dropped to hold the edge of the cot firmly. 

“I do think you are a mess, but that carefree nature you have is not something negative necessarily,” he continued when you gave no signs of interjecting, “and when I said big-headed, I meant to say stubborn.”

“Oh.” A small smile creeped up the corners of your mouth. “I thought you meant I have a big head.”

“I can assure you that you have a normal-sized head.” Viktor said with a lighthearted chuckle. “But you are, in fact, very stubborn.”

“Fair.” 

A comfortable atmosphere washed over as you went back to disinfecting his wound. The bleeding had stopped both from his nose and the cut, so you rummaged through the drawers once more to find some medical tape to patch him up. 

“To be fair, I also don’t believe you are most of the things I said yesterday.”

“The things you said before we slept together, or during?” You rolled your eyes. 

“Before.”

Viktor hummed, a small smirk on his dry-blood-tinted lips.

“So I’m a tad more tolerable to you than I thought, but getting into a fight for me still feels unbelievable.”

Viktor inhaled sharply before giving you a defeated look. 

“I can tell you are trying to make me say it, and I don’t appreciate that.” 

“Say what?” He looked at you with one eyebrow raised and a long silence, slowly letting it sink in. You were dumbfounded. He couldn’t possibly mean it, but then again, if the previous night did something, it was proving your attraction to him was mutual, and now knowing he does not in fact have the deep aversion to you that you were certain he did, it all fit into an odd puzzle perfectly. 

To him, the long, numb silence you had fallen into as your mind followed your convoluted line of reasoning had come off as a cold but polite rejection.

“Naturally, everything was likely circumstantial on your part, and I understand that,” he started saying as he stood up. “You were heavily intoxicated that night at Lara’s house…” 

“What? No Viktor—“ You started to say this as you moved out of his way.

“...and I appreciate how well you dealt with what transpired at the lab. I do apologize; however, I should have put my feelings in check and known it was a terrible idea...” Every word he uttered left his mouth louder than the last, and you could hear the tension in his voice as he tried to find the correct string of words to use. Around the last few words, you heard his volume deplete, and before he even finished speaking, his nose started bleeding again. 

“Viktor, stop! You are bleeding again— settle down for fucks sake!” Anything you could have said would’ve been useless, as he seemed to not hear any word that came out of you at that moment. He leaned against the wall, and the blood trickled down his mouth like delicately embroidered stitches over his lips.

“...my care should have extended to what happened yesterday; deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be a casual slip-up and an easy-to-forget mistake as it probably is for you, yet I couldn’t hold back—though it was entirely my fault. I recognize that, and I won’t hold it against you…” 

It wasn’t that for you either. You said so out loud and tried to convince yourself of that much, but it was not the truth—another well-crafted lie that came porcelain cold and perfect through your teeth. The thin stream of red percolated all the way to his neck. You wanted to say so much, but only lying came easy to you; lies were far and detached, and telling Viktor how you felt seemed too near and vulnerable, too constricting. His eyes now looked at you, not expecting an answer but simply giving himself a break, glossy and distant but still vibrantly golden. You remembered the dreams you had the night before, and they fueled whatever timid wish you had in you. Sure, you couldn’t say something, but you could show him. 

The room was narrow enough that the step forward you took was small. You had him pinned against the wall, although not of your own volition, and that aided you in finding a firm grip on the sides of his face before you met his lips with your own. You almost second-guessed yourself when you initially felt no struggle, thinking he must have been so weak from the loss of blood that he hadn’t been able to wriggle himself out of your grasp. A metallic taste creeped its way into your mouth when Viktor’s fingers slithered their way to your jaw, softly prying it open to make way for his tongue. 

You tasted his lips for a long while before you both had to grasp for air, Viktor being particularly in need of a break. Endearment peaked through his eyes as he unsuccessfully tried to wipe the bloody tint off your mouth and chin, and you both laughed quietly at the vampiric state of your faces, a picture painted by your silent confession to him. You could have said something then and even had something in mind, but your plans were spoiled by the dry sound of Jayce clearing his throat in an attempt to make himself known. 

You know there was nothing you could have said that would serve as an excuse for what happened, and no well-told lie could have steered Jayce’s mind away from the murder scene on your faces; thus, against what you would’ve normally done, you stayed quiet. Viktor did too. 

“Just so we’re clear, I always suspected.” He said, an eyebrow raised on his forehead as a sign of satisfaction. 

“Is it a prize you want? A pat on the back? A handshake?” Viktor said only half-annoyed, his mood unable to be ruined by any of Jayce’s brazen commentary.

“Do you mind?”

“Alright, I’m going. Just don't do it here; it’s so unsanitary.” He quickly left the room, only a millisecond away from being hit by a bloody towel thrown in his direction. One of the small pieces of gauze you still had on hand was enough to clean both of you up, and you helped each other out among light giggles and child-like mischief, followed by another small kiss to seal the deal. 

“How about a proper date?” You asked as you handed Viktor more cotton pads to replace the now-drenched one in his nose. “We could go to the café from last time.”

“I refuse; I won’t be able to look at that waitress's face without wanting to be swallowed by the ground with embarrassment.”

“How dramatic.” You said, rolling your eyes playfully, and Viktor shook his head.

“My dorm tomorrow, we can cook something; I’ve come to find out I rather enjoy it.”

“Why yours? Do you still think my dorm is messy?”

“Yes.” Your hand shot up to clutch your imaginary pearls in an inflated expression of fake outrage.

“Have you considered that if I keep going to yours, it will end up untidy as well?” You smirked at Viktor’s defeated expression.

“Fine.” He said with a loud, frustrated groan, followed by a mellow grin. 

[capcavan]

aftg fandom is very dopamine depleted because it gets into discourse over the most normal and accepted statements and i just love to laugh at it any time "riko discourse happens" but it's not even a discourse it's just the same 30 people saying the same 5 lines that had already been said 10 last times the same conversation took place get yourself some new things to be offended about at this point its not even entertaining it costs no money to say nothing about the topic everyone cries about how "fanfic writers do not ask for criticism" yeah people who make content for ships you do not like do not ask for your criticisms either so fuck off and get a hobby i get why teenagers act this way but if you are older than 21 rethink your life

[creatingnikki]

it was a rainy Tuesday evening and I felt like dying. then I realized that's because I hadn't written poetry in a while.

ever thine ever mine ever ours these are not lines I have to say to anyone but the image of me in the mirror, smoking and thinking you look the prettiest when you fill your lungs with toxins and allow shit to happen to your body.

no, that's not poetry. but there's nothing poetic about excel sheets and timeline negotiations and constant feedback to juniors who you know just want you to shut up but you can't because you are answerable and your job is at stake. that job that doesn't even cover your monthly expenses. why do you have so many expenses? fuck the milk and eggs and bread and the rent and the utility bills. spend your last money on a pack of cigarettes and books that make you want to live.

how is it that the only things that bring peace to your soul are the ones that kill your body or soothe your heart? how is it that one conversation can have you plan your small wedding with a man you won't even disclose your name to? the year is 2024 but you're just Ted Mosby looking for the one and doing everything possibly stupid in that endeavor.

NASA, Pluto, Cupcake, Ass. Nicknames galore. Fleeting feelings and even weaker intentions. gibberish poetry and TMI-ing are your tools for survival at twenty seven. and a bottle of moonshine on a Tuesday evening when you still have six hours of work and then some more to get through. waiting for his text, waiting for her update, decide on a café for a Wednesday friend date. nothing tastes good, nothing feels right. then why do you go on trying?

poetry. poetry. poetry. what is poetic? the way he touches you when he is turned on? the way he messages you when he is lonely? the way you think of him only when you want to die? in moments of joy it's never him. in moments of joy it's always you telling yourself you're glad you're trying. in moments of joy your eyes are poetic. in moments of joy your lips are not quivering. in moments of joy you don't think.

dopamine hits and dopamine depletion. red flags and green forests. fuck you, fuck everything. but never make love, because the truth is it's not something that can be made. your beautiful mind, your intelligent banter, your kind smile, your silly laughter. if the economy were any better, I swear I'd take the time to write poetry that was sweeter.

[olderthannetfic]

I was talking about this with one of my bffs a few days ago, and we had a bit of an epiphany. Putting aside for the moment that it's too simplistic a framework to be useful most of the time: I am BEGGING people to understand that in an us-versus-them equation, OTW and AO3 are part of US, not THEM. OTW is not comparable to Meta or Amazon, and the refusal from entitled babies to even TRY to learn about fandom history is infuriating. I partially blame learned helplessness, but at a certain point ignorance becomes indistinguishable from malice.

I mean, come on. It's IN THE NAME. It's right there in front of their faces on every page of the entire site: An Archive Of Our Own.

At this point, I think some of them are refusing to educate themselves on purpose because they can't handle the cognitive dissonance: if OTW isn't a big shadowy evil megacorp, then that means they're not the super awesome rebellious freedom fighters they fancy themselves to be; they're just entitled bullies who are enjoying the dopamine hit they get from hurting other people.

(and I recently quit nicotine! I understand that dopamine depletion is hell, and people will desperately cling to any source they can find, but attacking people in the same boat as you is just going to capsize the boat.)

--

[brightlotusmoon]

[jacarandaaaas]

also read something about slow dopamine and high dopamine release to do with fandoms and found it interesting. When something new comes out we consume all the official content quickly giving a fast rush of dopamine but when that rush runs out we feel depleted. Basically it was some therapist saying slow dopamine over time is better. How do you get that in fandoms? by creating!! I know the wait for official content (even an announcement) is killing us but basically writing fanfics making edits and art and headcanons even just talking helps with that slow dopamine

[kitanaijin]

feathers in the attic | freakebana | part i. | blueberry trainwreck >> blackberry kush

yandere keigo takami x reader, goldfinch. words: 4567. explicit content. 18+ MDNI

He longed for a world where heroes had too much time on their hands.

No one knew better than his wives how he’d rather spend his days.

please be mindful of the ample warnings as we're all responsible for curating our own fandom experience✌️ this chapter contains neuro spice, chronic pain, non-consensual fingering, degradation, involuntary & forced orgasms, physical abuse, throat fucking, enforced sobriety, and mention of the breeding plot within the harem.

“Would’ve made a hell of a name.”

Lazing over a bed of flannels and plumage, you flip through the well worn pages of the magazine until you’ve found it.

You can still remember when an idol graced the cover. It’s an old issue from 2018 with a midsummer run, scratched to ruin ages ago. The full shoot was left virtually untouched along with the accompanying article. 

She’d posed so pretty, selling her story to perfection. Not that you could fully appreciate what she was promoting.

These types of interviews tended to lose their impact, dated as they were. 

No intimacy. No stakes or connection. No urgency in your step to rush to the nearest theater to support the little girl with a dream.

The farthest you could take yourself was the toilet.

Not quite the Library of Alexandria—but oh, how the loss of context tore you apart.

Within the confines of these four walls, time was a construct at your most lucid… a prison when you were dragged past the depths of your dark and twisty recesses.

The nights he’d sweep your broken body from the floor. Hold you in his crimson embrace and manhandle you to his whims. When all the fight left your lungs so you couldn’t even scream, let alone tell him no.

He stole your name twice over in a swinging pendulum of perception; Goldfinch for times you were his sweet girl… Bluebird when you were less than pliant.

It bruised him to see you scorn his affections, so he called you in kind.

He’d pin you down. Pry you apart. Fuck himself into your cunt and soul, leaving you a mere ragdoll to his desires.

You’d only ever been what he had demanded of you.

He wanted a victim, you could damsel with the best of them. This was a show that would go on with or without your approval.

He’d feed you. Rape you. Dry your tears.

Anything more than that, he can stand to spoil you.

Could’ve been hours before you’d feel him leave your side. Days, even. You’d hardly know the difference—only that his side was barren, cool to the touch as you washed a hand over the sheet… 

Here one minute, gone the next. Pain emanating and all your own.

Without the organic warmth of sunlight on your cheeks, you’d never feel the day break for yourself.

He took everything from you. Your power. Your will. Your life.

The room was set to a constant low light, controlled by the flick of his wrist and a tablet. 

Never natural and never enough, same as every inch of every room of this godforsaken place. A damn menagerie, down to the fucking temp. 

dry heat so you won’t catch cold… fans in the warmer months. 

He kept you maintained. Albeit depleted in your current state, but no one was about to accuse the bastard of neglecting you.

If they ever found his nest, that is.

Would it matter?

                         Would they care?

White knuckles hold the spine as the water bottle at your side loses the last of its tepid edge.

You can’t think about it. Mainlining dopamine where you could manage would have to get you through the worst of it for now.

Vivid colors punch a sigh from your lips, even muted in the dark like this. More than satisfied, you’re relieved. Manic thoughts swirl that someday he might deem the material obscene. He was a jealous man, mercurial by nature. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for him to tatter disagreeable content beyond recognition.

Maybe leaving the article unmolested was a gesture on his part, a bygone offering.

Perhaps he’d just overlooked the whole thing. It could mean nothing.

Fingers graze the gorgeous arrangements until you can match the scent into your mind and memory. Citrus and pome. Florals you haven’t thought to conjure in years. 

Freakebana.

You take your time tracing the header with a wavering touch before devouring the article.

Composition. Purpose. How to style your very own lovely item.

In another life you’d be all over this shit. You and your quirk.

Don’t think about it.

It’s a striking contrast that never fails to overwhelm you…

Sensual. A serenity that follows the warm blush of anthurium piercing the understated pears. Surreal. The next image featured a bit of Queen Anne’s lace and soft peonies over an orange. Vulgar.

The dissonance of rotting fruit and lush botany was breathtaking. The writer was on the fucking money in the best of ways. 

You had some trouble placing the last of the flowers through the hurricane wreaking havoc over your joints and muscles. Breath catching, the aches come roaring back.

You’ve passed the eye of the storm.

Just as well, you’re wrapping on your daily indulgence anyways. Spoil yourself now and you risk the brainrot of whatever envy you’ve got waiting in the wings.

You tuck the magazine under the mattress with a frown.

“Seriously.” Falling back on the mattress, you set the heels of your hands over your eyes. “Like taking a shower and having that perfect comeback all those hours later. So goddamn irritating.”

A voice cuts through the vent, where her wall meets your ceiling. “Never took you for the hero track.”

“Never said I was.”

You hone your focus on the neon numbers at your bedside, blinking away one hour to the next. 

The clock reads five fifteen. He’ll be darkening your doorstep soon enough.

A distant cry tickles your eardrums. You curl in on yourself, tremors washing over you with a groan. The contractions in your belly spread like a wildfire of pain past your thighs and calves. It’s all you can do to pull the sheet over your shoulders and bury yourself deeper.

Five thirty.

You’d thought to ask if she heard anything on her end but Magpie had long grown quiet in the room beside yours. It’s all you can do to force your bloodshot eyes open.

You have to stay awake—you can fall apart when he’s taken to the skies or buried six feet under.

Five fifty… 

Before sleep can take you, a near melodic taps hit your ears; the sweeping fingers of a key code just beyond your reach.

Keigo lets himself inside, his feathers shutting the door faster than you can think to act.

Not that it matters. You couldn’t fight him off if you’d been training from the start of your confinement.

Your eyes remain locked on the time. Jaw tight, you commit to refusing him.

Five fifty one.

He’ll be late if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up and get face time with every wife. There was a ritual to these things. 

Timing had to be down to an art form otherwise the fastest man would have to be late to the day job. Usually a punishment or two. 

Hate to do this, he’d say. Lies spewed past a tight jaw and a strained cock. 

Rather than present a front of urgency to the fact, he only lets out a long suffering sigh at the sight of you.

You hear his voice before you ever make his face. 

“I know you’re awake.” You tense under his avian gaze. “Was it another bad one?”

He drops the tray of breakfast and meds on a dresser you’ve always found woefully redundant. Then he’s crossing the room, shameless in his liberties over the unclaimed space.

The mattress dips beside you. His body runs flush against your back as an unwelcome touch traces shapes over your belly.

“Finch…” A plea on his lips, a warning to your ears. “I’m sure you don’t want to make a bad time worse. You know the kind of stress I’m under. C’mon, Songbird. You gotta give me something.”

Silence begets silence. He frowns in the darkness, ever waiting on a poised reply from his captive bride.

“Tell you what. You talk to me. You behave, I’ll see what I can do on my end,” he coaxes with his fingers carding through your hair. “We can have family game night. Maybe a movie?”

“So generous,” you rasp.

He hums into a modest shrug, pressing a kiss over your shoulder. “I thought so, at least.”

Smug fuck.

“You still have Starling on the suppressants?”

His wings posture around you reflexively. You have only a second to relish in the chaos before his grip is tightening. He pulls the hair he’s buried himself in. 

“I thought you were gonna be a good girl,” he accuses.

“That was your mistake… You’re the one who wanted me to sing.” Spite bleeds from your lips like a curse. 

“Really now.” He quirks his brow, almost impressed. “You know what, fair play.”

Drawing your head back for a torturous moment too long, he keeps you in those eyes right there with him. Molten and tragic—fixed solely on you. 

You catch your breath in the pillow, heaving into a series of coughs.

He passively regards you as the strewn feathers do his bidding. They haul you from the mattress, raising you up with ease. Remaining on the bed, Keigo knocks both wrists under his neck to lean on. 

Hands above your head, he has you bound and restrained midair. You watch the idle plumage sharpen in your periphery. Only two.

You can’t muster the fucks it would take to panic… Never mind the pleas to get out of this. 

The aches are ever present, blossoming upwards now. It grounds you, pins you to the moment as the feathers keep you locked in place. 

“Here I wanted to have a nice breakfast with all you pretty birds on my day off,” he grouses.

“The pain I’m in is killing me. Day in, day out. You leave me to wither and rot without a thought to my suffering. Not me, not any of us.” You’re absolutely raging beneath his phantom hold. “Fuck your day off.”

The blades move closer. Just a nick in the right place, that’s all it would take to end this nightmare for you. There’s nothing else for him to take.

“As much as I appreciate your blessing, I was already planning on it.”

One slice. And another. A mere whisper of cloth that leaves your breasts exposed.

Both straps of your silken nightdress come undone on his order. They turn the remaining scraps to ribbons until you’re completely nude for him.

Rising from the bed, his wings bristle ever so. 

Keigo takes his time sauntering towards you. Rounding the bed, he pops a grape in his mouth. It only takes one fallen feather trailing behind him to swipe pills from the very same tray.

“Not like either of us have anywhere to be. Why don’t I make you really sing, hm?”

Close as he is, you find yourself flinching. His calloused touch ghosts across your skin, breath fanning in tandem over your cheeks.

“What d’ya suppose I’m gonna find when I get down there.”

“Drop dead,” you curse.

Your head is knocked back into the wall before you even register the slap. A practiced hand slips inside your mouth to silence you, taking his time fucking you with his fingers. Never once does he break stride with the hand that keeps time over your pulse.

Your cheek burns. His fingers gag you as he smothers the sounds of protest at your airway. Emboldened by the sounds at his fingertips, his breath stutters over your cheeks as he ruts desperately against you.

He releases you. Presses on, low as he dares to tread in these little hours.

Down your chest.

Past your stomach.

Quick as a flash, he pulls himself from your mouth leaving a trail of spittle that runs down your chin. The absence leaves you fighting for your life, choking on air one minute and a scream the next. 

Deft fingers bite into your throat. You groan, arching into his touch.

“Tell me why you’re so interested all of a sudden,” he bids. “Couldn’t possibly be out of concern for me…”

You want to tear away from him. Claw his skin, his eyes. Those feathers aren’t granting you any favors—palms bleeding stigmata, their loyalties remain solely with the master who controls them.

You’re in a losing fight with the pain.

You’ll have to ride this out until he kills you or tires from the game. Fuck this and fuck him.

“Star…ling,” you grind out.

A weak swing of your legs is thwarted with ease. 

He loosens his touch some. You hurl your answer at him while there’s a fraction of a chance he’ll leave you alone.

“Lend me her power or up my dose… I don’t care, just give me enough to end it.”

This gives him pause. He hovers over your collarbone. You watch him swallow.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you sob. “The pain is unbearable and you’re not letting me heal myself. No sunlight. No relief. I can’t sleep unless you put me under and it’s never enough. It was for me, Keigo.”

He sends for a feather to fetch his whims. Rests the heel of his waiting hand against your mons.

“That’s what you’re going with?”

You hang your head. “It’s the truth.”

His lips lock around your aching nipple just as he dips inside you.

He spreads your thighs, appraising your legs with a scrutinizing eye and a wandering touch to match. You’d scream if you thought it would help.

Keigo slots your legs over his shoulders. Sucks a bruise into your thigh, cups your cunt. You jolt into the assault.

Slow to start, he presses down and teases you with his relentless strumming. His middle finger laps your juices, fucking them deeper into you every time.

Thighs shake. Your stomach tenses, bracing for the forced release. 

His wrist twists in quick succession. It’s all you hear. He latches on your clit, a steady staccato of tongue and teeth with his forearm shining with sweat and your own wetness.

Your breath catches on a wail, riding the orgasm for all it’s worth. The last of your release comes pouring out of you, stuttering the last of the stream all over his face; a shining testament to an evil man who knows just how to give migraine-shattering head.

The hormonal gremlin that haunts your attic almost wants him to fuck you. Best taken as a sign you’re ovulating… better to stay away.

It’s like he can smell the apprehension on your skin. His eyes stare up at you in the dark. Not in awe, rather a cautious advantage.

Ever the predator, he watches and awaits the moves of the prey.

You’re still a writhing mess on his tongue. If you could bury yourself in his hair, you would bear down with a white knuckle grip and a piercing cry to match.

Your arms tingle in the restraints above you. “Keigo… stop.”

He does so. Pulls away from you entirely. 

You slump to the floor. A groan, “Keigo—what the fuck?!”

The scruff on his chin glistens in the low light. He smiles down on you, aglow as an angel. 

Even Lucifer had wings before the fall.

You flinch when his palm reaches your jaw. It takes you by surprise how gentle, how earnest it was. Almost reminds you of the beginning.

Never enough. Not really.

Of course you knew who he was. Hawks was renowned on and off the job; a top hero during business hours and a notorious playboy after dark. He frequented your flower shop when you were earth side.

Still, he never touched you. He didn’t have to when he’d been grooming you from the start. 

You came. He called. Service with a smile, even with eyes locked on the scene of him devouring the deepest parts of you.

He left you to your own devices for the most part. One day you got a little too familiar, too comfortable with the back and forth, letting it slip that you’d been living with chronic pain for years. 

And maybe you shouldn’t have reassured him that your form of management is often self medicated, supplied by your plant quirk… 

But he looked so sad. 

Little did you know the ammunition you’d be giving him. A warrant signed by your own hand for a drawn out death, long and tortuous.

Coming to, you gag around him. 

“Take it,” he demands. “Shut your whore mouth and take it.”

He’s got a fistful of your hair and you can’t get a breath in while you’re warming his cock.

You push on his thighs but he only tightens his grip, pulling you flush against him.

He stutters above you and then slows.

Stays still inside you, caresses the bulge taking purchase down your throat.

One roll of his hips. Then two to follow. He came on your tongue before he could see to the third.

“Don’t you dare swallow yet.” He twists your nipple, further scrutinizing you as he nods towards your quivering lips. “Open up, let me see.”

You do as you’re told. In the dark like this, you don’t have the luxury of foresight. You could never have known that he had you where he wanted; primed with a grape and your cocktail of pills and vitamins.

He takes the grape in his mouth, tracing your pout with his thumb. After a few moments pass when he drops a languid pool of spit over his come. You choke on the intrusion and are afforded no time to recover. He presses two tablets on the pile before making you take it all. 

Palm across your mouth, his thumb caresses your throat. He’s got his fingers censoring you, guiding you.

You swallow with a retch and grimace before taking the rest.

He watches, expectant. Keigo snags a circular style, day of the week pill dispenser from an errant feather. Snaps the lid open and presents you with your haul for the morning.

“Go on,” he urges.

You present your palm to him… It dawns on you both that you were bleeding still.

“Damn it,” he scoffs. Runs off to a trunk in the corner and comes back with first aid. Regards the blood with a rough double take. “Fuck.”

“If it’s really that bad, maybe you should stop doing it. Food for thought.”

He turns your hand over, alcohol wipe in hand. Doesn’t give you any countdown, just starts scrubbing his scene.

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Son of a bitch…”

“Do you want the vitamins or not?”

“Are they going to put me in a good mood?”

“Ginger, garlic, and elderberry… mostly immune boosting. Best I can do. You know how I feel about you girls and drugs.”

You watch him, incredulous. “And just what does your little philosophy have to say about forcing sleeping pills on your wives so you don’t have to worry about them keeping up, hmm?”

“Finch, you’ve taken your punishment like a good girl.” He nurses his temple where he’s bound to have a migraine as well. “You can take a day off from being a brat, for once.”

You catch him in the low light. Seems he’s nursing a bruise to match. Onto your own scrutiny, his feathers cut you down before the gripe can draw breath.

His attentions never leave the work. 

You pry your hand away, cradling the wound with a hiss. “It’s aftercare for me to watch you squirm, dickless.”

“Is that so…” Keigo sounds almost bored. He rolls his eyes, turning up the brightness of the room. “Well today it’s gonna be antibiotic ointment and gauze pads because someone decided to waste time with an attitude.”

Keigo dresses the wounds without dictation. You allow him his silence until an intrusive thought has you groaning.

“What is it now?”

You shake your head. “I can’t. It’s really bad.”

“Say your peace, Finch. I’m only one man and I have all of you to get through.”

You reel back with a wince, more hurt now than the slap across the face earlier.

The hand hangs limp in his own, touch matching his ever softening tone. 

“No. That’s not… fuck.” A biting sigh. “I’m sorry. That’s hardly fair… How’m I supposed to call myself the fastest if I can’t even hack time management with my family.”

He returns his attentions to the inflamed palm. Draws you to his lips, all adoration.

“You know you can come to me with anything.”

And now he’s just gaslighting you.

Fingers splay across your neck and jaw… forcing your gaze, forcing your intimacy.

Your eyes well with tears when there’s nowhere to hide. He steals them away with a frown, lingering across the bruises that betray your sleep deprivation.

“Why are you crying?”

You push him with barely any fight left. “Please. Just go.”

As you thrash to get away, he can only fight to hold you closer. The pain spikes in an unforgiving swipe across your abdomen. You whine into his shoulder, shuddering into his arms.

He cradles your head to his chest with a soothing rock. Feathers run down your arms and back, all forgiveness. 

“You know what would help…”

He’s the devil at your shoulder. You are fully aware of what he’s about to say.

“A baby won’t begin to fix this,” you break down. He has to strain to hear, this you know. “…won’t fix me.”

The warmth of his kiss bleeds under your skin. He thrums a gentle rap against your arm, just waiting for you to settle.

He shushes you, flying over his crimson helpers for an assist. A damp cloth. Dragon balm. Some medicinal chaser that tasted more like sewage runoff than remotely helpful.

Keigo carries you back to bed. He lays you down, spreads you out. You wince as he cleans his mess. Mercifully, you can’t see him. But you hear him. Feel him.

You make the sounds of him rustling with the cap. It’s mercifully warm on your abused muscles before the cooling menthol hits.

“Tell me the name.” Your blood runs cold as it registers what he’s asking of you. 

He must’ve gotten to Magpie during their conjugal. Shit.

You swallow when he serves the crumbs anyways. “Little Birdie told me that our beloved Blue had heroic aspirations of her own, once upon a time.”

His touch roves over your legs to start, working the product into the meat of your thighs. He waits for what must feel like ages in his eyes… but it would never be long enough for you.

“C’mon. You’re really not gonna tell me?”

“Expect an answer, you’ll have to stop talking at some point,” you grouse. 

Your breath catches on a strangled wail, meeting no resistance when he flips you.

“Quit your whining,” he snaps. “It’s all I ever hear from you. And fuck me for trying to make this marriage work, right?”

His touch is unrelenting. Prying the tension from the source, spreading his fingers over your lower back.

You try to reach out to him. Make him stop. Bat him away. Fight.

A feather nicks your hand away with the swipe of his whims.

“The name, Blue.” It’s not a grounding request anymore. “You give me the name, this all goes away.”

Starling flashes in mind and memory. If you could sleep, if you could dream—

“Freakebana!”

You curl in on yourself, pushing him with what little strength you have left from this ordeal. With any hope, your pride would be toll enough for him. 

The one thing you had, gone in an instant. Precious and private, thoroughly yours. Now it was known to him. Sullied by his acknowledgement. He could twist your comfort and make it ugly—could do whatever he wanted, really.

Keigo was no stranger to it. This would be the least of his atrocities.

He nods to himself in quiet concert, seemingly mollified for now. Keigo leans beside you and presses a kiss over your bruising cheek. His idle touch traces the thrumming pulse before throwing the baby out with the bath water and simply scent marking your whole arm.

“Thank you,” he whispers into your wrist. 

When Keigo rises from the bed, you keep yourself small. He crosses the room to the dresser. Out of the drawer and into his arms came the clothes meant for you.

You must have been a sorry sight if he’s dressing you in his boxer shorts and cotton undershirt over the negligée.

Again, woeful redundance. He’d disposed of your clothes in the first week, imposing a preference for nudity and teddies. What little he keeps on hand for himself, the only times your husband is liable to share are rare moments such as these.

Toe to toe, back to back.

He’s more patient coming back to you.

Two arms in each hole, ever minding your head as he finishes with the well worn v-neck. Right leg and the left until you’re left to your relative comforts.

“Just… I want you to think on it, yeah?”

You furrow your brow. “If this is about the fucking baby—”

On hands and knees, he remains unabashed in his desires. It’s an old tune, one he’s carried for years now.

A baby will cure your pain. A baby will give you purpose. A baby will soothe your broken heart.

Each and every argument has been run into the ground. He doesn’t need another mouth to feed, let alone want one. The others had been thrust into the position, far before their time or consent.

You were one of two holdouts, yes. But as ever, he remains a slave to his instincts. There were fledglings in his care and he craved their unborn siblings. 

“I don’t want to fight,” he sighs. Scrubs a hand across his face like he actually believes it. “I just need you to know there’s an out for you. One that would make me very happy.”

You restrain yourself.

You let him kiss you.

You feel him leave your side.

Only when the door shuts behind him do you give yourself permission to fall apart.

Head pounding, pulse racing, a death rattle crawls from your lips. 

The neon lighting bares down in an obtrusive vermilion that burns your eyes, ever the voyeur to your utter destruction.

[foxilayde]

Thinking about OTTR Leto. That scene from Scarface when they are at restaurant. You’re in a pretty satin dress barley picking at your food. You’re pissed off at him for getting way too high at a special dinner.. he even brought Duncan for god knows what? You were supposed to be gone an hour ago, champagne bottles are empty… the ice cream you didn’t have for dessert is melted. All because Leto ( the stallion HAHA) is rambling about taking over the “spice” lands over on the east.

Thank you for the beautiful prompt! It was inspiring 💚

Tw: drug use, 18+only

Fucking boys night. It always turns into a boys night. And why wouldn’t it? Every restaurant he’s ever taken you to is one he ‘owns’, one where all his jumped up lackeys like to take their dates as well. And they always greet each other like it’s some big fucking surprise. “This guy! They just let anybody in here, eh?!” Kissing each other on the cheek, slapping each other on the ass. He should just take Duncan out on a fucking date.

Not a single one of them can ever have just a gentleman’s dose of the slopes, can they? Especially Leto. He’s beyond geeked and making such a fucking scene that you start to realize why there’s a connotation about the secret back rooms of gangster affairs in restaurants, why the boss is always ‘in the back’… it’s cause you can’t stick him anywhere near the regular patrons without scaring the paying customers away. Especially with his penchant to wave that fucking Desert Eagle. He takes bumps off of it. The golden piece. Ostentatious, reckless, asshole.

This wasn’t supposed to be business. If you can even call it business, the shit these overgrown boys do— playacting as robbers and robbers. The intimidation. The pageantry. The obnoxious parade of power. You twist your Cartier watch on you wrist to get a look at the time, the gorgeous diamond pavé thing, a gift from Leto. Some I’m sorry baby present, you’re sure. Too many to count. The only thing you can count on is that there’ll likely be another one tomorrow. Yes. In the sober light of day, Leto will wake with a raging headache, depleted tanks of dopamine, and a hundred excuses. You’ll excuse yourself because you won’t be able to look at him and when you get home there will be ten dozen red roses and something shiny enough to distract you until the next time.

It’s almost 3 in the morning. Which means you’ve been sitting at the table by yourself for almost an hour.

He sidles back over to the table and rubs your shoulder with his strong ringed hand, “Hey baby.” He’s so fucking loaded right now and he’s going to insist on driving when the time comes. It takes everything in you to smile and put your hand over his.

“Hey, daddy.”

“You okay over here? You’re being kind of quiet.”

It’s a trap, this line. It’s leading. Before you were versed in the beast of chemicals puppeteering Leto, you would speak your mind— air your aggravations. But the beast is a delicate creature that must be treated tactfully. The beast does not care if you’re “okay” the beast is saying, “I am interpreting your silent non-participatory attitude as you judging me. You’d better reassure me right the fuck now that you’re not.”

So you say, “I’m sorry, Leto. I’m just so so tired.” You smile sleepily to sell it and he does what he always does. He offers you cocaine.

“Got a remedy for that.” He starts to dig in his pocket, but you put a soft hand on his arm and pout your lip for good measure.

“Would you mind if I took the car home? I’m just dead tired and I want to lay down, is that okay?” You try to say it all as sweetly and sympathetically as you can, forcing all the weight and meaning off any syllable that might be interpreted as anything accusatory.

But the beast is sensitive.

“You have the fucking keys, dontcha?” He shoos you away with both hands, laughing derisively, “sulking at the fucking table all night,” he mutters. “Go the fuck home, don’t act like I’m holding you hostage.”

You’re frozen for a moment with hot tears welling up in your eyes. You hate that he can be like this. Talking to you like you’re one of his guys’ nephews who just fucked up a drop.

“What are you waiting for? Go! You’re so damn tired, then leave!”

You’re self conscious, scooting and slipping out of the booth, keeping your eyes on the floor in some vain attempt to not let the room see you’re crying. You hope not everyone is staring but you know they are.

You could yell back, if you wanted, like you used to do in the early days. Something about his rage probably preferred it— the twin fervor and flame of it all. The broken crystal. The name calling… The sex was better then too. You’d be just as loaded and dish it out just as hard and you’d fuck in mutual groveling, passionate with evenly geeked apologies in the back of his Cullinan. But you just can’t bring yourself to do it tonight. You weren’t lying when you told him you were tired.