#this is a spur of the moment fanfic

[the-curious-cat24]

Food for Thought (Gojohime AU)

Utahime is at the right age to get married and have her own family, at 32 years old, her parents wants her to find a man and get married, give them grandchildren, some of her colleagues and friends are having their own family. Peer pressure and the feeling of being left out whenever there is a family gathering or her friends no longer join her saturday night outs due to taking care of their children. Except Shoko her beautiful and kind junior who is now a Doctor who always shares her time with her and going out with her, Shoko is always there with her. She is younger than Utahime and having friends with benefits with Geto, her high school class mate  and friend, they are cool with their relationship (even though they’ve been together for almost 10 years already) Utahime don’t see Shoko having a hard time in dating. 

One night as they are having their girls night out with Mei Mei and Shoko, Utahime talks about having someone to impregnate her and get done with the demands from her parents, all they want is to have a grandchild right? and Utahime has been thinking for a long time as well, since she is not getting younger, she also wants to have a child, someone she can nurture and love unconditionally, she may not admit it but she feels envious seeing her colleagues at work talking about their children, the pictures and all. She has not picture herself out of having a husband, due to an accident, there is a lingering scar on her face, and she knew that some men find it unattractive. 

“You are being pessimistic again Hime” Shoko sighs as she drinks her glass of beer “You are beautiful and you will find a sperm donor in any seconds” 

“What a weird way of complimenting her Shoko” Mei Mei taps Shoko’s forehead lightly “Anyway, Hime are you really sure of not giving a chance to go dating? you really want to get knock up by stranger?” 

“Knock up by a stranger?” a deep voice coming from behind startled the girls and look at their back. 

“Geto, what took you so long to come here?” Shoko move her bag from the empty seat and gestures the young man to sit beside her

“Sorry Shoko, I am with Satoru right now and he is joining us today” Geto move towards his seat and standing behind him is Gojo Satoru, His white hair stands out from the crowd and with his signature sunglasses and a black biker jacket with black shirt underneath, he is stunning and beautiful as ever. 

“What is this ‘knock up by a stranger?’ you talking about?” Gojo sits beside Utahime without waiting for her approval and by the looks of her annoyed face, he is liking the reaction already. 

“None of your business Gojo” Utahime ‘tsk’ as she finish her glass of beer. 

Without knowing, two pair of eyes looking at them with mischievous look on their faces and a plan is already formulating as seeing the two starts talking to each other. Shoko knows that look from Mei Mei and nods her head with agreement. This will be an interesting night, Shoko thought as she raise her hand and order for  another glass of beer. 

TBC

[lesbianasfuckwomen]

Iwaizumi wondered.

He wondered a lot, about the trees, (how did the leaves grow up there?) about the ye olden days, (what did they do too survive?) about reincarnation, (would he come back if his life was not fulfilled? What, he'll fucking respawn?)

Most of the time Iwaizumi found himself pondering over the question, why.

Why why why why.

It filled his brain with multiple whys (why is earth round? why is the sun bright? why do we exist?)

Why was he in love with Oikawa Tooru?

Why was he in love with the man currently standing at the podium?

Why was he in love with the man currently staring into the eyes of the woman walking down the aisle?

Why was he in love with the man currently reading his vows?

Why was he in love with the man currently kissing the beautiful woman?

Why wasn't it him?

Iwaizumi wondered about a lot of things.

How, what, would, why, where.

Where did it all go wrong?

[fullmetalscullyy]

emma i would love to see u tackle royai and cooking for each other (or sharing in food). there's such a warmth and intimacy in making something for someone. it's whole purpose is to sustain life!!!

U R SO RIGHT. SO CORRECT.

so........ how about......... three wee royai moments where they're cooking together............. :)

here with me

read on ao3

summary: there was a reason // i collided into you // Roy and Riza cooking (providing for one another) throughout the years

rated: g | words: 2718 | tags: royai, cooking, young royai, post-canon, happy, childhood friends, sickfic, post promised day

Riza shuffled into the kitchen, following the smell of cooking, to find Roy standing over the hob, stirring something within a pot. And whatever it was, it smelled delicious. It was so flavoursome, it made her eyes water and caused her to break out into a coughing fit, announcing her presence.

And although it caused Roy to startle at the sudden, loud sound, he still grinned over at her.

He almost toppled off the chair onto the floor, in an endearing, hopeless, sort of way, but that was neither here nor there.

The reason he was currently kneeling on a chair though, was because he wasn’t quite tall enough to reach the hob to cook. Although in his teenage years, Roy’s growth spurt still hadn’t hit him yet (much to his dismay), so he’d taken a leaf out of Riza’s book and dragged a chair over from the table so he could see what he was doing. Bless his wee cotton socks too, because before Riza had interrupted and startled him, he’d looked so precious up there, his tongue peeking out from between his lips as his brow furrowed in concentration, eyes darting back and forth between the pot and the piece of handwritten paper beside it, which presumably detailed the recipe of whatever he was cooking.

Riza tightened the blanket around her shoulders and wrinkled her nose in response to the sneeze which was threatening her. “What are you doing?”

Roy beamed at her. “Cooking.” He answered as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

He shrugged. “You’re ill. It was the least I could do. Plus, I wanted to.”

“You wanted to.” She blinked at him, unable to comprehend what was happening.

Roy nodded in cheerful agreement, nonplussed about her surprise.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

“Nope.” Roy even popped the ‘p’.

“Well. Let me help at least –” Riza reached forward to busy herself with assisting him, but Roy was having none of it.

“Ah. Ah!” He swatted at her playfully, brandishing his wooden spoon to keep her back and out of reach. “No. Go and sit down.”

Riza frowned. “Roy, no –”

“Riza, yes. Go and sit down. I’ll cook.”

Sensing she would get nowhere with him and too exhausted and shivery to argue she ambled over to sit at the kitchen table, like he directed.

Riza felt bad though, that he was doing all of this for her while she was ill. He was here to learn alchemy. He was a guest in her home. His family were paying her father to tutor him. And now he’d been left to cook for himself – and her – too? It was too much. Her ailing body failing her was no excuse, and yet, he would have none of her continued attempts to try and help him. Her offers were met with playfulness and patience, but a firm reply which said no. He could manage on his own.

Riza still didn’t feel safe enough to venture far from him and his cooking shenanigans though. He’d once shared how he’d almost burned his aunt’s house down when he cooked and Riza was still unsure if it was a joke or not.

So she watched him like a hawk while he chattered away. Probably to fill the silence, which made her feel even worse, because her ill brain could barely keep up with his train of thought and she felt as though she should offer him something, not just silence. But it was too much for her exhausted body and mind to comprehend.

It was… nice, though. To listen to him. To hear his voice. To hear his stories which he obviously enjoyed telling and sharing.

Secretly, Riza loved it.

It was nice to be doted on for once.

To be cared for.

They both sat down at the table together without incident a short time later. Her bowl of soup was presented to her with a flourish, complete with pristine presentation. One would have thought the young man was a professional cook.

Taking a cautious sip of her soup, Riza politely and gently ignored how Roy was waiting and watching for her reaction as she sampled his dish.

It was… good. Great, actually. Extremely tasty. She tried not to be too surprised at how good it was given how much he’d put himself down about his cooking abilities in the past, but this was delightful. Perfect for her sore throat, and delicious. Not too much for her tender stomach to put away either. It was just enough.

He’d created the perfect dish for her.

Riza swallowed it down and relished in how it soothed her aching throat. And immediately went back for another taste.

“Is it okay?”

Riza glanced up, noticing how nervous he looked, even as she almost started to devour and hoover up his homemade soup.

Still, her face flushed pink. “Yes,” she replied, not quite able to fully find her voice with his attention so directly upon her. It was because of her cold, for sure.

No other reason.

“It’s good. Very tasty.”

Her appraisal lit up his entire face. Roy sat up a little taller in his chair. His shoulders rolled back and his head perked up, but it was nothing compared to the pure joy which brightened his entire being, illuminating him from within.

“Good. I’m glad.” He looked extremely pleased with himself as he tucked into his own dinner.

*             *             *            *             *            *             *

“Riza?” Roy’s disembodied voice called out to her from the doorway to her home.

“In the kitchen.”

Roy entered the room a few seconds later, surprisingly. Riza hadn’t expected him to come straight through to see her. Snow still caked the edges of his boots and the shoulders of his thick winter coat, but he didn’t appear to be too bothered about it. Neither was she, honestly. A little water from melted snow would dry up quick enough, so it wasn’t a problem.

And when he did make his immediate appearance within the room, Roy was ruffling his hair to dislodge the snowflakes which had caught in his dark strands. And like always, Riza’s attention was drawn to him immediately.

As soon as he entered the room.

(It was really becoming a problem.)

Riza had turned to greet him, but the sight of him made her pause.

His hair was tousled, slightly wet from being out in the snow and curling at the ends due to the damp. Since he’d joined the military, he’d started to fill out within his own body with all the physical training they had him doing. His arms, which had been long and gangly as a teen, were now corded with muscle, same with his legs. And now, when he moved to dislodge those pesky snowflakes, his newly discovered biceps flexed. Quite nicely, too.

Not that Riza had been staring, of course.

Definitely not.

Nope.

Riza’s face flamed and she hastily turned back to the stove. “Did you get everything you needed?” She was grateful her voice remained steady as she spoke because on the inside it felt as if her entire being was quivering like a leaf, as it often did around her childhood friend nowadays.

A pesky new discovery, but one she would manage. Through sheer willpower alone.

Riza vowed she would not make Roy uncomfortable with the things which churned within her gut and her chest over him.

“Yep. I got a discount on the vegetables as well. I think the lady in the shop likes me,” Roy chuckled.

Riza felt her stomach twist and the bubbling, happy feeling which had been fizzing within her died.

Crumbled into ash.

“Oh?”

Riza buried it. Buried it deep and locked it down tight. Jealousy had no place here and she was too old, too mature, now, to even consider such a thing.

“Yeah. She was very sweet and kind.”

Roy was a friend. An old friend, who she loved dearly.

Nothing more.

Never mind the fact he’d called Riza and been on the first train back when he learned how her father’s health had taken a downturn. Riza had presumed it was to ask her father about flame alchemy while he still had the chance, but in response to voicing her assumptions to him, Roy’s gaze has hardened. His jaw had locked and he hadn’t looked happy about something. He’d even gone as far to leave the room and once he’d returned, a few hours later, he’d looked dejected, but resigned.

Riza still hadn’t figured out why he’d acted and looked that way. And their friendship felt slightly different because of it.

But perhaps it was simply Riza’s imagination.

“What’s wrong?”

Riza startled and suddenly, he was there. At her elbow. Roy even lifted a hand to grasp her elbow gently, initiating contact with his thumb and forefinger which made her stomach flutter with troublesome butterflies, as it always did.

“What do you mean?”

His eyes searched her face, his brow furrowed and face concerned. Riza just averted her gaze, turning back to dinner before Roy could see too much. Before he could figure anything out she’d rather keep hidden for the sake of their friendship.

Her one-sided affections were hers, and hers to deal with alone. She would not burden him with them.

“Huh.”

Riza didn’t dare look at him, but his sudden response confused her. “What?”

“Nothing.” Roy sounded so nonchalant, such a twist from how he’d looked just a moment ago, which brought Riza’s attention back to him. But Roy had already turned away and was walking over to the kitchen table to unpack his shopping bags.

Riza dropped it. She didn’t want to dwell for too long on what he’d meant by that innocent “nothing”. That sudden realisation which laced his tone.

Her poor heart had endured and suffered enough recently, and she didn’t want to add anymore pressure to it. She owed herself that much currently, at the very least.

Roy appeared by her elbow again, making Riza’s heart jump and stutter. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“Um…” Her brain was scrambled. Disjointed after trying to make sense of what had just happened between them.

But Roy waited patiently for her brain to stop short circuiting and catch back up with the present.

“Actually… Yes. Would you mind mashing the potatoes?”

Roy beamed at her. “I would love nothing more, Riza,” he replied rather dramatically, equipped with a wink.

Her stomach tumbled again, but Riza forced her brain to reign it in. She reminded herself he was just being Roy. Playful and fun.

The complete opposite of her.

But… Riza was slowly learning. Thanks to him. Thanks to his influence.

She was grateful for that, at least.

Roy rolled up his sleeves, exposing his now toned forearms, and Riza quickly darted her gaze away, unable to linger on the sight for too long. She studied the stew within the pot before her as if her life depended upon it instead, ignoring the young man working methodically (muscles flexing and all) and humming quietly – while so at ease – by her side.

Side by side, they cooked. For each other. For themselves.

A small smile teased Riza’s lips at the domesticity of it all. It tugged at her heart strings. It brought her a sliver of dangerous hope. A childish vision of the future. It made her insides bunch up at the thought of him doing it with someone else… That lady in the shop perhaps, whoever she was…

Despite it all, Riza had never been happier in that moment.

Right now, he was here with her.

No one else.

That may be the case in the future – and that was okay. Riza could make peace with that, for his sake and his happiness. Her little, budding – but difficult – feelings for her friend would never be voiced or known.

And that was okay.

They’d disappear eventually, Riza was sure. If he found someone, it would be all right. Because in the end, Riza would still have him as a friend. She’d still have him in her life.

And that was enough.

She wasn’t brave enough to lose him.

(Just yet).

It would be too much for him to give up everything for her. Far too much. He had his goals and his dreams, and she was a quiet, lonesome man’s daughter. She had nothing at all to offer, but she could still be his friend. Throughout it all, without fail, she’d offer all the support she had for him to see everything he desired come to fruition.

Yeah…

That would be enough…

Riza supposed.

“Riza?”

“Hm?”

“For the record, the lady in the shop was in her seventies. Nothing to get jealous over.”

Riza whipped around and smacked him on the arm with carrot while he guffawed away to himself.

*             *             *            *             *            *             *

Riza knocked on the Colonel’s door. Hayate whined quietly by her side and sat in place patiently as he waited for his second favourite human to make an appearance.

It was adorable how he’d taken to him.

(Riza understood the feeling.)

“Lieutenant!” Roy’s smile was like a beacon in the dark. It transformed his entire face, and he perked up instantly as soon as he set eyes on her.

Again, Riza understood the feeling.

Intimately.

“Good evening, Colonel.”

He opened the door further and stepped aside, inviting them inside his home. “Come on in.”

Hayate was eager and was already tugging on the lead as he hurried towards the Colonel to jump around his shins.

He was a good dog. He never really bothered or pestered anyone – except her and Roy. As soon as he was around either of them, he begged for attention, eager for pets, and always wanted to be the centre of attention. Every time. He loved them both unconditionally and equally, it seemed.

Riza adored him for it.

Roy chuckled and crouched to pay attention to his adopted little dog while Riza walked inside and shed her coat. Ever the gentlemen, Roy raised from his crouch – much to Hayate’s vocal dismay – and offered to take her coat and hang it up.

“How are you today?”

Always asking after her. Always enquiring how she was doing.

“I’m fine, sir. And thank you for the invite. It was much appreciated, as always.” Riza turned to Hayate who was staring adoringly up at Roy. “Hayate missed you, so I’m sure he was grateful for the opportunity to visit.”

“Just Hayate?”

Riza narrowed her eyes at him, watching as his danced as a smile teased his lips.

“Yes,” she deadpanned.

Roy’s mouth parted in mock shock as he placed a hand upon his chest, over his heart, before breaking out into laughter.

He even stuck his tongue out at her.

Just like he did as a boy.

“Come in.” Roy gestured further into his home. “I know I promised a lovely, relaxing evening,” he winked, “but it seems I’m still having some trouble.”

Riza’s concern for him instantly flared as he lifted his hands, wiggling his fingers and inadvertently brandishing his scarred palms from the Promise Day.

“I could use a hand in the kitchen, if you wouldn’t mind, Lieutenant,” he smiled sheepishly. “I tried already… with disastrous results.”

Riza opened her mouth to reply, only to be halted by a different smile, one which spread across Roy’s face and softened his features entirely. “I thought we could cook together. Just like old times.”

His sweet, boyish smile transported her back through the years, to all the times they’d done this before.

A million times before.

Some of the happiest moments of Riza’s life.

And Riza’s heart tugged at the nostalgia of it all. At how he’d remembered she’d once quietly admitted it was one of her favourite memories of her childhood with him – when they’d worked and cooked together. Provided for themselves and one another. At its basest, given each other the gift of care and sustenance.

And he’d remembered.

Riza rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan. The Colonel’s eyes sparkled with delight at her acceptance.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

Their age-old question to one another.

Something that was just theirs.

“Why yes, Riza, I do believe there is.”

read on ao3

comments and kudos are always much appreciated!! 🥰🥰

[imitation-steamroller]

Something Old, Something New

Skarloey has been away serving as part of a good luck package. But when he finally comes home, the other little engines are surprised to find that he wasn't just something old.

“What’s taking Skarloey so long?” Duncan groused one day. “He goes gallivanting off on holiday and leaves us to do his work!”

“Nancy already explained it,” Peter Sam said patiently. “Her cousin is getting married, and they asked for Skarloey to be part of the good luck package.”

“I know that!” Duncan snapped. “Why does he get to go up to Duck’s branch line, hmm? Why does he get to be repainted? I work hard enough to deserve a new coat of paint!”

None of the other engines mentioned that Duncan had just been repainted a month ago.

“Speaking of which,” peeped Sir Handel, “did anyone notice how secretive everybody was about Skarloey’s repaint? They even took him to the big engines’ workshop for it. The rest of us always have ours here.”

Rheneas chuckled ruefully. “I’m not sure, but I know Nancy is behind it. She was in a right state when they came to take Skarloey away. Apparently, she suggested something as a joke, and Skarloey and the bride decided to go with it.”

“Do you think they painted ‘Just married’ on the back of his cab and rode away with him and that old haulage wagon of his?” Rusty joked.

“Not quite,” came a voice.

The little engines couldn’t believe their eyes as Duck pulled into the yard. Behind him, he had a coach full of happy wedding guests, and behind that was the flatbed carrying Skarloey, who looked a very different engine indeed.

Instead of the red paint with white lining they were used to, Skarloey was painted a bright shade of blue. It wasn’t so light as Thomas, Edward, and Gordon’s paint, nor was it quite as dark as Sir Handel’s.

“Do you like it?” he asked, chuckling at their expressions.

Soon, Skarloey was loaded back on the rails, and Rusty shunted him into the shed next to Rheneas.

“What’s this about, then?” Rheneas chuckled.

“Ask Nancy,” Skarloey answered. “It was her idea, after all.”

The girl in question leaned against the shed wall, wearing a red dress with a blue ribbon around the waist.

“I meant it as a joke,” she said, fighting off a grin. “I said since Skarloey already fit as something old and something borrowed, we may as well figure out how to add something new and blue to the mix.”

“Thus the change in color,” Peter Sam surmised. “An old and borrowed engine in a new coat of blue paint!”

“A four-in-one good luck package!” Rusty laughed. “Clever thinking, Nancy! Though, I don’t think Sir Handel likes it very much!”

Sir Handel eyed Skarloey’s paint critically. “It isn’t bad, I suppose. But I had better not hear any passengers getting us mixed up!”

“Don’t worry, Sir Handel,” Skarloey said innocently. “We can just have you painted red to balance things out!”

Sir Handel’s reply was drowned out in a chorus of laughter.

[happyk44]

"I'm not leaving you behind! It is my duty," he hissed. "I swore myself-"

"Your swore yourself because you had no choice, Percy." Her eyes were endless dark, devoid of feeling, of life. "You had a price to pay for your mother's life and this was your only offer." Her thin fingers cup his face through the bars. "You didn't choose to be my protector." She gave a weak laugh that made his stomach plummet to the floor. "You're not even my guard yet, not really."

Like a phantom, her touch slid down his cheek. He caught her wrist before her fingertip stopped gracing his skin. He could feel the rounded edge of her fingernail poke against him. Silence held fraught between them.

"Bianca-"

"Percy," she cut in, voice so sharp it cut him to the core. "I want you to survive. You're free. Take advantage of that, and go. Now."

"I can't go back without you," he said, quickly. She didn't fight his hold, but still his grip tightened. As though the harder he held her, the more she would stop protesting her escape. "You are-"

"Dead." Her lips thinned. "I'm dead, Percy. I was dead the moment they got their hands on me and I will be dead before either one of us even makes it beyond these walls, but you-" Her voice cracked, eyes watering.

He shook his head. Blood pounded in his ears. He didn't want to hear what she was going to say, wanted her to stop, wanted it all to stop. Just for a moment.

But it didn't, and neither did she. With a deep breath, she carried on, "You can make it. You can live. But only if you leave without me, so go."

His lungs burned. She inhaled so deeply, spoke so forcefully, and it made him hold the air in his chest until he couldn't take it anymore. If he didn't breathe, maybe she would. But his chest ached. Self-loathing wedged itself like a rock in his throat as he let go. The sound of his own breath was like nail on chalkboard.

"Percy," she whispered. He shook his head and leaned in closer. Although tears hadn't yet fallen, her eyes were still wet. They glistened like the night sky. Her forehead pressed against the bars.

He looked away. The brick wall to his left was growing a fair bit of moss in the corner. "What's our star again?"

She laughed. It was a watery thing that choked him where he stood. Memories of standing the long grass, moonlight shining off the river, while she read her books beside him. Every so often, she'd look up at the night sky and search for the brightest star that month. She'd tell the stories behind the constellations. Or at least the stories from her kingdom. Any time she told a story, a fantastical myth, she'd follow up that her brother knew more - Nico, the quiet prince with a voracious appetite for legends and monsters.

Then, if she could spot the brightest star that month and if she recalled, she'd tell him what it meant for the people born that month. At least, in their hemisphere anyway. The stars were different elsewhere. Sometimes she'd crack open the newspaper, the stark image of her father, and read aloud the horoscopes.

He still remembered the incredulous sound she made when he told her they shared the same birthday. She'd dragged him to the library to refresh her memory on their star. Then argued furiously that he did not share the same traits as her.

It was a silly thing. She didn't believe it. He didn't either. But it was the first time they hadn't played the stiff act of royal princess and her knight-in-training. Not Percy holding his tongue and following strictly one step behind. Not Bianca doing her best to pretend he wasn't her shadow.

Awkward civility and stiffness carried thick between them from the moment Percy had been casted into his role. But that night, with the sound of yelling and laughter still echoing in their ears, they made an agreement. They didn't have to be the best of friends, but they sure could be casual with each other. After all, they were going to be stuck with each other for the rest of their lives.

At least... they were supposed to be.

Slowly each finger detached one by one until all that was left was his palm pressed against her wrist. Then that fell away too. Still he couldn't bare to turn his head and face her.

"Leo," she said. "The lion. Strength, pride, loyalty, confidence."

A stabbed orange toy on new year's day passed through his mind. "Sacrifice."

It was quiet for a beat. Then, "Yes." His heart hammered so fast he could feel it in his throat. "The lion represents sacrifice."

What was he supposed to say? He wanted to run, to turn the lock with the key he stole, take her and run. Run far and fast. But deep inside, he knew she was right. He could get by undetected. No one cared about a child knight, not even yet passed his training. He could blend in and slip out. Even if he got caught, they wouldn't nearly put in as much effort to get him back as they would if she were with him.

She was right.

She was already dead.

He swallowed thickly and met her eyes again. The night sky glistened back at him and he thought of constellations and warm handshakes and kind agreements and silly arguments. Breath caught in his throat. "I'll miss you," he whispered, voice hoarse.

Her lips twitched. "I'll miss you too." She blinked, and one tear slid down her cheek. He tracked the wet trace it left behind until it welled up at the bottom of her chin and dripped to the floor. "Will you do me a favour?"

"You're my princess," he said. "I would do anything for you."

It was a weak smile she gave before she spoke. The sight of it crushed him. "Tell my family I love them." Her breath escaped from her shakily. She pushed back her hair. A classic move to hide the nerves that drove her hands to tremble ever so slightly. "And take care of Nico. Please."

"I will," he promised.

Her smile strengthened ever so slightly. But the tears fell fast now, one right after the other. Her face tilted away at the first streak. He immediately turned his line of sight back to the brick wall. Weakness, sadness, grief - she hated being seen with any of them. He always respected it. Look away until she was done. Don't speak, don't ask her anything, don't help her. Just look away and stay silent unless she calls out.

So, even as his mind's eye was trapped in the wet track of tears on her skin, the hitched sound of her breath holding in a cry, he turned and headed back for the dungeon's door. The doorknob twisted in his hand. The door cracked open.

"Percy."

He held stiff. "Yes?"

"Don't forget the bracelet."

Heat burned at the back of his head. In his pocket, the bracelet felt heavier than the weight of the world. When he had first arrived, she gave it to him. When he refused to take it, insistent that she could deliver it to Nico herself, she shoved it into his pocket herself. Like a ghostly stain, his thigh still tingled with the forceful and firm press of her hand. He was sure it always would.

"I won't."

"Stay safe," she said, a princess in a dungeon ready and waiting to die.

His heart shattered. Still, he kept his head held high. "I will."

Then, without another word, he left the girl he had spent the last three years training to protect. He was meant to die for her. It was the role he had accepted the night he and his friends had stormed the castle and pleaded for help with his dying mother. He didn't argue. He didn't plead. Without hesitation, he swore his life away for hers. Without hesitation, he swore his last breath would be hers.

Yet she was the one embracing the eternal coldness to come. She was the one breathing weakly so he could breathe strong. She was trading away her life for his. She was the lion, giving a mighty roar before the dawn of a new year. She was the sacrifice, held down by chains with a glistening sharp blade raised above her head.

But he wasn't the one lowering it upon her neck. No, he was the cold breath of winter. The first drop of snow. The wilting grass. He was the barren wasteland that drove her out into the open. He was the starving masses desperate to live. He didn't have to drop the blade. He didn't have to use his own hands to spill her blood across the ground. His survival was her end. And that made him her killer anyway.

[sailing-through-hawkins]

look who finally finished a wip, it's me i did that 〒▽〒

here is eddie being high off painkillers, what was previously known as "oh no this got feelings by accident" and was also titled "they took his teeth" at some point, now known as home smells like soup and feels like you

and here is the second chapter which is just the same as the first but i tried to make it as screen-reader accessible as i could!

"We're home," Wayne confirms, opening the car door as Steve moves over to undo Eddie's seatbelt.

Gently, Steve wraps his arms around the under of Eddie's arms, laughing when he tries hugging Steve back. He pulls Eddie out slowly, giving Wayne time to take over so he can shift over to Eddie's other side and they both help him to the door.

It takes some time and a lot of patience to get Eddie settled on the pull-out - he keeps fumbling over his steps and trying to bump his head into Wayne's like a weird cat - but once they get there, he settles himself into the mess of blankets and bedsheets all snug and Steve has to really hold back from punching a wall.

"How does he just knock himself out like that?" Steve marvels as Eddie wiggles even further into - well, it looks like a fucking nest to him, but he doesn't want to say it out loud - with a content sigh.

Wayne snorts and pats Steve's back as he walks over to the kitchen. "Kid could sleep through a hurricane even if it was dancing right on top of him."

[hgejfmw-hgejhsf]

Val's December Drabbles Day 1/25

Okay, so yeah I'm doing a drabble advent, where I allow a random Christmas word generator to choose my prompt for each day from now until Christmas. Send me all of the good vibes you have because I have many a fic to complete between now and then, so what's 25 more, huh?

Today's word is merry and is inspired by the following lyrics to the song Merry Christmas by Ed Sheeran and Elton John:

We'll dance in the kitchen while embers glow We've both known love, but this love we got is the best of all I wish you could see it through my eyes then you would know My God, you look beautiful right now Merry Christmas

Alex finds Henry in the kitchen, humming softly to himself as Elton John’s voice issues tinnily from his phone. His back is to Alex as he stands at the stove stirring something in a pot that smells heavenly. He’s just set the large ladle down when Alex wraps his arms around Henry’s waist and spins him around to face him, his blue eyes wide with the shock of the silent greeting. He quickly relaxes, melting into Alex’s embrace as they sway to the rhythm of the music, the flickering light of the fireplace dancing alongside them on a nearby wall.

You can also find the entire series here on AO3!

[brightdrawings]

Reminisce

inspired by this piece by @stephreynaart

It was almost a year now. Their world wide trip had taken longer than he had first planned. Or maybe he had extended it on purpose. Staying at each port for an extra day, taking in sights, picking out gifts for his family. Taking more detailed notes than necessary, observing the world with a slower pace than he normally would. Trying to enjoy as much of his life as he could.

"It's what he would have wanted." Stanford would tell himself.

It was almost a year now, but walking into town, knowing that he couldn't hear his laugh anymore. that he wouldn't have his old friend's wild ramblings, impressive inventions or admittedly enjoyable banjo playing to return to made his heart feel like stone. Weighing down in his chest until it felt too difficult to take another step. He missed him dearly, and a world without him felt wrong. A gravity Falls without Fiddleford McGucket felt like perverse reality he didn't want to live in. No living would be too kind a word. He wouldn't be living in a world like that. he'd be enduring.

The thoughts in his head began to form a maelstrom of pain and sorrow, of memories that he couldn't relive. Of Relationships he couldn't build. It felt like a big cruel joke. But as the thoughts began to take hold in his mind, the familiar sound of banjo strums echoed through the woods. It wasn't the same, the tune too modern to be something Fiddleford would play. Despite this, Stanford found himself following the plucked strings until he found himself at the Shack.

Sitting on the porch was a familiar long nosed man, with bushy hair and ball cap covering his eyes. Tate McGucket was steadily plucking away at a banjo, playing a tune from the radio. Beside him were Mabel, Wendy and Grenda, cheering him on. On the grass in front of them were Dipper, Soos and Candy, working on a new machine together. Stan stood aside, laughing his usual gruff laugh at what nerds the former trio were.

Watching his new family, Stanford felt his chest grow lighter. They weren't the same as Fiddleford. But they didn't have to be. His old friend was dead. Stanford accepted this long ago, he missed him dearly, but he knew he was dead. He wasn't looking for a replacement or something to fill the void in his heart. His family was already there. Alive, well and ready to support him no matter what.

However, in this instance they might need his help as he watched Dipper and Candy's robot catch on fire.

[crossover-enthusiast]

Probs the last lil tidbit unless you say something that reactivates my neurons

Opposite Robert gets food real

I’m totally picturing Robert asking “mister kev is my brother dead :(“ and Kevin’s like “uhm�� I mean… I guess it’s… just safe to say you won’t be seeing him anymore, okay?”

Hard cut to the ending where it’s revealed rads alive HEHEH

YIPPEE ROBERT GETS A SAMMICH and gets to watch cartoons :]

Also YEAH hah-

Also I'm just seeing Kevin and Rick in the bg and-

"So he really...?"

"Yeah. Christ, I can't believe I was stupid enough to think he was our friend."

"It's not your fault! Radford's always been... grouchy, but I don't think anyone could have seen him going that far, y'know?"

"..."

*Rick looks over to Robert, then back to Kevin*

"Does he have any other family?"

"I think he has an older sister? Even if he did, I don't think I'd wanna... hand him over? What if they were like, scheming together and she tries to do the same thing?"

"Radford "works alone", remember?"

"Pff, yeah..."

[citrenecult]

How does reincarnation work?

[calicofeatherpen]

Me, pointing at Sova: yes hi, um, how do I break this man???? how do I make him fall to pieces in the most natural way??? cause this man stoic as shit!!!

The little gremlin in my brain: “The blood on his gloves and fingertips are dried. Bright red faded to a rusty brown that flakes off his skin as he rubs his hands together. Small bits are caked and burrowed under his fingernails. It’s such a small amount. It’s the only blood on him at all, and it’s not even his.

He rubs at the blood, watching it drift to the metal floor like snow. He wonders, if he rubs enough, maybe it will be thick enough to crunch under his boots like real snow, like bone breaking against the sole of his boot, like the tendons, muscle, and spine of a neck snapping under his hands. Like a once inseparable team of eight reduced to three, then two, and now him. Standing alone, surrounded by white walls. Standing with the blood of what may very well be his brother coating his fingertips. An inseparable team, snapped to mangled corpses and unmarked graves by his own hands. Eight, now one, by Okhotnik, Filin, Brother of Steel and String.

‘Why?’ His voice is small, lost to the wail of the sirens. ‘Why did you follow me, you fucking idiot?’

He kneels down, carefully picking up the eyes from the stained floor. Dangling them from the nerves to preserve the delicate collagen. It’s the most he can do now. ‘I didn’t want to do this. You didn’t have to do this!’

Marius’ corpse, eyeless and mouth gaping, does not respond.”

Me, lowering arm: well damn O.K.

[howifeltabouthim]

The sadness in his tone made the question she'd been afraid to ask slip out before she could stop it.

Shannon Messenger, from Exile

[pennedbylisse]

INTELLECTUAL CRUSH

ep. 2 | ep. 3 | ep. 4 |

a multi-part series centered around the anonymous exchanges of namjoon and a literature girl. a separate but related installment of the halley universe (see Cupid Operation)

Books Nine Lives Company

Eco-friendly and sustainable trade of old books. Where we repurpose the neglected.

Namjoon pushes his weight into the swinging door and the store sign rattles.

A bell rings overhead - a jaunty, youthful chirp - as he enters the familiar bookstore to be encased in the scent of aged leather, the subtle-sweet vanilla essence of lignin wood-based parchment and the musty scent of carpet that has endured soiled shoes, coffee spills and bladder accidents from the part of the resident senior dog sleeping by the shop window.

He takes a practiced sharp left down a thin hall lined with mahogany-variation shelves, all crammed with books, without a single cubic inch to spare. The walls seem to encroach in on him, the further he disappears into the shop. Hardcovers and paperbacks - some surprisingly intact in condition, others faded, sun-bleached, tearing at the spines - spill from the shelves, pour into unstable, uneven stacks on either side of his legs.

Over the terrain of an old tapestry carpet, his worn logger-lace-up boots part a sliver of shuffling space.

His eyes dart over the labels meant to trim the seams of unrelated sections. During some point in the lifetime of the store, it proved effective. Now there's impractical irony to it. The books spill over their borders, congregate into uncategorized mounds, beg assortment and the inquisitive human graze.

Non-fiction, Poetry, Modern Poetry, Classical Philosophy . . .

"Kant...Kant...Kant," he recites beneath his breath, whilst drawing the tip of his forefinger over the lined spines. The ribbed feel of it in conjunct with the continued drum of his touch reminds him of sliding a hand across piano keys. An unattended grand piano on the courtyard of a local mall, the sound inflating beneath his hands, swirling up and around, diffusing through empty space and through an idle mind.

"Ka-" his finger halts, and shortly after, so do his steps.

He shuffles back to trace down the spine.

Namjoon saunters towards the front desk, skimming the dorsal face of the book cover with a furrowed brow.

There's a golden - well, once-golden, now-rusted coppery bronze - call bell that he would have once rang and been met with silence. He would have questioned ringing it once more at the risk of irritation.

Now, he only sets the book by the register and folds down to greet the senior dog curled into a ball over its dented, worn pillow. Grey, melanin-deprived hairs shade the corners of its snout, and highlight its brows, the tips of his billowing ear-lobes.

"How are you today, Apollo?" he whispers.

The dog lifts its head groggily to sniff Namjoon's outstretched palm. It scrunches and wrinkles its cracked nose and slightly parts the drooping lids of its eyes. Murky white clouds greet Namjoon.

"You make twenty the new twelve."

At the beep of the scan gun, Namjoon starts to rise.

The shop owner, Ruki, has a near-psychic ability to sense the presence of a customer within the maze of shelves. The call bell is for formalities, as is the dainty one hanging off the entrance frame. Uses them as fail-proofs while he disappears into the storage closet towards the rear of the store and pastes barcodes onto the covers of new arrivals.

Namjoon fishes a hand into the internal pocket of his winter coat for his wallet.

Ruki, behind the desk, mirrors the grey, melanin-deprived complexion of the dog, who once had been golden. The old man drums his knuckles on the wood counter and stares out the shop window contemplatively. It looks like it might snow today.

"Stray dogs," he voices, puckering wrinkled lips into a slight frown. "Invincible little creatures, aren't they? At this rate, I fear the damn dog will outlive me."

Namjoon thumbs the lined green bills nestled into his brown wallet.

"2.50's the sum, kid."

Namjoon folds the cash onto the counter and slides it into the man's wrinkled, patchy, outstretched hand.

"Everything alright, Ruki? With you, your family?"

"Yeah, I suppose." He shrugs. "Cancer's back." In a swift and practiced motion, he slips the receipt between the book pages like a bookmark. "I guess I can't be too upset with this fate. I only ever wished to live 'til 85. 84's not bad. Not bad at all." He slides the book face-up toward Namjoon, lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. It doesn't quite reach the point of crinkling the lines strewn around his eyes.

Namjoon grabs the book, taps it on the edge of the counter, as if gathering a deck of cards or a pack of printer paper. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be, kid," he slices right through the platitudes, having felt sorry for too long, having learned how much of a waste it is to live in regret and pity. "We all die at some point. It's nature. No use defying it."

"What about treatment? Technology, nowadays, is so advanced. I read a paper discussing the transplantation of a pig heart into a human recipient. Promising developments."

Ruki shakes his head markedly. "Can't go through that all over again. I won't spend whatever time's left - months, maybe a year, if I'm lucky - rotting because of chemo, not being able to tolerate my favorite foods, bleeding from my gums, in hospital rooms surrounded by people in the same death-bound state as me. I wanna be out here, where life is, all types of it. The pretty kind, sweet kind, the ugly, the morose, rude, and real kind. I wanna make memories with my daughter while there's still time."

Namjoon absent-mindedly frays the edges of the book with his thumb, liking the fluttering friction of the thin corners against the pads of his fingers. Tries to think of something better to say but realizes that sometimes silence holds more meaning. Ironically, his words fall short of any value, even amidst a bookstore overflowing with them.

Instead, he voices his unbridled curiosity. "What'll happen to Apollo?" He looks down at his left, at the dog. Very faint golden strikes up its flanks, transitioning into colorless white. "The store, too?"

"Ask myself that daily." He lifts his brows and lets them fall just as quickly, as if he's at a loss for a response himself. "I've been trying to persuade my daughter to assume my position. I even offered her the compromise of opening the shop only two days a week, so that she'll have the rest of the time to dedicate to her studies - wants to be a doctor, my little girl. I have no doubt she will be. Unfortunately, I likely won't be there to see it, to see her pledge her Hippocratic oath, get her white coat."

Namjoon sits at the bus stop, string earbuds in his ears, the book held splayed by the sturdy hold of his right hand over his crossed lap.

He draws the flame of his lighter to the cigarette balanced between his lips before slapping the case over the amber, extinguishing it swiftly.

Ashes descend onto his denim lap.

When the snow starts to glide through the sky, the grey nicotine ashes blend with the pale blanket by his feet. It is clean and fresh, yet untarnished by scruffy boots or bicycle tracks.

He'd read once, a statistic accusing nicotine as the leading cause of lung cancer. Quickly and half-mindedly brushed it off, like burdensome lint on a freshly-washed sweater. Plucked the doubts from his mind one by one before they could poison the rest of his thoughts.

It wasn't because he found it hard to believe. He was certain of its validity, the statistics were convincing, as was the logic, rather he didn't care. Cared more for taunting death a little, daring the universe to kill him the way he predicts. It's a little morbid but something deep inside him knows that life is rarely predictable or tamable.

He could do one action, and the opposite would unfold. It's not hypothetical. He'd tried to refute his hypothesis with trials; the amount of times it was supported soon became too burdensome to track.

Life isn't straight-forward. Good people get sick, die; the evil persist. The talented go unrecognized in the shadows, ghost writers; the connected thrive. It's all pointless to try and make since of any of it. It's all absurd, as Albert Camus would put it.

He tosses the butt of the cigarette to the ground as the bus pulls up, comes to a screeching halt before him, and squanders the faint amber with the sole of his boot pressed into the snow.

It fizzles a little through the worn-thin sole.

The bus shudders to a halt, and Namjoon shakes the slumber from his head, unfolds his lap, stuffs the book into his back pocket while he starts up, swaying clumsily, sleep-drugged. It was a routine practiced enough that he didn't need to count the stops, or read the street signs to know when to hop-off. There's some internal clock in his subconscious that starts ticking away at the minutes as soon as he climbs the steps up the bus before Nine Books.

The gates unfold and slide across the frame of the bus. It drives away with a long draw of its engine, and a squirt of inky smoke from its exhaust.

Replacing its sight, a vintage-style diner comes into view across the street.

Namjoon crosses the striped pedestrian markings towards it.

At the door, he tugs on the sign, hung around a snagged nail, twists it from displaying a scribbled "Closed. Come Again!" to a "Welcome!"

He strolls in, heavy boots echoing dully across the vacancy. Dispersing muddied snow on impact.

On the trajectory towards his quaint square office space towards the rear of the facility, he can't resist the nagging urge to flip the chairs resting on tabletops. He's got a chronic case of twitchy hands, likely a result of the incessant nicotine crave. Makes his mind race, his legs unsteady, unstill.

At first, he means only to flip one, and scratch the mental itch.

It persists.

After the second chair he starts circumferencing the table, figure eights in swift motion towards another table.

The chatter of the legs on tile is enough to fill the buzzing vacancy of his mind. Enough for his hands to clasp onto and anchor themselves.

But just as quickly, his focus starts to blur. Eyes skit over the distant counter in search of the next thing to occupy his time. His mind.

He's been down this road before. Has made it until noon stil in his winter coat, robust keychain clanking rhythmically against his belt clip. Goes hours without eating anything of substance. The gnawing of an empty stomach numbs before he circles back around to the first intention of the day: visiting his office.

"Office first," he reminds himself today. Inhales deep into his diaphragm and holds it lest it escape his dominion, like the rest of his thoughts and intentions.

He slips the jagged teeth of a golden key into the lock and twists the rusted knob. The door lets out a long groan as it swivels on tired hinges.

Nearing the disheveled surface of a wooden desk pressed against a wall, he plops down his latest read over an assortment of folded papers, receipts, stacked notebooks of moleskin and annotated promotional pamphlets. Try as he might to assign each item its designated square space, it never remains organized long enough. The universe tends towards entropy, he'd justify, it's just the law of nature.

Upon shrugging out of his winter coat, he drapes it over the backrest of his office chair.

His eyes habitually trail over a circular frame standing on the desk's edge. The textured frame accentuates a black-and-white image of his grandpa and grandma caught in a side-embrace, hands clasped over one another's at grandpa's breast.

Gingerly, his tremoring hands collect the frame. He draws his pointer finger over the smooth glass preserving the image, the single moment solidified in time.

He shakes his head clear of some dense sensation and places it back on its designated place, indicated by a square frame of gathered dust.

Shutting the creaking office door behind him, he fishes the carton of cigarettes from his back jean pocket. Plucks a single cylinder from its place and plants it between the groove where his ear adjoins his scalp.

He meanders into the vacant kitchen. Starts a pot of coffee. Nostrils flare as the acidic aroma starts to permeate the empty lot.

The brew drips and bubbles as he strolls to the dormant jukebox on the far end of the establishment. He bends down to plug its chord and starts up. Digs a spare coin out from his front pocket and slips it into the slit on the machine.

In response, it illuminates to life, flickers neon in a hypnotizing pattern.

Pressing a neon green button, he flips through the title slips. He's not registering any of them, though. Just lets his eyes become oversensitive by the mechanized motion of the slips. Defaults to inputting "1-2-4" on the selection panel.

Inside the glass, a wheel of two-hundred discs spins in search of the selection. It slows until it halts and a robotic arm upends a record disc from the rest, lays it out over a turntable.

In a synchronized choreography, as the record is laid over the turntable, a needle descends over its grooves and holds steady pressure.

The machine emanates a crackle that falls into a single voice: [The Song]

Namjoon shuts his eyes in that moment. Allows the familiar tune to send him back in time. An easier time, a more innocent one. Where his only worries consisted of finishing school assignments and coming home by the parent-designated curfew.

His grandparents would dance circles in the diner, hands clasped together, heads leaned to this very song. The customers would cheer, eyes sparkly. They'd submit petitions for the next songs by holding up a shimmery silver coin.

Namjoon would collect them, have them whisper the desired track into his ear. He'd skip back towards the illuminated machine and recite the corresponding track numbers until the current song would come to a cadence.

He sighs. Thinks, I should visit them while they are still there to visit.

It's not something he looks forward to, however. To come to terms with how much time has changed them. To accept that those fond moments are never coming back.

Circling around the kitchen, he procures a metal bowl from the cabinets. Tugs open a drawer and clasps a whisk, its metal cool to the touch.

Opening the fridge door, and bathed in its sterile light, he grabs a couple of eggs, skims the container counting the ones that remain. Provisions should arrive today.

While there, he grabs the tub of butter. Flings the door close with his boot and swivels to pour the ingredients over the counter space, next to the shimmering bowl.

He turns and leans over his head, grabs the flour and sugar from a high shelve. A bit of flour escapes a tiny hole on its bag and dusts his cheek.

Instinctually, he crinkles his eyes, coughs. Shakes his head.

As the batter inflates under the warm luminance of the oven, he grabs a broom propped against the wall inside a storage closet.

His boots clunk rhythmically over the tile floor when he makes his way towards the entrance. Props the door open with its embedded door stump. Starts to part a walkway through the compacted snow. Can't have customers slipping.

It's a cold day in January. The merciless kind of cold that can't be nullified by the festive spirit of the holidays. There's mutable wind changing directions immediately as it blows into him. Delivering the caress of winter and just as quickly withdrawing it.

The muscles of his back and shoulders tense in anticipation for the next gush of frigid wind. The hairs on his exposed forearms prickle.

He starts to envy the batter heating in the kitchen.

He thinks of burning the cigarette nestled over his ear. Imagines how the smoke would warm him up from the inside out. As though a steaming chimney lived inside him.

When he balances the cigarette between his chapped lips, he becomes aware of an approaching figure, strolling up the walkway. She's bundled in a coat, hunched in on her small figure. Raven black hair blowing in the wind.

Namjoon nods in her acknowledgement as he digs around his pocket for his lighter. It's clumsy and desperate and hurried, so the lighter slips his grasp on multiple occasions.

The incomer doesn't slow or detour.

"Morning, boss" the girl quips. Plucks the white cylinder from his lips.

He grimaces at the sensation that a part of his dry lips had been torn along with it. Cups his mouth to verify it isn't true.

"First time I actually get here before you light it."

"You owe me a pack."

"Yeah, well, you owe me the two years of extended lifetime I've gathered you."

"I don't think that's the actual math."

"I've saved you time. Can we just leave it at that."

Namjoon resumes brooming. Still cold. Still tense and prickled. Nicotine deprived.

She shrugs her shoulders out of the billowing coat to reveal at least three more layers of clothing beneath. Long sleeves tugged over her wrists to keep her fingers from tingling.

Norah's armored herself with a black apron, her name affixed to the collar with a pin. She pops out of the doorframe long enough to hand Namjoon a mug of steaming coffee, no sweetener, light milk, but not long enough to allow the wind to ripple a shiver through her.

Namjoon gratefully accepts. Holds the broom handle beneath his arm to allow himself to cup the mug with both hands and derive warmth from that. "Where's your partner in crime? Sleeping late, again?" He mumbles against the ceramic rim, steam billowing up his nostrils.

"En route," she responds over her shoulder. She rounds into the kitchen. Grabs the glass coffee pot and pours herself a black.

Namjoon chortles, accidentally inhaling a gulp of the hot drink. Dissolves into a coughing fit before he's finally composed enough to verbalize "From where? Mars?"

"Actually..." she sets down her drink on the counter. Loses her gaze out the front windows, ravaging her mind for recollection. "No. I think he mentioned it was from Saturn." She angles her head pensively. "Got caught in the current of those spinning rings or something like that."

Namjoon translates, "He's stuck in rush-hour traffic."

[thought of henry's place in addy larue while writing this so thank v.e. schawb for the imagery inspiration]

[herbertwest]

I write one (1) fic that I post on AO3 each year and I wonder what it's going to be this year.

[anaalnathrakhs]

[always-andromeda]

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⟡ Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⟡ 2,685

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⟡ A lull in your relationship with Javi leads to some revelations about both of your interests.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ⟡ so this was a new one for me. this piece is part of @iamasaddie's kinky writing challenge for May and my pairing was Javi G with impact play. I am happy to report that I enjoyed researching this more than I thought I would? I found some really interesting kink blogs that kind of walked me through safe practices and it started to paint the picture in my mind that would become this fanfic. big disclaimer: I've never practiced impact play in real life. my depiction of it comes primarily from the research I've done and what I know of my own personal preferences and I've tried my best to depict a healthy dynamic. so if I'm getting something wrong or I'm depicting anything in an unhealthy way, feel free to let me know!! divider credits go to @saradika-graphics!!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟡ smut (minors, do not interact), impact play, oral (female receiving), aftercare, pet names (hermosa, baby), reader is given no physical description aside from being able bodied, allusions to past negative experiences with sex (nothing specific is described), a little bit of soft!dom/switch Javi, please let me know if any more are needed!

It’s not that you weren’t satisfied with Javi. The sex had almost always been fine. Hell, most times it was fantastic; better than anything you’d had before. There certainly wasn’t any love lost between you and him. You’d always adore him and the beautiful life you’d built with him by the sea in Mallorca. 

At first you thought it might have been the passing of time that spurred this particular…yearning. After all, don’t most couples go through these patches after a few years? But it quickly became apparent that this wasn’t a fleeting desire. Days passed and you kept going back to the same blog: Impact Play For Beginners.

The first time you’d stumbled across it, you hadn’t paid it much mind. You were looking for ways to spice things up with Javi. But it didn’t seem like him. As your eyes flitted over images of paddles, whips, and canes, all you could think of was how uncomfortable he’d most likely be. The idea of that turned you off, of course.

But you didn’t stay off for very long at all.

Perhaps it was the fact that he felt so safe that made the idea so enticing to begin with. You’d never been with anyone who approached sex as healthily as Javi did. He’d always been fervent with his desires. At the same time, he’d never made you feel like you had to do anything. There was always foreplay, regular check-ins, aftercare, and the ability to say no to whatever, whenever.

It was refreshing. Relieving. And that’s what made it so rough, thinking about possibly bringing something new into the equation. But, Javi had always been big on communication. You trusted that the same principles would apply here. So that’s why you brought it up.

Javi had been open but hesitant about it. At face value, this kink really wasn’t his style. He favored a softer approach. He couldn’t imagine laying a hand on you and causing any sort of harm. But in all honesty…the idea excited you.

The more you looked into it, the more you began to draw some hard lines in the sands of your mind. First and foremost, no toys. As exciting as a crop looked, you weren’t sure if you were prepared for that. At least not yet. For now, you were sticking with the advice of various kink blogs you’d scrolled through and starting off with hands only. Not only were those the instruments that piqued your interest in the first place, they also put you the most at ease. It felt poetic somehow; his usually gentle hands delivering both pleasure and pain this time.

Another aspect you started to delve into were on and off limit body parts. That was the moment Javi set a boundary of his own. “Nothing with your face. I’m not touching your gorgeous face, hermosa,” he’d said with the softest puppy dog eyes. And you didn’t argue. You weren’t feeling comfortable with that either. 

No, you’d start out in the safest zones possible, the places that would be least likely to get injured: your ass and thighs. 

Then came the scheduling. You both agreed on a weekend night just so there was an adequate amount of time for recovery before either of you had to worry about work.

You stand in front of the vanity mirror in your bedroom. Part of you feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff as you stare at the lingerie clad figure being reflected back at you. With the night that’s ahead of you, you figured it’d be safest to wear something you’re familiar with sans the bottoms for easier access. It’s a simple chemise that’s comfortable enough, yet it hugs your body in a way that you know both you and Javi enjoy. You try to focus on that thought as you think.

The most reassuring part is that you aren’t afraid. As much as you’d wanted this, you’d also wondered if you would be. Instead you’re all raw nerves. And the electricity thrumming from them only calms when Javi appears in the mirror behind you.

You watch his dark eyes trace over your body in the mirror. It’s a sight he’s seen probably hundreds of times at this point, yet he still looks like it’s the first time he’s laid eyes on you.

“You are so beautiful, hermosa,” Javi breathes out in genuine awe. “Gorgeous.”

Your cheeks warm at the dose of flattery.

Javi’s hands start at your shoulders and you relax into them. The heels of his palms knead the muscles that seem to be perpetually knotted up. You close your eyes and picture that taut tissue slowly and carefully unwinding itself. A small sigh escapes you. It sows hope within you knowing that he’s willing to step out of his comfort zone for this. But it also brings you comfort; he’ll always take care of you just like this. 

“Are we doing okay, so far?” Javi mumbles.

You stifle a small laugh and the urge to say, “We’ve barely started anything.”

Because you know this is new for him. You try to remember that you’re new at this too. Don’t go too far, too fast. Pace yourself, you say internally.

“We’re alright,” you finally assure him.

“Promise me you’ll use your safe word if you need to.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror. He eyes you with furrowed brows and his lips in a thin line. His hands still work at your shoulders; work you into the most soothing rhythm that makes you want to fall asleep. But the fire that fills your bones makes you feel more alive than ever.

You nod and then turn to face him. “I will. I promise.”

Your hands find his cheeks and cup them. In that moment you’re holding your entire world. And you’re trusting him to fulfill some of your most vulnerable fantasies.

Your lips meet his and it all starts to fall together. He’s warm and tastes vaguely of citrus. His hands land on the globes of your ass and he gives them a good squeeze. A moan slowly rises in his throat. If there was one thing you knew Javi was looking forward to, it was paying more attention to that part of you. Besides, there was no way you could miss the way he looked at the pictures on one of the kink blogs you’d scrolled through together. Shots of a woman’s back. Bright red marks in the shape of a hand on her ass. 

His eyes had been so wide, simply staring at them as you read through tips for beginners.

“You wouldn’t want marks like that…would you?” he’d asked then. 

The note of hopefulness in his voice was palpable. He’d never been good at concealing his emotions, especially around you.

“I don’t know…maybe,” you’d replied coyly before admitting, “I kind of like the idea of it. Of having that reminder of you.” As if everything else wasn’t enough. As if you needed to see the evidence of his love represented by blemishes on your skin. That was the thing about Javi though, his whole being was so infectious. You needed him to inhabit every part of your life. You needed to see his handprints on you like you needed to breathe.

Anticipation sends a shiver up your spine as you lay on your stomach along the foot of the bed you share with him. Propped up on your elbows, you arched your back in order to better present your ass to him.

He takes a moment to lean over your form. You already feel a bit of a bulge poke the back of your thighs. At least he’s starting to enjoy himself, you grin.

“Are you ready to begin?” Javi asks. You hum absently only to be met with a brief pause before he adds, “Words, hermosa. Words.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, voice raised louder this time. You don’t see his expression, but you can imagine the way it stutters based on the silence that follows.

Javi thankfully doesn’t leave you with too much time to second guess yourself before you hear his chuckle, “Very good job. I’m already so proud of you.”

He stands again and continues gentle ministrations on your upper thighs. Once again you feel as though you could simply fall asleep. And there’s something secure in feeling like you could. You’re safe. 

A pleasant flush builds on the surface of your skin. You can feel the blood coursing through your veins as Javi warns, “I’m going to give you the first strike. Then we’ll go from there, alright?”

“Alright. I’m ready,” you affirm. And you mean it.

A few seconds later, you feel a light slap on your ass. It’s almost playful. And it doesn’t satisfy the craving within. You start to squirm, hoping to suppress some of the restlessness brewing in your chest.

“Easy, hermosa. Good girls stay patient,” Javi says. You’re not quite used to hearing such language come from him. But it’s perfectly in line with his desire to care for you. It’s how you feel confident that you’re both on the same page. He doesn’t want you overwhelming yourself either. So despite the soft start, you don’t feel any disappointment.

You do what you’re told and stay patient. 

The slaps don’t startle you until one leaves a particular sting that awakens a heartbeat in your core. For the moment it lives, it means everything to you. The initial jolt, along with that expectant throb, subsides a little too quickly for your liking. You fist the silk sheets beneath you just to find purchase in something.

“Keep going like that,” you whisper breathlessly, wanting to chase that feeling to the ends of the Earth.

And Javi lets you. He slaps your ass once, twice, three more times and each one builds the heat that crackles along your flesh like thunderclaps. On the fourth slap you finally gasp a small, “Fuck.” You feel yourself clench around nothing. But Javi still groans as if he was inside you. 

“You like this, hm?” he growls.

“So fucking much,” you whimper.

Smack.

The impact is hard enough that it makes you jump. More importantly, you feel that throb once more. Your belly fills with butterflies as you start to realize that it’s fucking working for you. 

You try to imagine what you must look like from his point of view. Ass up, head bowed, gasping between blows. You bet that based on your position, from where he stands, he’s probably getting a peek at your cunt too. And if it looks anything like it feels, you’ve got to be glistening. You’ve got to have the most inviting look about you. And the fact that that vulnerability still doesn’t scare you…your head feels lost in the clouds.

You feel Javi’s fingers drag over the curve of your ass before they stop just short of your cunt. He says suddenly, “Fuck, I need you. I need to taste you. Please?” he begs. 

All you can manage is a whine along with a swift nod before rolling around on your back. Just as quickly, Javi is on his knees, dragging you down the bed by your ankles until he’s almost face to face with your cunt. You can feel just how swollen your lips are. And as he begins to lap at your slick, you know that you haven’t gotten this wet in a while. It fulfills something inside you that you hadn’t expected.

Your thighs and your ass burn, but it only adds to the pleasure gradually filling your belly. The pain and pleasure come together in a gorgeous harmony that has your hips rocking along against Javi’s mouth. His warm tongue fucks you as your clit rubs against his nose. It’s a classic position that’s only heightened with the knowledge that when you wake up in the morning, his handprints are going to be on your ass.

You’re shamelessly rutting against him now. Fingers knitted through his hair, you ride out the mounting pressure like you’ll die if you don’t. And Javi – being the pleaser he is – enjoys it. Between breaths, he groans, sending vibrations through you that seem to rattle your bones.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine.

“Mhm,” Javi hums desperately. “Go ahead, you can get there, hermosa. Just use me, please.”

Tears start to slip down the sides of your temples. Flashes of all the men you’ve been with before fill your head. You think of all the times you weren’t in control. All the times you felt you didn’t have a say in what was going to happen to your own body. And those memories only remind you that none of that is true anymore. Right here and right now, you’re with Javi. And he’s indulged in something you would’ve been too afraid to express to anyone else. All he wants is to please you. And that only makes your tears flow faster.

You’re going to combust. Javi Gutierrez is going to make you fucking explode and you don’t even care. You’ve gotten yours. As long as he too gets to feel the impact of his kindness, you’re satisfied.

Just like that, the bomb goes off and you’re on fire as pleasure rips through you. You’re in pieces. Legs wrapped around Javi’s upper half, heels digging into the muscles of his back, and hands keeping him held in place; keeping what’s left of you together in a shaky embrace.

It takes a few seconds for the shock to melt away. Somehow you catch your breath and finally remove your hands from Javi’s curls to wipe away your tears. If you weren’t tired before, you’re exhausted now. More than the physical satisfaction, you couldn’t have foreseen the emotional release. 

Your ass and your thighs don’t quite hurt anymore. It’s more of a soft ache; a rolling wave you ride on until it passes, leaving your head floating in a placid ocean of bliss. This naturally comes with some swirls of catharsis and sentimentality. They both buzz in your mind and you're only distantly aware of it when Javi gets up to wet a washcloth.

When he returns, he cleans you up the way he always does. Asking if he’s alright to touch you in various places and letting you know before he does so you’re not startled. You pay just enough attention to hum in agreement as he carefully parts your thighs to wipe up the remnants of slick and spit. 

Javi finishes the job a minute or two later, leaving once more to add the washcloth to the laundry basket in your closet. Then you feel the mattress dip as Javi lays beside you, looking spent without even taking off a shred of his own clothing.

You return to your own mind for a moment. Enough to turn, lay on your side, and send him a worried look. “Oh, I’m so sorry, baby. Do you need me to take care of you?”

Javi laughs lightly, “No. It’s alright, hermosa. You don’t need to take care of anything for me.”

“Are you sure?”

A soft smile forms on his face. “You’re happy, right?”

You nod.

“Good. I’m happy too. We don’t need anything else.”

Javi tenderly places a hand on your lower back and pulls you a little closer towards his chest, his grin growing. “Besides, I can’t wait to see those marks in the morning.”

His expression is so contagious you can’t help but return it before placing a kiss on his nose. “Me neither,” you whisper. Within a few days those marks he most certainly left would start to take on a purple hue before fading into a yellowish undertone. The prospect of seeing that progression fills your stomach with butterflies once more. Surely you both prepared enough that they wouldn’t take long to heal. But that doesn’t bring you down in the slightest. Because as long as Javi is willing to, when those marks do go away, you and him get to make them all over again.

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