yowhoevenami

[yowhoevenami]

AND we have the video! By @/joeismillers on X! 🥵🥵

https://x.com/joeismillers/status/1768350621411782707?s=46&t=67rZ3XA7w2z6szQQNcLc1Q

[yowhoevenami]

A couple people on discord mentioned that they wanted one, and TBH, it makes total sense:

You can order it here.

[yowhoevenami]

“The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.”

— James Baldwin, “The Fire Next Time”

[yowhoevenami]

Analicia Sotelo, from Virgin: Poems; “South Texas Persephone”

[Text ID: “Look now: my heart / is a fist of barbed wire.”]

[yowhoevenami]

Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1931–1934

[yowhoevenami]

– Unknown

[yowhoevenami]

“Come love, make me better than I was. Come teach me a kinder way to say my own name.”

- Andrea Gibson, from "Good Light," Lord of the Butterflies

[yowhoevenami]

The X-Files – Pilot

I’ve been rather couch bound with some health nonsense, so I’ve decided to jump into this. It’s been a while since I’ve watched The X-Files and I’d like to shout into the void about it for a while. Here follows me losing my mind over things like character introductions for the most part. Seriously, I feel like this show is a masterclass.  

The meeting between Mulder and Scully is so good. In a relatively short amount of time, about three and a half minutes, we are given SO MUCH. Scully’s professionalism and Mulder’s . . . um . . .contrast to that? 😉 Mulder’s sense of humor along with his sideways method of complimenting and his apparent inability to be serious most of the time. Scully’s intelligence as he lists her credentials. (His intelligence was already highlighted in the previous scene.)

Her ability to meet him where he stands intellectually. (The way that they challenge each other is fascinating to watch and is what keeps them so interested in one other. Who else could effectively match either of them?) We are shown her curiosity as she immediately starts to question what she’s seeing in the slides he presents to her. (Taking a moment of silence here to remember the times when slides had nothing to do with powerpoint.)

We get Scully’s core beliefs in this one bit of dialogue. (This world view is integral to her, and she later struggles with the difficulty of having to see beyond the surety that she has spent a lifetime cultivating.) Three and a half minutes! There are reasons that these two are so iconic and it all starts here.

Their first few scenes together he is testing her to see if she’s trustworthy and to gauge her capabilities. However, the impression is never even hinted at that he might be doubting her because she is a woman, only that she was sent to spy on him. (Honestly, this still feels refreshing as hell compared to other media that attempts to write strong women.)

We learn more about Mulder and what he might believe. His near giddy excitement over what they may have found with that exhumed body hints at the reveal later as to why he believes. This is a man that has spent his life being told that what he saw as a child, with his own eyes, was a lie. And here, before him, perhaps for the first time is the vindication of all of that? No wonder he’s practically clawing at the walls to get those tests done. And then, of course, the bathrobe scene. Is there an official name for this scene in the shipper lore because if not THERE SHOULD BE. :cough: Anyway.

Up to this point Scully has been expressing her strength and capability with little to no hint of vulnerability. Going to Mulder here, when she was afraid was one thing, the way she threw herself into his arms afterward is another. (Also, my kid wandered into the room during this scene for the hug and said “Ooooh, this is a love story, isn’t it?”) Yes, child. Yes, it is. But . . . in so many different ways and among so many other things.

Anyway, he chooses to answer her vulnerability with his own and tells the story that drives him. Here all levity in him dissipates into pure focus and drive. These are sides of Mulder that he carries with him throughout the series.

By the end of the pilot episode we have a really decent idea of who each of these people are, what is important to them, and what they want at this point of the narrative.

Side notes:

First use of: “Scully, it’s me.” (❤️)

And . . . now I’m craving sunflower seeds.

[yowhoevenami]

Skoll "One Who Mocks" and Hati "One Who Hates" are two wolves in the sky, chasing Sol and Mani (sun and the moon) in an endless cycle. As dawn breaks, Skoll begins his pursuit with a terrifying howl. As dusk begins, Hati chases the moon with blinding speed across the celestial body. And so, the cycle is complete and resets. Until the end of days, Ragnarök, this dance continues, until finally the wolves would catch their prey and bring darkness to the world.

Skoll, with eyes as bright as fire, and fur as white as snow Heralded the coming of dawn, and the start of a new day's flow Hati, with eyes as dark as night, and fur as black as coal Heralded the Coming of dusk, and the end of the day's toll

Skoll, the embodiment of hope, and Hati, the embodiment of fate Together they chase the celestial orbs, that define the cyclical state Of the world, in a never-ending cycle, that has been set in motion By the gods, in a cosmic dance, that has been their devotion

They are the embodiment of fate, the bringers of the end, The ones who will devour the very stars, when the world shall bend. And though we may fear their approach, and tremble at their might, We cannot help but be in awe of Skoll and Hati's endless flight.

[yowhoevenami]

Folkloric Figures Emerge in Malene Hartmann Rasmussen’s Shapeshifting Ceramics

[yowhoevenami]

Totally saw and studied this picture for a bit before I even read the text with the post so here was my take without knowing any of the original references yet and I've not read the fic that was the inspiration. (it's crazy to me how many different thoughts and ideas can be sparked from the same piece of art):

Just gonna nerd about tarot for a minute and how perfect this is. The Hanged Man can have a lot of meanings but one of the major ones for me is the sense of surrender that is inherent in it. It can be about letting go of yourself and sumbitting to something larger than you.

My druidcraft deck says, "independence comes from an acceptence of our interdependence" and if that's not Mandalorian culture . . . I don't know what is.

The art is obviously awesome as well! The posing, the colors. I can tell that so much love and attention went into this and it's fantastic!

The hanged man bound by the Creed

I’m baffled how beautiful this turned out to be. This is my love letter for @ryehouses and her fanfic “a simple thing”. I poured my heart and soul into this piece and I hope you will appreciate. I was also thinking it can be a fanart for the season 3 but the series goes the different way. Not gonna lie, I was little bit sad about that. Hoewer this is exactly why fan works exist. The story is set up after the season 2 before the BoBF was released.

Now I will dive more into the details of making this painting.

The whole idea was to show Din’s struggles and emotions through his journey in this story. “The Hanged Man” is the card of sacrifice that is needed to move forward, as a representation of righting a past wrongdoing or just steadying himself before moving forward. To reevaluate and learn to live with the new Way. And that’s exactly what this story is about. Din is dar’manda, he removed his helmet, he is not mandalorian anymore, his covert shunned him. He has a saber he doesn’t want. Without the kid everything is meaningless. He has nowhere to go, so he just sinks more and more into depression. But Boba is there, steady as a mountain. He helps Din to understand himself, he sets him on his new path, the new Way he can walk.

The hammer in the corner is the covert. The shame and guilt Din feels when his alor’s and brother’s judgement falls on his head, strong as beskar.

The figure with the darksaber is Tarre Vizsla, the first Mand’alor representing Din’s future with the weapon, the heavy searing burden.

The blue flow is the Force. It is like a cloud, a mist that drifts from living creature to creature, set in motion by currents and eddies.

Lastly, there is a castle basking in the Tatooines suns, representing Boba Fett. His strong presence, Din’s safe space.

I was inspired by @penumbra_cosplay photo shoot and use them as a reference for the pose, so please check them out!

And the whole style is inspired by Alfons Mucha’s paintings.

To those who read all of this, I thank you. I was a journey! Love you and see you next time. 💜

[yowhoevenami]

sometimes I breathe you in  and I know you know 

Tori Amos, Hey Jupiter

[yowhoevenami]

I feel like Ezra's voice must be so difficult to pin down but this is so beautifully done.

There's a poem by Connemara Wadsworth called "Desire" and your story brought this part of it to my mind:

"I lean closer into you, feel your blood surge as you hold me and I echo the beat pulling on us as I wrap my legs around you and open as morning glories do when the sun warms them."

The study of intimacy versus pure physical desire is something that fascinates me and so much of this is so lovely. How reader is unsure she's ever been touched with this much care, how it was easier on Ezra to not let her touch him, to make this slow pleasure solely about her but then the way he can't help but react to her touch.

And of course the overall trajectory of the story with the surprise of the request and then the teasing leading into something profound for them both is just beautiful to see.

Hi sweetie!

How about “Tell me what you want.” with Ezra 💚

Hazel, you ANGEL. This request absolutely terrified me at first but I could also kiss you for it because it pushed me out of my comfort zone. Ezra's voice is so intimidating, but I am also very lucky to have the lovely @ezrasbirdie to help me out and encourage/inspire his weird vernacular and completely insane temperament. I really hope you enjoy where I took this, and thank you so very much for sending it <3

Prompt: 5. “Tell me what you want.”

Slow

Ezra x f!reader

WC: 1.9k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI SMUT, friends (?) with benefits, reference to rough sex, grinding, fingering (f receiving), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV, Ezra always deserves his own warning (there also might be some feelings hidden in the peas, sorry)

"Tell me what you want." 

Your lips leave his skin for the first time since he’d stripped you down and pulled you into his lap, verifiable by the dark red splotches and indents roughly the size of your incisors clustered at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Unwilling to cease entirely, you slow the roll of your hips, your center still dragging across the currently soaked tent of his pants. 

“What I want?” you breathe out, skeptical. 

Ezra knows your dubiousness is warranted; it’s not a request he’s apt to give. In fact, he huffs at the realization he’s likely never used the string of words in a sexual encounter before. He’s taken you nearly every way possible - your body given willingly for him to use and deprave however he liked, and as many times as needed to quell the neverending degenerate urges that reside within him. 

Recently, Ezra has uncovered a gripping curiosity of what exactly you might suggest if given the opportunity. 

“Must I repeat myself, sweetheart?” he chides, digging fingertips into the pliant flesh still gyrating in his lap before abruptly sitting forward. Denying you the chance to respond, a hand to the back of your neck urges your lips to the shell of his ear as he purrs into yours, “Use that filthy little mouth of yours and tell me what you want.”

Despite the generous connotation, it’s still a demand. You fluster, panting into his ear as your head swims with what you could possibly ask for. In all Ezra’s taking, he already gives you what you need - to be useful. What else could you want? What else was left that he hadn’t already taken? 

Large hands continue to roam, groping and squeezing, impatience at your delayed response seeping through the motions and lighting up your skin. When one hand leaves your ribcage only to land with a crack on your backside, the sting of his palm sending familiar spikes of pleasure to your core, you don’t hold back a sinful moan. 

But then your racing mind halts, the realization of one way he hadn’t really had you surfacing quickly. You have to hold back a laugh at the prospect, biting down before grazing lips over his ear and whispering, “Fuck me slow, Ezra.”

He freezes beneath you, hands coming to rest on your waist before pushing your body away to find your face. Brows knit together as he crooks his neck back an extra inch in appraisal. He's certain he must look as skeptical as you did moments ago. 

"Is that what you desire, little flower?" he asks, overcoming his initial bewilderment. Ezra doesn't quite believe that a tender fuck is what you've ever wanted from him before tonight, but he's willing to play along. He wets his lips before letting them curl into a teasing smirk, bringing a hand to your face and dragging the back of it syrupy slow down your cheek. "You want me to treat these delicate petals with care? Fill you up until they're blissfully nourished, all unfurled around my cock?" 

The roll of your eyes at his obvious ribbing is involuntary and he chuckles darkly when you bite back a laugh of your own, playfully shoving his shoulder back against the wall.

Truthfully, you don't believe the concept of wanting this of him has ever occurred to you. Ezra knows, as well as you do, that you need to be used just as much as he needs to use you. But now, as you observe that familiar, vexatious darkness in his eyes subside a negligible fraction, you wonder if perhaps you'd conjured the notion in a dream at some point. 

Regardless, you lean into him, nodding your head and barely grazing lips over his as you whimper, “Take me like you love me, Ezra.” 

There’s only a flash of hesitation in his eyes before he pushes forward and into your lips, hands drawing up to cradle your jaw before languidly licking into your mouth. A reflexive shudder rattles you, surprised at how quickly he’s leaning into this strange form of roleplay. The gentle manner in which he’s holding you is already so foreign from what you’ve learned to expect from him. 

Yet, it sends the same buzzing arousal through your skin, permeating and overwhelming when his hands drop to your hips and carefully lift to set you on your back. The floor ridden mattress doesn’t provide much cushion from the hard ground below, but Ezra’s soothing hands and sticky words keep you more comfortable than you’d have surmised. 

“My little flower wants to be fucked tender, does she?” he asks, slipping two thick fingers into your folds, wading them almost lazily through the pool of slick he finds there. You settle your arms above your head as a drawn-out moan falls from your lips. 

Dripping hot breath over the pulse points of your neck, he croons, “As if she is Kevva-sent, a splendored land just waiting to be plotted and replete? Or, perhaps the finest gem these hands have ever held? Something- a woman, to be treasured?” 

The effect of his praise, invented or not, has you withering beneath him. One rough knuckle slips into you easily, pumping in and out far slower than you've taken any part of him. Instinctually your hips chase it, lifting to counter the slow thrusts and usher him in deeper. 

A high-pitched whine leaves you when he stops, the finger inside you kept stationary as he brings a thumb up to press down, gentle but firm, on your clit. He pulls away from your neck to bore onyx eyes into yours, increasing pressure at the drop of your jaw. 

When your walls grip fiercely around the digit he chuckles again, almost in wonder.

"Fuck, Ez-" 

"Have patience, sweetheart," he orders, the tone demanding and serious and dropping so low it sends rolling thunder to your core. The pad of his thumb begins an excruciatingly slow circle where it sits, slipping easily over its target without losing contact. 

You don’t realize you’ve begun to claw at the mattress until he reaches for your hands, bringing them to rest on either side of his face as he begins to pump his finger again. The soft scrape of his patchy beard, delicately skidding over your palm instead of its usual sharp burn against your skin, is surprisingly pleasant. 

When he bows his head to ghost lips across the line of your jaw, you can’t help but feel you’ve made a mistake asking for this. 

As if you’d spoken the concern out loud, he taunts, “Did you think me incapable of this, flower?” The warmth of his palm glides along your ribcage, bringing the weight of your breast into his hand and rolling its peak between two fingers. “That I could not possibly restrain my perverse tendencies long enough to pull you apart nice and slow?” 

Fuck. 

You really didn’t. 

And why the fuck does this feel so good? You don’t know if you’ve ever been touched like this - so delicately and with so much care - and while Ezra’s feigned reverence won’t convince your mind of its sincerity, it is convincing your body. It’s as if he’s completely shed the shameless carnality that drew you to him in the first place, exposing a far softer underbelly that is disturbingly just as arousing - even if it’s all a ruse.

Maybe it’s because you know it is.

When you slip your hand down to cup the persistent length between you, he bats it away with a soft nip to your earlobe. “Gonna take care of this pretty pussy first, take my-”

“Hey,” you breathe out, twisting your neck to force his gaze to yours. Whatever he finds there gives him pause, confusion suddenly painting his features as you feel a ripple of goosebumps wash over the nape of his neck beneath your fingers. 

In his dazed state, you move to grip him again and an almost pained gasp lodges in his throat when he allows your fingers to wrap gingerly around the outline of his clothed cock. You palm him, achingly slow, watching every subtle twitch of restraint in the muscles of his face, cataloging these small new reactions as his eyes pinch shut under your gentle caress. 

Maybe you’re as good at this as he is. 

Sprawled out on the dirty mattress, there’s no way of knowing how long you stay like this. Heavy petting with equally heavy breathing, kisses dusted over patches of skin, sporadic jolts of ecstasy at the lightest brush of each other’s hands. Ezra whispers into your skin, saccharine praise you’d never imagined could apply to you falling from his lips as he unhurriedly journeys south. They only cease when he latches onto your swollen center, drawing out soft cries you have no control over the cadence of. 

You lose track of how many times you cum on his tongue. Each release is built up torturously slow, his mouth and hands both soothing and glorifying as your muscles shake, your vision slowly loses clarity, and each breath you take becomes more labored than the last. You suffocate under the devotion he pours into your cunt. 

It feels like hours before he resurfaces, finally tossing his own threadbare articles of clothing aside to crawl back up your body. There’s something strange behind the man’s eyes as you watch him place velvet trails down with his tongue, clinging to your curves and leaving paths of saliva and your own slick in his wake before ending at the point of your chin. You meet his tongue with your own before he can breach your lips, savoring the taste of you while languidly tangling them together.

Ezra’s voice is still sickly sweet when he withdraws to line his hips to yours, but you detect a hint of buried strain when he asks, "You still want me slow, little flower? Want me to take my time, hunker down in this perfect cunt until you can’t take it anymore?” 

You don’t know. You have no idea if that’s what you want anymore. A part of your brain screams to say no, to retract your earlier request and order him to fuck you like he always does - desperate, unhinged, like he might snap and break your neck before he has the chance to cum - but the ache between your legs and nuerons now firing terrifying messages of pleasure to every one of your extremities under his promising gaze keep you from speaking. 

All you can do is nod and gasp as he enters you, watching the muscles laid over the column of his neck pull impossibly tight in his attempt to not sink immediately to the hilt. Ezra is panting like a dog when his hips are finally flush to yours, letting out an anguished groan at your measly clench around him, and you bring your hands to his face. 

When you seek his eyes again, what you find is unfamiliar and haunting. They’re wide, vulnerable, and absolutely petrified. You stall at the slew of unfiltered emotions that wrack your body. You want to look away, to again take back your words and tell him to just use you, but you can’t. And Ezra only stares, unmoving. 

The moment drags heavy, the sound of your heaving chests filling the humid room and drowning out the roar of blood in your ears. Ezra finally shuts his eyes, barely shaking his head while you brush a thumb over the crescent-moon scar over his cheekbone. 

“Ezra,” you whisper. He doesn’t respond, but you feel the muscles in his thighs tighten on either side of yours, pulling you closer to him.

“Ezra. Take me like you love me.” 

With a deep trembling breath and the slightest nod, he opens his eyes - and obliges. 

[yowhoevenami]

I love the details of the paintings in the glitter frames and the lightswitch. . . I've spent the last 6 months in and out of offices and I wish ANY of them had been as straight-up whimsical as this one!

I love that Marcus is the kind of doctor to come get the patient himself. That's so him. And noticing and then acting on her discomfort with the lights. *headdesk Ugh, I love him.

Such a good set up and fantastic ways of showing us how sweet and awkward they both are. Lovely. :)

Relaxation Techniques | Part 1

Pairing: Physical Therapist!Marcus Pike x f!reader (no use of y/n)

Rating: T (series will eventually be E)

Word Count: ~2.7k

Warnings: light language, poor self-talk. This is a doctor’s visit, so mentions of medical questions involving physical and mental health, mentions of pelvic exam. A little bit of flirting.

Summary: When you tell your OB/GYN about some concerns you have about your pelvic floor muscles, she refers you to Dr. Marcus Pike, a physical therapist who specializes in pelvic floor dysfunctions.

A/N: Here he is, I told you he was coming

One of your least favorite things about going to the doctor is the paperwork. Every practice has its own website, with a patient portal where you have to create an account to log in and fill out forms— medical history, family medical history, allergies, medication list, HIPAA statement— and every time without fail, you’re given the exact same forms in person at your first appointment.

It drives you nuts. Why bother going digital if it still has to be done on paper?

You are inordinately pleased when the new physical therapy practice your OB/GYN referred you to doesn’t send you any emails or texts to remind you to fill out their intake forms online.

On the imaginary score board in your head, this place already has one tally mark in the pro column.

You don’t know what you expected the office to look like, but you didn’t imagine the walls to be painted in soft blues, almost like ocean waves, or for there to be a chic turquoise leather couch with shaggy, overstuffed throw pillows laid carefully at each end. You could never have imagined the bright cyan armchairs with two eyeball buttons sewn against their backs, and you certainly couldn’t have imagined what looks suspiciously like female genitalia paintings in glitter frames on the walls.

Considering the doctor specializes in pelvic floor dysfunction, you guess you shouldn’t be surprised. Besides, they’re very tasteful.

You decide that despite the silly décor— or maybe because of it— the office is designed to put you at ease; and you suppose that if it weren’t for the pamphlets advertising various lubes and dilators, grief support groups, and stress management techniques, you’d be very relaxed.

You can’t help but be a little tense. The doctor is a man, which you hadn’t discovered until you’d called to make the appointment, and you were so startled by the information— and by the extremely peppy receptionist on the other end of the line—you’d gone along and scheduled your consultation when she’d started listing out available dates.

So here you are, a clipboard balancing on your knees as you painstakingly go through the intake forms, which are much more detailed than you’re used to filling out, including several questions about pregnancy and childbirth, sexual concerns, and mental health questions such as do you have a history of PTSD?

Your pen hovers over the little checkbox next to yes, but you end up marking the no box instead.

If you did, you’d never been diagnosed.

You pause at the line that asks for a brief summary about why you’re there, tapping the end of the pen lightly against the page.

It was a mix of things, none of which seemed terribly significant when you list them out; it was the long-term effects, and the duration you had endured them, that you were worried about.

You decide to go with “tight pelvic floor muscles.” It’s easier to explain in person than on paper, though the thought of telling this to a male doctor has your anxiety spiking.

You wish you’d remembered to stuff your squeezy shark, Bruce, into your bag before leaving the house, then you’d be able to take your stress out on him rather than obnoxiously tapping the pen on the clipboard like you were at a drum audition.

At least there’s no one else in the waiting room.

“OH SHI-zz,” you startle at the receptionist’s outburst, and she smacks herself so hard in the forehead you hear her mutter a little owie before she pipes up again, “I totally forgot to ask, would you like anything to drink? Water? Coffee? We even have that frou-frou carbonated stuff if you want something fancy.” She waggles her fingers on the word fancy.

The girl is downright precious, her elbows braced on the reception counter as she looks at you eagerly, vibrating with the energy of an overexcited chihuahua. Her shoulder length hair is dyed a screaming magenta that clashes horribly with her neon green cardigan, her long purple acrylic nails have bats in top hats painted on them, and her gold septum ring is adorned with a little snake.

Before you can answer her, the door to the back opens and a tall man in a crisp white button down and ironed khakis steps out, greeting his receptionist with a small wave and a “hey, Melanie,” and you think he must be another patient, but then he’s stopping in front of you and oh, no he’s the doctor?

He’s easily the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, all golden skin, wavy brown hair, and deep, dark eyes you’re already getting lost in.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Pike,” he says with an easy smile, extending a hand to you as you get up to greet him. His hand is huge, dwarfing your fingers in his firm grip.

He releases you and claps you lightly on the shoulder, jerking his head towards the door he just came out of. “Come on back.”

As you pass through the doorway, your eyes catch on the unique light switch cover…in the shape of a vulva. You snort a laugh and the tension in your shoulders eases the tiniest bit.

Dr. Pike walks you down the hall, past a few rooms with various exercise equipment and what looks like a meditation room, before stopping and gesturing into a brightly lit office.

He starts to close the door behind you but pauses and asks, “Would you be more comfortable with the door open or closed?”

The question is so sincere and considerate, you feel emotion well in your chest and the beginnings of tears pricking at your eyeline.

Oh, wow. Really? Can you not keep it together for 5 minutes?

You hope your voice doesn’t come out too strained when you reply, “I’m ok with it closed.”

You give him what you think is a convincing smile and he takes a moment to study you, starting from your shoes all the way up to the top of your head. From most men this would feel predatory, invasive even— but when he does it, it’s entirely clinical, an assessment from a professional.

He purses his lips in thought before nodding to himself and pulling the door mostly closed, leaving about a half foot of space. He bends down and flicks on a little machine that fills the room with white noise.

When he stands back to his full height, he smiles gently and motions to the padded table for you to sit down.

“I can take that from you, if you’re finished,” he inclines his head towards your clipboard as he lowers himself onto a stool across from you, leaning back against the counter lining the wall.

“Oh! Right, yeah, I’m all done,” you trip over your words as you hand it to him, your internal scolding increasing in volume at your awkwardness.

Ridiculous.

Dr. Pike scans the forms, and you take the opportunity to look around the room. There’s a chair in the far corner against the wall, next to a poster of deep breathing exercises and a few other charts you can’t quite see.

A black file cabinet that comes up to your chest is pushed into the corner, with a small stereo placed on top— the kind that takes CDs, you note with a small smile when you spy the small stack of discs placed haphazardly beside it.

Above the counter are cabinets decorated with flower stickers, and the surface of the counter is strewn with various medical supplies, as well as a crumpled bit of fabric that looks like it might be Dr. Pike’s discarded tie.

Cute.

You squint under the harsh fluorescent lights that all doctors’ offices and schools seem to be required by law to have. The big window on the far wall let’s in enough light that it’s not really necessary for them to be on, and just as the thought crosses your mind, the overhead lights switch off.

“Sorry, force of habit to turn these on in the mornings. I can’t stand them either, always give me a headache,” he says with a sympathetic grimace.

“Me too,” you murmur, and there’s that feeling again, a nearly overwhelming surge of emotion creeping up your throat and making it hard to swallow.

You’re not used to people noticing when you’re uncomfortable.

He gives you a reassuring smile and sets the clipboard aside on the counter before leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. The change in position makes his shirt strain against his broad shoulders, and you need to take a second to remember how to breathe as you watch the muscles tense and shift beneath the thin fabric.

“So…tight pelvic floor. Could you tell me a little bit more about that?” He asks with a tilt of his head, his soft brown eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that makes you look down at your hands.

“I know it sounds silly, I-I don’t have a formal diagnosis or anything— “

“That’s ok,” he cuts you off gently before you can work yourself up. “Right now I have you down as having a pelvic floor dysfunction. Nice and broad category. We can figure out the specifics together as we go.”

The smile he gives you is so warm and comforting, you feel your shoulders start to lower from where they’d risen to your ears in unconscious defense.

“Here, give me your hand for a second,” he reaches out his hand slowly like an offering to a suspicious cat to sniff, and you don’t think twice about laying your palm against his.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, smoothing the pads of his fingers up and down your palm a few times before settling at the webbing between your thumb and forefinger and pressing down firmly.

“There’s a point here, called the Union Valley point, that can sometimes help to relieve anxiety— “

“That never works for me,” you blurt out, and he blinks at you owlishly before recovering that easy smile.

You mentally berate yourself, he’s a doctor for fuck’s sake, he probably knows a trick to make it work better than you do!

“No problem, it doesn’t work for everyone. Thank you for telling me.”

He lets go of your hand and swivels his stool away from you to open one of the cabinets above the counter, pulling a bright floral box down from a shelf.

He rifles through it for a moment, stirring its contents furiously in his search, before he pulls out what he was looking for with a little “found it!” and a triumphant smile.

He’s so damn cute it’s hard not to grin right back at him.

“How do you feel about lavender?” he asks earnestly, holding the little bag aloft.

“It’s one of my favorite scents,” you say around a laugh, “why?”

He passes you the bundle and the smile eases off his face into something more serious.

“Health concerns are nerve-wracking by themselves, and seeing a new doctor can just add to the stress. I noticed you’re a little tense…and fidgety, “he chuckles, and you duck your head in embarrassment, “hey, it’s ok! That’s why I have this little box of goodies here.” He taps the side of the ostentatious box affectionately.

“Just in case someone comes in extra nervous,” he shoots you a wink and you’re caught between feeling utterly flustered and bowled over with emotion again. You can’t decide. All you know is you want more than anything to pull up your hood and cinch the strings tight so you can hide from his playful ribbing and soulful, understanding eyes.

You look down at the little lavender sachet where it’s squeezed in your fist and unclench your hand, choking out a laugh and smooshing the contents to fluff them back up. It’s a cute bag, with lavender flowers stitched into the cloth.

“You’re supposed to sniff it.”

You look up at him to see he’s smiling sadly at you, concern etched into his features, and you’re about to say something totally inelegant like huh? when he follows up with, “that’s how aromatherapy works.”

You blink at him for a few seconds, absorbing his lame joke before bursting out laughing.

He laughs with you, rubbing at the back of his neck, and you think you can see the tips of his ears turning pink.

When your laughter peters out and you appear to no longer be in danger of tears, he picks up your folder and flips through the pages purposefully.

“Right. So let me tell you how I’d like to proceed. It looks like insurance will cover you for 30 visits— probably more than we’ll need, but I’ll reassess after I do your exam.”

You nod along with his words, not totally hearing him and caught on the word exam, but he plows on.

“We’re gonna take this slow: I’m going to show you how to do some stretches and deep breathing that will help you relax. You’re going to do them at home a few times a day between appointments, and we’ll reevaluate in a few weeks. Does that sound ok to you?”

He’s pinning you with those gorgeous eyes and you’re getting lost in them again and oh, shit he asked you a question didn’t he.

“Y-yeah that sounds good to me,” you stutter, heat blooming in your chest and setting your heart off on a race.

“Great! Then how about you undress from the waist down so I can see what I’m working with?”

“…you want me to what?” you squeak, your voice several octaves higher than usual.

He gives you an amused smirk and repeats himself more slowly, “take off your bottoms for me, so I can do your pelvic exam.”

The heat in your chest is spreading up the back of your neck and you manage to answer in a somehow even shriller tone than before, “and my underwear?”

He tilts his head at you— not unlike a golden retriever, you think— as his smirk spreads into a grin that’s just a touch wicked.

“How else am I going to feel how tight you are?”

You’re sure your mouth is hanging open unattractively as he reaches for a box of gloves and fishes one out, struggling to fit it over his…distractingly large hand.

He pauses as the rubber stretches over his knuckles, “do you have a latex allergy? I have nylon gloves I can use instead.”

You shake your head dumbly and stand on jelly legs. “Nope. Nope, no, I’m—I don’t uh- no allergy to that.” My god, you have never been less eloquent in your life.

“Ok, good. Now,” He pulls a clean white sheet from a basket of linens on the counter and hands it to you. “When you’re done, lie down on the table and cover your bottom half with this,” he crouches at the end of the table and unhooks a metal contraption on either side that juts up with a place to prop up your feet “and put your heels in the stirrups. I’m going to go in the hall while you disrobe, so just give me a holler when you’re ready.”

Dr. Pike pauses at the door and mutters what you think is ah, shit under his breath, holding his now-gloved hands up in a gesture of surrender. When he sees you watching him, his cheeks are definitely rosier than they were a few minutes ago.

“Right, so— yeah…I’ll be just…out here,” he says as he scoots the door open with his shoulder, and maneuvers it shut with his elbows.

You hear a muffled oh, goddammit from the other side of the door and can’t help but laugh, having momentarily forgotten that you’re about to be half-naked with the sweetest man you have ever met… who’s about to put his fingers inside you.

[yowhoevenami]

“At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.”

— Frida Kahlo