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morallyinept · 15 days

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Homage - A Javi Gutierrez x Blind F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: A collision in a coffee shop with an enigmatic man sparks an exhilarating romantic encounter.

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x Blind F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, Reader does have hair. Reader is completely blind. Reader speaks & understands Spanish.)

Word Count: 6.7k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers & Warnings: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral F receiving/fingering/lots of kisses/Reader is completely blind and uses a cane and guide dog/I've tried to write this story without describing Javi's expressions etc... because Reader would not see them, but there is a little bit of Javi POV/Javi falls hard for you/lots of slushy, soft romance/mentions of Nicholas Cage

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

In the bustling coffee shop, the air is filled with familiar, enticing aromas that dance on your senses.

The rich, earthy scent of freshly ground coffee beans mingle with the sweet scents of caramelised sugar, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere around you.

Notes of toasted bread and buttery croissants waft from the bakery counter, tempting patrons with their comforting fragrance. Amidst the sweet haze, hints of cinnamon and nutmeg linger, adding a touch of spice to the air.

You can hear the air humming with a melodic symphony of sounds, creating a vibrant backdrop for conversation and camaraderie that surrounds you. The rhythmic whirring of coffee machines echo throughout the space, accompanied by the gentle chinking of cups and saucers as baristas expertly craft each beverage with care.

Amidst the chatter of patrons and the occasional burst of laughter, the soothing melodies of soft music plays in the background, adding to the ambiance.

It’s a song you know and you hum along to it as you patiently wait your turn.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the coffee shop, the sounds of steaming milk and frothing foam mingling with the hiss of espresso machines, envelops you in a comforting and familiar embrace. It’s a weekly treat coming here after a busy week of work.

You feel Nicolas’ tail pad against your leg and you reach to pat his head, scritching behind his ear that you know he loves.

“Almost there, Nicolas.” You reassure your canine friend, who is also your trusty pair of eyes.

You clutch onto your cane and wait patiently in the line pondering in your mind what takes your fancy today.

Nicolas guides you through the bustling queue of the quaint coffee shop until you’re at the front and place your order with Juan, who greets you personally and asks how you are. You always like the sound of his voice, he always sounds so peppy.

As you patiently wait for your coffee to be made, recognizing the familiar voices and chatter of the other baristas, a sudden collision startles you.

"Dios, mio! I am so sorry!" (Oh God!) A male voice exclaims, laden thick with embarrassment.

You chuckle softly, your fingers searching for your cane that's no longer in your grip, but the band around your wrist guides you to it dangling within reach.

“No harm done,” you say with a warm smile. Collisions happen on the regular in your world.

But the man continues to ramble. “I am so blind, I should look where I am going. ¡Ay no, mi camisa. Está arruinada. Probablemente el café no salga con el lavado, and... Oh, shit.’ (Oh no, my shirt. It is ruined. The coffee probably won’t wash out.)

The man's tone shifts, realising his mistake. "Oh. I didn't mean to... I-I didn't realise you can’t… Oh, and now I feel terrible for making such a ridiculous comment about my ridiculous shirt."

“I'm sure your shirt is okay.”

“No, it really is ridiculous, even without the coffee stain.” He chuckles. “Are you okay, you didn't get splashed with hot coffee, did you?”

You smile into the direction of his worrisome sing-song voice. “No, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I…” You hear him sigh “if you could see what I look like now, it would make you really laugh.”

You smile, your curiosity piqued by the nervous energy radiating from him. "Well, you certainly sound cute when you're flustered."

You hear him fumbling for words. "Thank you... I-I... oh, wow."

“Let me buy you a new coffee.” You offer.

“Oh no, let me buy you one. I bumped into you, it is the least I can do for my clumsiness. Please, I insist.”

You accept graciously. “Thank you, that’s kind.”

“Not at all. What would you like?”

The man orders your coffee with Juan, and his again, and introduces himself whilst you both wait.

“I am Javi.” His Spanish accent colours his words.

You reach out for his hand and it’s soon filled with a soft, emanating warmth. His hand feels big and his grip gentle. You tell him your name in return amd he sighs enthusiastically.

“And who is this handsome fellow?”

“This is Nicolas.” You say, stoking behind the canine’s ear.

"Oh, I love your dog's name! Did you name him after Nicholas Cage?"

“No.”

“Oh, I love Mr Cage. I am a big fan.”

“Me too.”

Javi chuckles nervously, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment, not that you can see it, but you can sense it in his smile and the way he titters nervously. You've conjured up an image in your mind of him wringing his hands eccentrically, and it makes you smile.

“Uh, would you like to sit and drink your coffee with me?” He asks.

Your face lights up with a smile as you nod in agreement. "That sounds lovely, Javi," your voice tinged with excitement. “Lead the way.”

“Would you like to take my arm? My hands are full of coffee cups.”

“I can follow your voice if the route is clear, and Nicolas can do the rest.” You explain with a smile.

“Okay, great… Shit,” you hear him mutter followed by the sound of something scraping against the floor.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I just… Uh, the chair. I did not see it. I promise I'm usually more coordinated," he replies sheepishly.

Your laughter rings out melodiously. "Oh, I'm sure you are. It's just my luck to encounter the exception," you tease, following the gentle pull from Nicolas carefully.

Javi grins, relieved by your lighthearted demeanour. "Consider it a unique skill of mine, I was hit by a car once." He quips, his accent adding charm to his words.

“Gosh, that sounds awful!”

“I was fine. We are here, right in front of you. Can I help?”

"I got it." You reach out for the table edge as your fingers glide across it and you slide into the chair. "You're quite the character, Javi," you remark, taking a sip of your coffee.

Javi chuckles nervously. "I guess I am. But you know what they say, it takes one to know one," he replies with a mischievous sound in his tone.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning offence. "Are you insinuating that I'm clumsy too?" You tease, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

“Of course not! You're the epitome of grace and elegance," he replies with exaggerated sincerity, earning another giggle from you.

“Well, you're wrong, I fall over a lot, mostly over this.” You say, tapping your cane against the table. “Nicolas keeps me upright most of the time.”

“Then he is doing a very good job.”

As you drink your coffee, Javi can't contain his excitement as he begins to recount his favourite Nicholas Cage films.

"You know, Nicholas Cage is a cinematic legend. Have you ever watched Con Air?" Javi asks eagerly.

You smile, shaking your head. "I haven't. Tell me about it."

Javi rambles with enthusiasm as he dives into an animated description of the action-packed film.

"It's a rollercoaster of adrenaline! Picture Nicholas Cage as Cameron Poe, a former Army Ranger who finds himself on a prison transport plane filled with the worst criminals imaginable."

You listen intently, captivated by Javi’s passion for the movie. "Wow, that sounds intense."

Javi murmurs in agreement around a slurpy sip of his coffee enthusiastically.

"Absolutely! He can seamlessly transition from action-packed roles to more nuanced characters. Take Leaving Las Vegas, for example. It's a poignant drama where he plays a suicidal alcoholic. His performance is truly mesmerising."

“Have you ever met him? You sound like quite the fan.”

“Yes. He came to my birthday party last year. I turned forty.”

“Really? That’s amazing!”

"Yes, it was. We had a good time together. I just realised... I've been talking about these movies as if you've seen them, but..." Javi's voice trails off, his worry palpable. He hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. "I... I didn't consider that you might not be able to see the films," he admits, sheepishly. "I'm sorry if I made assumptions."

You smile warmly, reaching out to gently squeeze Javi's hand and find his wrist instead.

"It's okay, Javi. I appreciate your honesty. I may not be able to watch them in the traditional sense, but I can still listen to them. Audio descriptions allow me to enjoy the stories, just like everyone else. And, I absolutely love movies."

Javi’s sighs with relief, his worry dissipating as he breathes out. "That's fantastic! I'm so glad to hear that," he exclaims, his enthusiasm returning.

"Yes, it's pretty cool how technology has made entertainment more accessible for people like me. So, feel free to keep sharing your favourite movies with me, okay?"

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“How am I blind?” You pre-empt.

“Yes. But only if you are comfortable in telling me.”

“I had Meningitis when I was a child. It attacked my optic nerves and I lost my sight.” You simply say.

“I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it could’ve been much worse. I’ve adapted and I have a really good life. Nicolas gives me a lot of independence.”

“Were you very young?” Javi asks.

“Yes, I could see and I remember things. I remember what my parents looked like, and the sun. I loved watching the sun set. I think that is what I miss the most.”

There is a reflective pause between you before Javi speaks again.

“I think you are very brave, and very beautiful. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be very forward.”

“It’s okay, I quite like it.” You smile, as you drink more of your coffee.

Your conversation about movies continues, and Javi offers a pastry and more coffee, to which you accept as you spend a couple of hours together in the coffee shop talking and laughing.

Summoning his courage, he asks you a question with a hopeful tone.

"Would you like to watch a movie... with me?" Javi asks, his voice tinged with excitement.

Your face lights up with surprise and delight. "Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes, I mean… shit. Yes, if you would like to, perhaps this evening? You might have plans and that is okay, but I am enjoying talking to you and would like to get to know you some more.”

“That sounds wonderful, Javi," you reply, your smile growing wider.

Javi beams in response through a giddy chuckle, relieved by your positive response.

"Great! We can choose a movie that has audio descriptions,” he suggests eagerly. “I have a home cinema, if you feel comfortable coming back to my place?”

“I do. Besides, Nicolas would tell me if you had bad vibes.”

“Animals always know.” Javi agrees. “I like him.”

You nod enthusiastically. "Nicolas loves movie nights just as much as I do," you say, patting your guide dog affectionately.

“I have a few errands to run in town first, but if you like, I could pick you up later?”

“I’d like that.” You nod.

He explains he has a villa on the coast, which is a short drive from town, and you're familiar with most of the landscape except the coastline, so you're touched when he tells you to put his address in your phone and text someone you know for reassurance.

He also gives you his number and is fascinated when he sees you navigating your phone with confidence using a talkback app.

“This is marvellous!” He says as you explain how it works as the little computerised voice talks back to you. “Can I drive you home?” Javi offers after you both finish up your coffee.

“No, that’s okay, I have errands to run too,” you smile.

Javi holds the door open for you and Nicolas, and outside the fresh air and warmth of the summer feels good on your skin.

“Well, I shall see you later this evening, mi sol.” (My sun)

Smiling, you feel him squeeze your hand affectionately. “I look forward to it, Javi.”

“See you, Nicolas.” He says, and you hear him walk away, leaving you with the biggest smile chiselled on your face.

Using your fingertips, you dab on a slick of lip balm, and spritz a final spray of your favourite perfume, inhaling the delicate notes with a smile, when Nicolas barks softly as a car pulls up.

Opening the door, you can hear Javi greet you on the other side.

“Oh, wow…” He says. “It is possible you look even more beautiful than when I saw you earlier today. You are glowing, just like the sun...”

“Thank you, Javi.” You say, feeling your cheeks warm.

You fetch your purse and step out with Nicolas in tow, with your cane looped around your wrist.

“Would you like to take my arm? My car is parked a little way down the road.” Javi offers, and you smile linking around him, Nicolas padding along on the other side, and your cane out in front.

You hear him greet passers by in Spanish, in between talking with you, and it warms you that he’s not averse to being seen with you as he pats your hand with his around his muscular arm, and makes a note to warn you when an uneven payment or dip is approaching.

And you can only smile at his rapt attention to you and your surroundings.

Most strangers you encounter are indifferent or ignorant to the limitations of your world, more often than not getting annoyed at you when they’re the ones who bump into you to begin with. But Javi seemingly embraces the challenge naturally, adapting effortlessly as you walk along and talk animatedly with him, his laughter infectious.

As you walk throughout the world, you rely on your other senses to guide you, and Nicolas or GPS apps on your phone always help. The sounds of traffic and the chatter of pedestrians provide valuable cues about your surroundings, helping you to navigate the busy thoroughfare with confidence.

With each step, your cane will sweep the ground in front of you, detecting obstacles and uneven surfaces. Remembering routes, using auditory cues that took years to move around the town confidently by yourself.

But when you can take someone’s arm, like Javi’s, that load is shared and you can relax a little more into the trust that he’ll lead the way for you safely, without letting you trip and tumble or get lost.

The car journey is pleasant; he has a convertible and you can feel the warm wind in your hair, and smell the salt from the coast. You both listen to gentle jazz music as he drives and describes the sights to you.

Inside the villa, he tells you where most things are situated, and you explain to him that it will take time for you to remember a new space. He tells you to let him know if you need the bathroom or anything at all, and he can happily show you the way.

He leaves you on a comfy, velvety feeling sofa that you sink into, as he fetches a bottle of wine and some glasses. Placing it in your hand, you sip from the cool crispness of the dry Vermentino, as he explains his home movie collection to you.

After deciding on Con Air - purely from Javi’s energetic description of it in the coffee shop - you feel him settle in beside you, a dip in the cushions, as his shoulder brushes against yours.

You can’t see it, but Javi can't shake off the nervous excitement coursing through him, but you can certainly sense some of that energy as it bleeds into your skin.

With a gentle nudge, he casually drapes his arm around your shoulders, trying to appear cool and composed despite the butterflies in his stomach.

You hear the clicking of his mouth as he smiles when you lean into the comforting warmth of his touch, a contented smile playing on your lips too as the movie begins to play.

You can sense Javi's nerves, but his presence feels reassuring and comforting.

And he smells really good, like fresh mandarin, vetiver and a faint blend of coffee beans. Each inhale of his scent at this close proximity makes your mouth water.

As the movie plays on, Javi's attempt to be cool is palpable, but his nerves are betraying him. You can't help but notice his subtle fidgeting against you and the way his breath catches every now and then.

With a playful smirk, you whisper teasingly, "nervous, Javi?"

Javi’s stutters, caught off guard by your observation. "Me? Nervous? No way," he replies, attempting to maintain his composure.

Javi tries to focus on the movie, but his mind keeps drifting back to the warmth of your presence beside him. As he steals a glance at you, he catches you smiling softly, lost in the magic of the film's audio descriptions as you listen intently.

“Is this okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yes. It’s perfect.” You say, listening to the audio and the sounds of explosions and gunfire from the screen.

A little while later into the movie and summoning his courage, Javi leans in a little closer, his heart pounding in his chest. "I hope you're enjoying the movie, mi sol," he whispers, his voice barely above a murmur.

“I am. I can hear that you are.” You say. “I can hear you smiling. I’d love to see it.”

“Shall I tell you what I look like?”

“Actually, I have a way of seeing what you look like.”

“How?”

“May I?” You ask, raising your hands and turning to him.

Javi's heart skips a beat at your request, but he agrees, his own curiosity piqued. “Yes, of course.”

“Can you guide my hands to your face? I don't want to poke you in the eye,” you giggle.

Chuckling, he takes them and places your palms onto his cheeks and they feel soft and prickly at the same time.

“You have facial hair,” you smile in wonderment.

“Yes. It is short, how I like it. Too much and I look like a crazy scientist.”

Your fingertips begin to trace the contours of Javi's face, delicately mapping the features you can't physically see. You feel the warmth of his skin, the curve of his cheekbones, and the soft, silken stubble of his jawline beneath your touch.

With each gentle caress, you paint a mental portrait of the man before you, capturing the essence of his presence in your mind's eye. And he's a sight to behold.

Javi holds his breath, feeling a rush of vulnerability and intimacy as you tenderly explore his face. He allows you to touch and feel without reservation.

He watches you as you concentrate and smile, your eyes pulled just over his shoulder as you explore.

As your fingers trace the contours of Javi’s face, you start to comment on what else you can feel.

"You have a strong jawline," you observe softly. "And your cheeks... they feel warm, like you're smiling."

Javi’s breath catches in his throat at your words, a warmth spreading through him at your gentle touch. "That's because I am," he admits, the smile evident in his voice.

Your fingers continue their exploration, lingering on Javi’s features with a gentle curiosity. "And your nose... it's curved and proud," you remark, your touch light and reverent.

Javier chuckles softly, the sound tinged with affection. "Well, thank you for the compliment, but I have a big nose and a big head," he replies, his heart swelling with gratitude for your openness and acceptance.

You work your hands over his prominent eyebrows and into his hairline, feeling silken curls cascade down either side of his face as you weave them through your fingers like ribbons.

“What colour is your hair?” You ask.

“Brown, like chocolate.”

“I imagined it to be brown. I like chocolate.” You smile, sweeping your fingers to the centre of his face and your tips skim over a fuzzy, well-groomed moustache and glide across his lips.

They feel plush and full. You feel him breathing against them, warm and a little moist.

Then you feel him pucker and kiss them gently. He immediately apologises when you drop your hands into your lap.

“I am sorry. I-I don’t know what came over me.” He flusters.

“It’s okay, Javi, really-”

“Are you sure? I-I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, I mean, I would've preferred it if you’d kissed my lips instead.” You say, smiling.

“You would?”

“Yes.” You nod.

“Oh. Then, I can kiss you?”

“Yes.”

You feel him get closer, like a shadow encasing your face, and you feel his own hands cup your cheeks; his breath felt on your lips as he gently presses his mouth to yours.

You moan into his mouth as he kisses you delicately, lips parting around him as he smooches gently, and you dare yourself to dip your tongue inside to fully taste him.

And it immediately makes him whimper, the sound traversing your spine and into your core - prickles bursting all over your scalp, tingling.

He strokes the skin under your eye with his thumb and you feel him shuffle closer. Your hands feel across the expanse of his shoulders that feel broad and thick, and sweep up his neck into the bundle of small curls at the back of his nape.

Your body feels like it's fizzing; your mind perfectly silent as you lose yourself in the feel of his kiss.

His tongue gently swirls against yours and you can feel the fuzz of his facial hair tickle against your chin and lip.

His kiss dazzles you, leaving you breathless and wanting.

“That was really nice,” you say, your breath still tangled in your throat as you part.

“Really nice.” Javi agrees. “I should stop before I get carried away.”

“Me too.” You chuckle, but you pull him closer for another, lingering kiss, enamoured by the way he tastes and explores your mouth.

“I would really like to see you again, another date, perhaps some dinner?” Javi asks, he peppers your cheeks with a slew of little kisses.

“I’d really like that.”

“Perfect,” he smiles. “Oh, let’s rewind the film. We have missed the best part.”

He pulls you gently into his arms as you both settle in to enjoy the remainder of the film, Nicolas laying at both your feet snoozing gently.

Javi is the perfect gentleman, driving you home after the film, and kissing you again on your doorstep, leaving you to go to bed that night with the biggest smile on your face, so much so that your jaw aches.

Your dates with Javi go well and increase in frequency.

You spend a lot of time with him, his warm hand secured in yours as you go wine tasting together, and he watches you sip at the different fruity wines and comment on which ones you like best.

He cuddles up with you, watching more films together as you snuggle into his muscular arms and share more heated kisses.

He takes you back to the coffee shop and buys you breakfast. He dotes on Nicolas and plays with him, whilst you listen to the sound of Nicolas grunting as Javi rubs his belly.

He’s the perfect fit for you with how gracious and attentive he is. He’s always asking questions too, learning eagerly about how you navigate the world; his curiosity welcomed and encouraged as he asks things that surprise you and make you smile at his thoughtfulness.

He finds it all genuinely fascinating and you don’t feel like you’re invisible when you're with him.

Then comes the day when Javi asks you if you’d like to stay over after proposing to cook dinner for you, and you agree that you’d love to, despite the nerves surfacing.

It’s been a long time since you shared a bed with anyone, and even though the excitement of being in his arms floods through your veins, a little trepidation also surfaces.

Javi arrives to pick you up at your homey little apartment in town, Nicolas is left with a friend for the evening off, and Javi carries your overnight bag into his convertible.

He holds your hand and opens the passenger side door for you, letting you sit comfortably.

You can't ignore the growing sensation blossoming between you both, Javi had been sudden, like the weather. A ray of warm sunshine falling into your lap, quite literally it seems.

With every shared laugh, every gentle touch, you feel that warmth spreading in your chest, igniting a spark that dances in the air whenever you’re together and it emanates and glows brighter each time.

It’s a feeling you can't quite put into words, a subtle yet undeniable connection that tugs at your heartstrings and leaves you breathless at his enigmatic and infectious energy. It’s as if something magical is unfolding between you, a budding romance that defies explanation, but feels undeniably real.

In Javi's presence, you feel alive in a way you haven't before, as if you’re able to see the world through his eyes. His laughter is music to your ears, his touch sends shivers down your spine. He imbues you with a certain confidence you’ve never possessed before.

He makes you bold, and daring, as you stand on the precipice of the cliff with him, his hand tightly wound around yours.

“Are you ready, querida?” Javi asks, as you feel the setting Mallorcan sun streaming on your skin.

“Yes,” you laugh, giddily.

He explains that below the cliff there is the ocean water, and you’ll be safe and far enough away from the rocks. He’ll hold your hand tightly as you both jump.

“Oh my God, we’re really going to do this!” You squeal as he tells you to step back a few paces with him.

His hands guide your waist as you step backwards and you feel it lingering there and burning, long after he lets go and takes your hand again.

“On three, we run forward together!”

You can hear the wild excitement in his voice as your heart hammers in your chest, steeling yourself for the exhilarating plunge ahead.

The wind whips around you, carrying the salty scent of the ocean and the distant cry of seagulls on its breezy tendrils.

“Oh fuck!” You tremble with a manic laughter pouring out of you.

“Ready? Uno. Dos-”

“Javi!” You giggle. feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

“Tres!”

He runs with you, hand tight in yours, and yells at you to leap at the exact moment - and you do, feeling yourself fly through the air off the cliff edge as it disappears from under your feet.

The rush of air engulfs you as you descend, sending you hurtling towards the water below. For a brief moment, time seems to stand still as you plummet through the air, heart pounding as you brace yourself for the eventual impact of diving into the water.

Then, with a splash, you break through the calm ocean; the shock of the cold momentarily taking your breath away.

As you surface, laughter bubbles up from deep within you, mingling with the sound of gentle waves and Javi’s rambunctious laughter echoing off the rocky cliffs.

“Javi, dios mio! You do this for fun?!” You exclaim as you cough; salty water washing around your mouth.

“Si, it is exhilarating, no?”

“Oh, can we do it again?” You nod excitedly. “Shit, that was amazing!”

“You crave more!” He chuckles loudly. "You crazy woman! I love it!"

You feel his arms around you in the water, drawing you near as his lips graze over yours. He kisses you as you wrap your legs around his waist to stay buoyant.

“You’re crazy. ¡Estás completamente loco.” (You’re completely crazy) You say, smiling and still buzzing with him guiding you through the exhilarating adventure, and reminding you that with him by your side, you’re capable of doing anything at all.

“Crazy for you, mi sol.” Javi says, with wet, salty lips pressed against yours.

Together, you swim to the shore; the adrenaline still making your body shake as you bask in the euphoria of your daring feat.

After drying off back at the villa, you sit with him on the terrace and enjoy a gorgeous cooked meal of Bacalao a la Vizcaína, or Basque-style Cod.

You sniff your fork and take a tentative bite, savouring the rich flavours of the tender fish and tangy tomato sauce, closing your eyes, relishing the taste of the dish as it dances on your taste buds.

"What do you think?" Javi asks, his voice filled with hope.

You nod enthusiastically. "It's delicious, Javi. The flavours are incredible!"

"I'm glad you like it," he replies, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

You sip on more delicious wine from the bottles he’d brought in abundance from your wine tasting date. As you talk and laugh and hold hands, eventually it gets later in the evening, and Javi suggests going up to bed together.

You can sense some hesitation in his voice though.

“Javi, take me to bed.” You say to him, stroking his face.

“I am not expecting anything.” He says as he kisses your knuckles.

“I am.” You say and he titters. “I want you.”

You kiss his cheek and his hands slip around your waist.

“Te deseo más que nada,” (I want you more than anything) Javi says, his breath warm on your face. “Come, this way.”

He guides you up the stairs slowly, letting your hand touch the wall and your feet stepping carefully up. He lets you know when you’ve reached the top.

You round a corner with him and he opens a door. It smells of him in there, his familiar cologne tickling your nose and beckoning you in as you enter.

He walks you towards the bed and you sit on it, feeling it plush and springy under your weight. You feel it dip beside you as he sits.

“Are you nervous, Javi?” You question with a soft smile.

“A little. I-I want to please you.” He says.

“I’ve no doubt you will.” You reach for his face, grazing your fingers against his silky cheek as he kisses you.

“I must confess, it has been a little while,” he says carefully.

“Me too.”

“Oh, that makes me feel a little better,” he chuckles.

“Quítame la ropa, Javi." (Take my clothes off, Javi) You whisper to him.

You feel his fingers undo the buttons on your shirt and he slides it off over your shoulders, kissing over them gently. You can feel his hair brush against your skin making you shiver.

He lays you back and removes your jeans until you're in just your underwear.

“Beautiful,” he says.

“Let me take yours off.”

He guides your hand to the buttons of his own shirt and you undo them, stopping to stroke at the smooth skin and leaning forward to kiss at his neck.

His hands weave inside your hair as you kiss down his throat and onto his chest. He lays back as you reach his slacks, hovering over the button.

“Please, querida.” He whines as you unbutton it and slip them down his waist.

“Javi, are you not wearing any underwear?” You giggle as you feel nothing but smooth, warm skin under your fingers as you move up and down his hips.

He chuckles. “Sometimes I like to go without. It is very freeing.”

Laughing you run your hands into his thighs, feeling the soft, downy hairs there become more plentiful and a little coarse.

Soon your fingers reach his cock, hard and thick as you glide over the smooth curve of its swell resting up against his belly. You feel it pulse and twitch under your fingers.

You can feel the wetness at the head, slick and sticky, as you slide your thumb over it, and he hisses.

“You feel big…” You say as you pump gently, listening to the sounds of his breaths catch in his throat.

“It is average, I think.” He gasps. "Mmm, that feels so good."

“You feel amazing.”

You feel his hands unclip your bra and then caress your breasts, massaging gently as you whine at the feel of his pads trailing across your nipples.

His lips find their way into your neck as he kisses and gasps whilst you touch him.

He lays you back and you feel him remove your panties, the silk of them sliding down your legs.

“Mira tú, eres tan hermosa” (Look at you, you are so beautiful) Javi whispers. You gasp as you feel his breath warm your thighs.

You reach for him, hands gliding over his shoulders and he runs his nose across your stomach.

“Can I taste you, querida?”

“Yes, please…” You groan, feeling your body tingle in anticipation as his breath draws closer to your hot, pulsing centre.

“Javi!” You gasp, as you feel his tongue sink into your folds.

Warm and wet, you feel him explore and trail his tongue through your slick, groaning in delight as he breathes and hums at the taste of you.

“Deliciosa…” he sighs. (Delicious)

You feel his tongue flick across your clit, back and forth as he works you up; your thighs twitching around his face as your fingers tussle inside his hair, surrendering yourself to the dreamy, floaty feeling that envelops you.

He sucks on your clit a little harder, and you feel his fingers sliding through your folds. You moan out when you feel them penetrate you, spreading you open around them as he slides them in and out.

“Mmm, Javi, you’re so good at that…” You whine as he laps at that sticky seam between your thighs, nose snuffling against your mound.

“Feel good, mi sol?”

“So good.”

You feel a warmth spreading through your body, like a gentle embrace from the sun you remember as a child.

It radiates from within, filling you with a sense of peace and serenity that washes over you like a swelling tide as he laps and kisses at your sopping cunt.

His tongue flicks over your clit again; your body jolts, the stream of pleasure flooding bright light through your limbs.

“Por favor, no pares Javi, se siente tan bien…” (Please don’t stop, Javi, it feels so good.)

You feel his breaths increase around you as he licks and sucks harder, his fingers diving deep and stroking against that fleshy spot inside, bringing you to your knees as you cry out for him.

Your body shakes, your spine arches off the bed as you come; his name falling from your mouth around incoherent expletives as he continues to stroke and lick you through it.

Feeling weightless, you’re floating on a cloud, carried away by the currents of the wind until you come back again, panting and breathless for more.

Javi crawls up your body, planting kisses as he goes, until he reaches your mouth. You groan when you can taste yourself on his lips; feel the wetness of his chin graze against yours.

“You taste really good,” Javi whispers with a smile laced around his teeth.

You giggle nuzzling into him as you feel his length brush against your thigh.

Your hands trail down his body, feeling every inch of warmth from his smooth skin; infatuated at how he shudders as your fingers glide down his spine, and you fondle over his pert ass, listening as he grunts when you squeeze it.

You reach for his hard cock between you, feeling him twitch and throb inside your hand as you stroke him; eliciting strained groans from the back of his throat around his generous kisses.

“Your cock feels so hard,” you smile as you run it up and down inside your grip, your fingers on your other hand cupping around the tight swell of his balls.

“Mmm, so hard for you, mi sol. Fuck, that feels so good.”

“You like that?”

“Yes. Very much.” You can hear him grin.

You just listen to his pants as you pump him, how his voice is strangled in the back of his throat to the point he’s almost whimpering.

He sounds so good that you could just come again listening to him as you clench continuously.

Soon his hand stops you as you increase the tempo.

“I am sorry, but if you keep doing this, I will come. And I don’t want to leave you unsatisfied just yet. It might change how you feel about me.”

“Nothing could change how I feel about you, Javi. I really like you, a lot.”

“Good. I really like you a lot, too. And I am not a selfish lover.”

You guide him towards you, feeling him prod gently at your slick entrance as you both groan. He teases his head in your folds, running it up and down and feeling how you tigthen and squeeze, just barely over the thick crown of him.

“I want you inside me, Javi.” You breathe.

“Si, I want you too, mi sol. I have thought of this moment.”

He sucks gently on your bottom lip as he pushes his hips forward and slides into you.

You clasp onto him gasping, it feels incredible; him slowly opening you up as he pants into your face, telling you how beautiful you are in a mixture of English and Spanish pelts.

“Oh shit… mi sol…” He whines as he works his hips, thrusting in and out slowly and you can hear how wet you are around him as it squelches with every movement.

You wrap your hands around his neck, as he buries his face into yours. His hips thrusting a little faster as he builds you up.

"You have such a gorgeous pussy for me," Javi whines into your shoulder. "Oh... wow. Feels so good."

"You feel amazing, don't stop," you groan.

He sucks your nipple into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his waist, bringing him closer.

His hips begin snapping harder into yours as he watches your breaths catch at the back of your throat with each shunt into you.

Holding onto your hands as he slides his cock in and out of you; his hips doing all the work as your fingers interlock in midair.

He leaves you suspended in a growing bliss that will neither drop you unexpectedly, or force you to confront your finish with a speedy resolution leaving you unsatisfied. Building you up slowly, listening to your moans and pants and feeling your body clench and buck around him when he hits the right spots.

He edges you with his cock, slowing down when he can feel you drawing near to that peak, and your face contorting in pleasure as he lets you skirt the edges of your orgasm, around and around on the precarious ledge.

Then, his hips will snap harder again pulling you to the edge of that cliff once more when it settles, and feeling you claw into his back gasping and whining for more as you start to shake around his cock.

“Javi!” You groan, your skin damp with sweat and you feel his hand on your face, thumb stroking around your lips as you suck it into your mouth.

“Let me have it, mi sol.” He encourages with gritted teeth as he watches you combust. “Oh, you look and sound so good when you come for me. Yes, yes… more! Take more of my cock, it is yours. All yours, mi sol...”

You can’t help but just burst and quake beneath him as he fucks you harder. Calling his name, clawing at his shoulders. Writhing and bucking and arching.

You ride him to his own finish, his hands on your waist as you rest yours on his chest and work your hips. You feel his thick length bottom out inside you as you slide down him each time. Hear the way his breaths quicken, how his body tenses under your fingertips as you gyrate and grind.

“Si, si…” He stutters as he tenses underneath you. “I am going to come. Where do you want it, mi sol?”

“Inside,” you say as you lean over him as he cradles you. “Come inside me, Javi.”

He crushes you to his chest as he thrusts upwards in a steady, hammering rhythm as he empties out with a loud grunt.

“Oh shit!” Javi whines, his hips jerking as he fills you full, and you moan softly into his neck, sucking on the clammy skin there as he shakes.

He holds you in his arms afterwards, pressed up tightly against his chest as he kisses over your head; the two of you silent save for your waning breaths.

“That was incredible,” Javi whispers, nuzzling into your neck. “You are so beautiful. So perfect… I’ve never seen beauty like it before.”

“Javi, you’re a poet.” You grin, reaching up to touch his face.

“Ah, but you like it, yes?”

You nod, smiling and completely blissed out.

“Was it good for you?” He asks gently.

“It was perfect,” you agree with a smile and running your hands through his silken, sweaty curls.

“I am glad I bumped into you in the coffee shop, querida.” He says in your ear, tip of his nose brushing your conch. “It was the best day, even though I ruined a perfectly good shirt.”

You chuckle as he pulls you closer in his arms. “Definitely the best day.” You agree.

“I am a very lucky man.”

“Yes, you are,” you smirk, and he chuckles, kissing and nuzzling into you.

“I want to do so much more with you, mi sol. More dates. More of this. I really, really like you.”

“I really, really like you, too.” You twist to kiss him and feel him smile against your lips. "I feel like... I feel like I've seen the sun rise again, with you." You whisper, feeling like you've never experienced a true happiness like this before. "Thank you, Javi."

It does indeed feel like the last ever sunset you saw. Beautiful and lasting forever inside you. It's rays permeating through your bones with every touch, every kiss. Every singular word of affection given.

"Really? Oh, wow!" He gushes as he squeezes you tight. You hear him sniff and you reach up to his face feeling a wetness under his eye.

He kisses your fingertips gently. "You are my sunshine. Mi sol... You are everything."

You wrap yourself around him as he pulls up the sheets over you both.

“Sleep, querida. In the morning I shall make you a delicious breakfast.”

“Sounds amazing. Or you could just have me for breakfast instead.” You suggest with a grin.

“Oh, mi sol. I plan to.” Javi smiles. "And for lunch and dinner..."

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Javi, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #javi gutierrez #javi gutierrez x reader #pedro pascal characters #javi g #javi g x reader #javi g smut #javi g fluff #tuwomt #diversity #inclusion #bodies series #jett's writing

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magic-is-something-we-create · 4 months

Text

- BETA READERS WANTED -

Do you like Grimdark Fantasy? How about Horror? Noir? All of the above? Do you want to watch fictional women dole out incredible violence as their lives get worse, and still find hope in the world? Are you a sucker for enemies-to-lovers, especially of the kind that's convoluted and messy in their emotional attachment? Have you been yearning for more disabled and/or trans protagonists in your life?

Do you want a story where love corrupts instead of redeems?

Do you want to read a tragedy that was inescapable long before the story began?

My novel Whispers is in need of some beta readers!

Marika Swiftfoot has hidden from the Shadow of Fowden for ten years, but ten years isn’t a life complete.

She has a debt to pay, and the Whispers have finally come to collect. And once again, she is ripped away from everything she calls home as the result of a poor choice she made years ago, when she didn’t know what would come.

But she will not go to Fowden without a fight.

And she swears the man who brings her there will die by her hand, no matter how much she once loved him.

Lorelei, too, is steeped in the regrets of her past, for she is known by three names: Softheart. Witmouth. Vowbreaker.

She wants to earn Hopebringer before her legs give out for good.

But first, she needs to find out what happened to her little sister. First, she needs to find the man who has disappeared just as untraceably, thirty years later.

First, she needs to end the Shadow of Fowden.

For she is not her father; she does not break her vows.

Content warnings, beta reading details, and sign up are below the cut!

Boosts are appreciated!

Important basics:

- It's 172,000 words, or about 750 pages.

- First-person, dual POV narration. Most of it is present-tense, but one POV features frequent past-tense flashbacks.

- The target audience is Adult. It dives headfirst into a plethora of dark topics, and reader discretion is advised.

- The main critique focus is on plot effectiveness and points of potential confusion. I'm especially looking for whether the twists are too predictable/too unexpected, and whether the ending is satisfying. If you won't have time to read all of it, please don't sign up.

- The hard deadline for critique completion is July 1st, 2024. The document will be sent out on January 10th at the latest.

RECURRING CONTENT WARNINGS

Body horror, gore, violence, and death. Emotional abuse. Transphobia and sexual assault. Harm to children and implied child death. Police brutality. Ableism and physical abuse. Fire.

STILL INTERESTED? You can sign up to be a beta reader here!

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #beta reader #beta reader wanted #fantasy fiction #dark fantasy #fantasy #horror #mystery

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dotieeee · 27 days

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The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 14

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 14 Warnings:

Graphic non-p&v non-con, graphic violence, alcohol consumption and intoxication

Replay Level 13

Ready? Level 14 Start:

“Nellie! Oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you, it’s been soooo long!”

“You look amazing, Nellie. I’m so glad to see you, girl!”

“Nellie, I’m so happy you could make it tonight, it means so much to us.”

Coriolanus Snow’s striking figure stands at his full height while you’re hounded by your old Academy classmates with sweet words, warm smiles, and quick pecks on your cheek – his sharp eyes, however, are unusually hungrier tonight, owing to that dress you’re wearing. To be fair, it was you who made this choice of dress, not him – a figure-hugging crimson-red velvet number with a heart-shaped neckline and puffy sleeves, the hem falling just a few inches above your knees – modest yet showing just enough skin and curve for his mind to go astray.

The way your hips sway in it, and the way he can see just how ample the curve of your ass is for his grabbing while he bends you over and ploughs into you from your ba –

A swift tackle from behind almost knocks the wind out of him, effectively distracting him from you, and when the tackler lets go, he gets pulled in an affectionate one-armed hug by none other than Festus Creed.

“My old friend! Glad you can make it tonight,” Festus greets with a large grin.

“Likewise, Festus. You said you had good news for us, I wouldn’t miss it.”

To Coriolanus, Festus had been a good friend since childhood, and over the years he had proven himself to be a valuable ally. That is why he makes an effort to humour his childhood friend with just about anything he puts his mind to – drinking during the weekends, the occasional sport and game night (he once asked him to join a boxing lesson), and on rare occasions, trips to those fancy strip clubs (where he got his previous escorts from).

Save him fucking unknown girls in a sketchy alleyway, Festus can still put him up to things that Coriolanus doesn’t necessarily have any taste for. This dinner, by far, is one of the more pleasant affairs his friend has come up with, and it’s solely because of Coriolanus’s Citadel-exclusive membership that they were able to reserve highly-coveted seats in one of the tables in the restaurant’s inner garden.

Coriolanus Snow’s eye almost twitches when he sees Festus pull you in for a bear hug and lift you off the floor for a few seconds. He has no reason to be jealous, he reminds himself – Festus is a friend who already has Persephone, who looks happier than ever clinging onto his arm. When he gets a closer look at her as she pulls him in for a quick hug, however, he notices that she has gained weight by a fraction around the midsection.

In an instant, he’s figured out what good news his friend is dying to share. Unless she managed to get her hands on more of her father's infamous wartime stew (Coriolanus shudders to himself), there is no way he could be wrong.

“So Nellie, what did Coriolanus have to do to make you come out of your fortified fortress?” Festus jokes.

You let out a little chuckle and respond in a similar tone, “If you have to know, Festus, he disabled the fortifications, invaded the said fortress, and established a semi-totalitarian regime.”

Even Coriolanus can’t suppress his laugh; you’re by far the wittiest girl he’s ever met – as if he needs another reminder of why he’s so crazy about you.

The White Knight is full on a Saturday night as is expected, the waiting area even more so, but the receptionist is quick to have Festus Creed’s party escorted to the table. Everyone is then plied with refreshments as soon as they’re seated, while a waiter reads out tonight’s specials. There is light chatter which Coriolanus is engaged with animatedly, and everyone else seems to be in chipper spirits, but he’s observing you out of the corner of his eye as he always does.

He’s still quite upset and offended that you had once again attempted to escape him, thank you very much. After all he’s done for you to make sure you’ll never want for anything in his care – the least he deserves was being so cruelly abandoned like you had just tried to do earlier in the day. The punishment he gave you after felt just, but even if he had drawn immense satisfaction from it, that wasn’t how he imagined you pleasuring him by the mouth. It couldn’t be helped, it seems – you needed a much-overdue reminder that you were his and that was the only method he could come up with.

But the way your eyes look so dull and tired presumably from all that crying, even as you tried your best to appear carefree in the presence of friends, stirs something in him. Underneath the table, he takes your hand resting on your lap and laces his fingers between yours in hopes of reassuring you.

Dinner is eventually served in courses, and as usual, everything is delicious. In between bites, Coriolanus manages to sneak glances at you to make sure you’re eating well. Finally, dessert is served, which he knows is your favourite part of every meal, yet you barely get two bites into your cheesecake before you push it towards him.

“You want it? I can’t finish it,” you tell him.

And of course, as the dutiful boyfriend he is, he finishes it off for his sugarplum, earning an eye roll from Festus.

“Look at you two, so disgustingly in love, finishing off each other’s plates and everything,” his friend teases.

Coriolanus's response is a smirk. “And look at you, eating Persephone’s share before she can even put her fork down. It’ll be a wonder she doesn’t starve when you two start living together.”

Careful she doesn't make soup out of you.

The rest of the table erupts into lighthearted giggling; he glances at you sideways and feels a little reassured to see that you’re joining in.

“Speaking of which…” Festus begins after he clears his throat, and, holding Persephone’s hand over the table for everyone to see, he announces what Coriolanus had been suspecting before dinner had even begun.

He and his long-time girlfriend are expecting and are getting married in three months. Despite sleeping around behind her back right after every fight, Persephone had managed to drill some commitment into his friend’s thick skull, which isn’t an easy feat. Coriolanus is genuinely glad at this development – relieved, even, because this means Festus will now have less time for the drinking sprees and mindless shenanigans he’d normally get dragged into.

The table erupts into a chorus of congratulatory messages to which the couple’s faces glow brightly, their grip on each other’s hands tightening as their heads draw marginally closer to each other.

Clemmie asks them something from across the table. “Pers, how far along are you?”

“I’m halfway through my first trimester,” Persephone says. “I’m going to start showing soon, so we’re rushing the preparations. We waited to tell everyone until now because we’d like you guys to play a part in the ceremony.”

“And you, my great, slippery partner in crime,” Festus turns to Coriolanus with a big grin, “Are my best man.”

“It’ll be an honour,” he replies. Best man. Can’t be that bad. How hard can it be to arrange a stag party? He motions to the waiter to fill up all the wine glasses. “My first act as the best man is to propose a toast to my friends Festus and Persephone, or soon-to-be Mr and Mrs Creed, and their baby on the way.”

The table shouts ‘hear, hear’ in unison and empties all of the raised glasses, to which Festus breaks into mock sobs.

“You guys are making me cry,” he fakes wiping his tears using Persephone’s dress-sleeve, which earns a laugh from her and a playful slap on his shoulder.

“I also hope that their future children inherit none of Festus’s rotten genes,” Coriolanus adds as a joke. The entire table laughs along with Persephone as Festus attempts to kick him under the table as he suppresses a toothy smile. Somehow, there is a bit of truth in that – even if his friend means well, he can be a bit dense. Thankfully, Persephone adequately fills that gap. One can just hope she isn't birthing children with cannibalistic tendencies.

The chatter then goes on about the wedding preparations and the following baby shower. Coriolanus fondly recalls you with his cousin and Ma Plinth going over the guest list and the gown designs, a time that you had then ruined with your little disappearing act. He fixes his stare on your face, failing to notice until after a few moments that his own hand has just reached for your left where the engagement ring sits.

Even in his subconscious, he craves any form of contact with you.

Coriolanus notices Persephone’s soft gaze on him, which travels to your clasped hands – perhaps she spots the ring on your hand, for her eyes widen by a fraction before turning back to him with a subtly interested look. He acknowledges the look with a single upturn of his lips.

“Guys, I think we’re not the only ones on this table with good news,” she declares, her excitement palpable. “Nellie, can I see your ring, please?”

It's so endearing how you stammer and smile sheepishly as you attempt to redirect everyone’s attention away from you. “Uh, I…I don’t – I mean, it’s just a ring, this is your night – !”

“Nonsense!” Persephone brushes you off with a genuine smile. “I know an engagement ring when I see one - I've seen them a dozen times. Let us see the ring, please?”

“Wait, what ring?” Clemmie leans forward curiously before she gasps, her eyes darting between him and you. “Oh my, you two as well?”

Lys says with an eager smile, “She’s been totally trying to hide it the entire night. I knew it!”

Coriolanus shrugs within himself and thinks now is a good time as any. “Nellie, it’s okay. You can show them.”

You do as he says demurely while he looks on, mildly amused at the way the others collectively draw closer to your outstretched hand.

Festus guffaws loudly, startling everyone including the waiter who almost drops the plates he’s collecting.

“He finally got the balls to do it, huh? Fuck yeah, congratulations, man!” His friend lets out a whoop as they exchange a warm and vigorous handshake. Festus turns to you, saying, “Nellie, I’m glad you gave him a chance because it was getting really obnoxious how he just talks about you, pining, whenever he gets tipsy.”

It's Coriolanus’s turn to send him a half-hearted kick under the table, unable to help his growing smirk. “You’re a horrible liar, Creed, I do not pine.”

The girls congratulate you both as a couple, and his friend offers a similar congratulatory toast while declaring himself Coriolanus’s best man.

“There is no one else I can think of who’ll fit the bill,” Coriolanus agrees. “Also, I’d appreciate it if this stays between us for now, as we plan to announce it after the 12th Games. The wedding is in six months, approximately.”

“Of course,” Lys nods. “You can trust us, Coriolanus. Festus is the only one in this table who can’t keep a secret.”

“Hey!”

“Can I tell Livia, though?”

Lys, Festus and Persephone gape at Clemmie and her question, but she just shrugs it off over a sip of her glass. “What? She’s going to find out anyway.”

You look understandably confused. “Oh yeah, I thought she’d be joining today.”

Inwardly, Coriolanus doesn’t care if his former prospect avoids him forever, but he hadn’t told you about him almost choosing her at first before he set his eyes on you. He’d very much like to see how you’d respond, although he masks this interest by feigning awkwardness.

Persephone licks her lips before explaining. “She said she had something else to attend to, but I think she’s just upset with Coriolanus.”

This conversation is turning out to be in his favour. “This was before you, Nellie. We were supposed to go on this date, but I decided against it. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad, we didn’t even talk.”

“’It wasn’t that bad?’ Are you kidding me?” Festus says in between sniggers. “You practically scarred her, leaving her out to dry like that.”

Clemmie nods thoughtfully. “Or in her words, you led her on and essentially ghosted her.”

“So imagine how mad she was when she started hearing rumours about the two of you,” Persephone recounts. “People always whispered about how close you two were, but all we got were mere speculations.”

Lys chimes in, “And then we see that article about Mr Plinth’s birthday party.”

“Yes, that! Nellie, you were so freaking pretty, gosh. I have to tell you, it was all I could hear from the girls I knew in class. You made red silk slip dresses a trend,” Clemmie gushes. “Anyway, Livia phoned me the night that article came out, we went out for drinks and she ended up getting wasted and so stressed out about it. It was so messy, I’m telling you.”

Coriolanus intently observes your reaction – you keep your face guarded, but he can tell by looking into your eyes that you’re surprised at the revelations. “Sorry, you had to find out this way. I meant to tell you all about it.”

To further paint the repentant boyfriend, he keeps a rueful expression and takes your hand in his. Your posture stiffens a little.

“It’s…it’s fine, honestly…”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Nellie,” Persephone gently says.

Lys nods in agreement, and Clemmie begins teasing you. “Nellie, I didn’t know you had a jealous streak. Seriously, don’t be!”

You bristle at the ladies’ playful teasing, the tip of your ears reddening at the attention as you vehemently deny them. “No, I’m not...!”

If Coriolanus was a lesser man, he would’ve kissed you right there and then, damn everybody who’s watching.

But there it is – the reaction he’d been waiting to see from everyone since the talk of that Cardew girl began – to the circle, your approach on the subject is natural as his girlfriend and fiancée. Eventually, however, you successfully revert the topic to Persephone’s wedding preparations, which somehow leads to a collective decision to move to Club Heresy for a few drinks.

Club Heresy, located just a few blocks away, is an exclusive invite-only club, and in Clemmie’s words, the ‘hottest’ nightclub in the city where the richest, most popular kids in the Capitol are known to frequent. Coriolanus had been there too many times to count, but it'll be your first time. He’s aware he may have overwhelmed you with tonight’s dinner, so he has to be close by preferably at all times to look out for you.

As soon as you get inside the loud, crowded, dimly-lit box they call Club Heresy, you wrench away from the girls to go to the bathroom. You see something akin to suspicion in Coriolanus’s eyes when you tell him, but you don’t wait for permission from him – you extricate yourself from your company the moment you get his hand off your waist, and as soon as you lock the bathroom stall, you cover your mouth with both your palms and scream.

You let out several guttural screams, unable to care any less if anyone else can hear.

He had a choice.

He had a choice, a voice keeps repeating in your head. It could’ve been someone else’s life he’d ruined. It could’ve been Livia Cardew in your place, being dragged into Coriolanus Snow’s life – and if what your old classmates had said is to be believed, she sounded willing to participate, even heartbroken that she had lost the chance.

But for whatever rotten, miserable, fucked-up reason, he still chose to make your life a living hell by forcing you into a relationship you never asked for, and soon, into a marriage you’ll never want.

Your screams eventually morph into uncontrollable sobbing, which you still try to stifle with your hands.

A knock on your bathroom stall echoes in the space, followed by an impatient voice on the other side that asks, “Hey, excuse me? You’ve been in there so long, other people have to go to, you know.”

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

The retort you let out might’ve been too abrasive, but the scary part is, you can’t bring yourself to give a damn anymore. You’re turning into a person you no longer recognise the longer you’re with him, and it’s a person you’re starting to hate.

Coriolanus is dragged away to the bar by Festus as he watches your form scurry away and disappear through the crowd of intoxicated bodies thrashing to ear-splitting electronic music. The two males leave the ladies at the VIP booth so they can drink and talk in peace.

“Hey, she’s not going to try and escape man, what the hell?” Festus shouts through the noise.

You have no idea, Coriolanus thinks wryly.

They get to the bar where it’s significantly quieter, and where Festus challenges him to shots of vodka and watered-down posca to chase them with.

Festus grimaces after downing the first shot and asks, “Hey listen, congratulations on finally nailing her down, but six months? You knocked her up, didn’t you?”

“No.” Coriolanus empties the second the shot glass, eager to get this drinking spree over with. Though he can afford to pay for it now and even chooses to partake at times, he’s aware that constant inebriation isn’t ideal for someone like him who has an impeccable image to uphold. “I told you many times: I’m – we’re waiting for marriage.”

“Yeah, I remember feeling the same way – two years ago. I’ve always admired your self-control, Snow, but nobody’s perfect.” Festus snorts in laughter and spills some of the posca on the bar.

Even as aware as he is that his restraint concerning you continues to slip by the day, Coriolanus merely scoffs when he goes through the fifth shot and chaser, deliberately ignoring the heightening buzz. “What can I say, Creed? I’m learning from your mistakes.”

His friend, who’s clearly starting to lose inhibition due to the alcohol, erupts into fits of giggles, before pointing at something from across the bar. Obviously slurring now, he says, “Uh-oh, troublewithyourgirl, two, three, o’clock?”

Coriolanus whips his head fast enough to almost cause a dizzy spell. True enough, he sees you, his precious sugarplum, your eyes red-rimmed and your brows drawn together in a frown, trying to evade – and failing – a guy who’s clearly invading your personal space and making unwanted advances.

He tries not to see red, but with every step he takes closer to you, it becomes increasingly impossible. He stares daggers at the male as he gets in between you two.

“I’d step away now if I were you,” he says, his jaw tensing and his fists curling and uncurling. Don’t let the alcohol get to your head, he recites inwardly.

“Mind your own business, punk, I’m trying to score here,” the bastard says, pushing and brushing past him to get to your frame currently retreating further into your future husband’s back.

This fills him with pride and warmth, knowing that even if you’re not in the best of terms, you still turn to him for protection. It’s his duty, he’s well aware, but he also loves you - enough for him to admit he’d die first before he lets anyone harm a single strand of your hair.

That duty of his is the only thing on his mind the second the bastard grabs your arm – he lets the sweet, intoxicating, elixir do wonders in his brain and lets his fist fly right onto the scum’s nose.

Nobody gets to touch what belongs to Coriolanus Snow except Coriolanus Snow.

Screams from a few people on the dance floor overpower the thumping electronic music, the crowd drawing back to give space to the man currently on the floor, knocked out by a single, powerful punch from your fiancé. It takes a few seconds later than you would’ve liked – owning to the fact that the man’s nose is bleeding profusely and you try not to let the image of the thick, red liquid get into your head – but you wrap your arms around Coriolanus’s midriff to keep him from launching himself on the man with all intents to further rough him up. The burly club bouncers are immediately at the scene while the man tries to get back on his feet to no avail.

Coriolanus is quick to explain the situation, saying how the bastard ‘groped’ his girlfriend; the bouncers ask no more questions and haul the man away.

“This’s new. I normally start the fights,” Festus, who had just arrived at the scene smelling like an entire bar with his eyes drooping and red, merely grins proudly at his friend, but this has no effect on him whatsoever.

Coriolanus still looks like he’s about to murder someone on sight, so you attempt to placate him by placing a hand on his arm. His gaze instantly softens by a fraction when he looks at it, but then he makes a grab for it, and, after dragging you around to bid the entire group farewell, you find yourself back in the car, wedged in between the upholstered backseat and your boyfriend’s sinewy form, the air being sucked out of you by his mouth firmly latched onto yours.

As Coriolanus drags his lips against your lips, you wilt with dread; the kiss he’s forcing you to share is filled with the kind of urgency and hunger that you suspect won’t let up anytime soon, judging by how he smells and tastes of vodka and posca. He pauses briefly when he drags you across his lobby, but the kiss is back full force when the elevator closes, and the moment his apartment door closes behind you, he lifts your entire body over his shoulder and carries you to his bedroom, squealing and hitting whatever part of him you could reach with your flailing fists.

He ignores all of this and essentially throws you on his bed. Your attempts to crawl away are then hindered when he climbs on top of you and straddles you on the hips.

“No, get off me – !”

His body descends on yours and he kisses you once more in the mouth to silence you, but once his hand strokes your thigh and hikes up your dress, you push his chest with all your might and break the kiss.

“No, please – !”

But you’re cut off by your own scream – he’s just flipped you on your stomach with a growl over your ear, and once again, he pins you in place with his thighs on either side of your hips. You’re panicking by now; this new position only offers you a view of the headboard when you lift your head and prevents any more of your already limited movement, and since he wouldn’t budge an inch, there’s very little you can do now to get out of his grasp except one thing:

You break down in tears and beg.

“Please, Coryo, let me go…”

But all that earns you is him whispering hotly over your ear.

“Hush, my sugarplum. I did promise to wait until we’re married, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have any fun.”

That’s when you feel him rip the back of your dress, and the tearing sound mingles with your own terrified sobs. With the way you can feel the cold prickling your skin, you can tell he’s torn the dress until your lower back – if he had torn an inch further, he could’ve exposed the crack of your ass, covered modestly by your underwear.

With his lips grazing your ear, he hisses, “Nobody touches what’s mine except me.”

Within seconds of ripping your dress, you can feel him suckle and bite on whatever part of your back he can reach, his tongue leaving hot, wet trails on the exposed, stinging flesh – as if that isn’t enough, his hand further pushes your shoulder into the mattress, while his other snakes underneath the part of the dress he hasn’t pulled up and travels between your thighs. He begins stroking your clothed cunt with his fingers, and to your embarrassment, you can feel your own warmth soaking your panties as soon as he does. When you writhe helplessly underneath him, his tongue licks upwards, stopping at the base of your neck before he plants a kiss on your hair and whispers:

“Sshh, my little sugarplum; let me reward you for doing so well tonight.”

“Coryo, no, please, please…!”

Alternating between shushing you and kissing your temples, Coriolanus pushes your panties aside and rubs your wet entrance, right before you feel a finger of his pushing into your untouched hole.

The unwanted friction stings a little, earning a choked scream from you, and you learn quickly that squirming actually makes it worse. So, you lie perfectly still and squeeze the pillow before you while he fully plunges the finger inside you before pulling it out and pushing it back in.

He's gone to a place in you that you never even knew existed, every thrust of his finger makes you realise just how sensitive that place is. He settles for a steady pace in no time as you adjust to the feeling, and as shameful as it already is, your cries are reduced to whimpers, and eventually to moans, and your muscles begin to clench and unclench around his finger uncontrollably.

“So fucking tight, my sugarplum,” he whispers against his temple. “Is this how tightly you’ll squeeze my cock when I take you on our wedding night?”

His finger brushes over an area inside you that causes you to arch your back and curl your toes – you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, but you can’t bring yourself to care. For now, all you can think of is that finger hitting that same spot over and over, your insides clenching him erratically.

“You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it. Let go, my sugarplum.”

Close to what, you find out soon enough – your first orgasm invades all your senses, wracking your body with tremors. Pleasure like you’ve never felt before, forced from you by your fiancé’s ministrations – but it fades as soon it comes, replaced by relief when that finger finally leaves your core and the body pinning you down draws back a little, then by pure shame and guilt for your body reacting as it did when you should have hated it.

“See what I give you when you obey me?”

You don’t spend more than a few moments to contemplate just how appalled you are at yourself – above you, you hear the rustling of a belt buckle being undone and a zipper being pulled down, and you panic again, pleading to him and wishing he’d just leave you alone.

“Please, Coryo, don’t…”

Coriolanus shushes you again, this time, gripping the left side of your waist to keep you in place while you hear him starting to breathe steadily heavier. You lie still, afraid of what he might do, but all you hear from him after a few tense seconds is his strained groaning and cursing under his breath.

“Fuck, you’re going to feel so good when I’m inside you…”

He’s pleasuring himself above you, and the realisation leaves you mortified, but you decide to ignore him and block out everything altogether.

“Can’t you feel me trying to make you feel good, Nellie?” He asks in between his panting and grunting. “Why can’t you see me trying to give you everything you want? To make you feel happy? Why can’t you just accept that I love you?”

You decide to ignore that, too.

What you can’t ignore, however, is the sound of him reaching his peak – it’s a vulgar sound, you note – followed by something hot and wet spilling on your lower back, indicating he’s spilt himself on you.

You feel him draw closer, breathing heavily into your ear and whispering, “You’re mine. You’ll learn to accept that in time.”

The bed shifts when he finally gets off you, but he kisses you once on the back of your neck and on your head, probably – hopefully – for the last time tonight, before saying, “Now would be a perfect time to start accepting your reality; otherwise, you’re just going to be miserable. And I don’t want that. I want to make you happy, and I will – you just have to let me.”

He later cleans you up with a wet towel and removes whatever is left of your dress, leaving you in only your underwear – you close your eyes the entire time and just let him. You scoot over to the edge of the bed when he comes back, shirtless and clad in only his boxer shorts, but he wraps his arm around you tightly and pulls you by the waist until your back touches his chest. The action is enough for the tears to come spilling for the umpteenth time this day, but you try to keep it down to mere sniffling. He coos from behind you and places his lips on the side of your neck in this gentle, lingering kiss.

“I’m placing you on paid suspension. Because of what you did, sugarplum, I’d have to send your uncle to exile in the Districts. Understand this: this isn’t meant to hurt you in any way. I only mean to teach you a lesson: do as I say, and you’ll never have to cry like this again.”

Coriolanus plants a series of butterfly kisses on the same spot, travelling to your shoulder and back. He then burrows his face at the groove of your neck, inhaling deeply and sighing with absolute contentment.

“I love you, Nellie,” he murmurs against your skin. “Now, sleep. Everything will be better in the morning.”

But with him, you can never really know, can you?

“So, Nellie dear, what do you think of this?”

Ma Plinth pores into the catalogue you have open in your lap and points on page fifteen.

She set up a Sunday morning appointment with Nicolau Daley, a renowned professional wedding planner whose energy you can barely keep up with as he showed you countless catalogues of wedding themes and decorations and needlessly described them in detail. You’re unable to focus on the said page, but you nod anyway.

“I think it’s pretty, Ma.”

“I think so too,” she nods to herself. “Coriolanus would like it as well, seeing as it’s full of the red roses he’s partial to…”

Ah yes. It’s all about what he wants, isn’t it?

Ma rummages through the hefty stack of other catalogues piled on the coffee table before you.

“Let me show you the one he and I initially agreed on so you can pick which one you like best...”

At the end of the scheduled appointment, you both walk out of Mr Daley’s office with samples of wedding décor carried by Ma’s maid, with Ma in light spirits and you…just about as chipper as one can be when one is forced into marrying a sadistic monster.

You both stroll along the busy 7th Street, the Capitol’s long mecca of luxury goods its residents go crazy for. It’s this day that you discover that Ma is like almost every woman you know when it comes to shopping: from every shop she visits with the intention of ‘just looking around,’ you come out with more bags than you entered, and the hapless maid tailing behind has to deal with carrying the packages.

“Let her do it, Nellie dear,” she dismisses your offer to her maid to help her. “I’ve never taken you out on a shopping day like this, and I want you to have fun!”

By the end of the impromptu shopping spree, you’ve combed all the shops along 7th street and have reached the corner between 7th and 9th, but as you exit, Ma decides to go back inside to get a pair of gloves and asks you to wait outside.

“You can look around and see if there’s anything you like from that store and I’ll meet you right back here in about fifteen minutes,” she instructs, pointing to the other side of the street before vanishing into the shop.

You wonder half-heartedly what will happen to her if you make a run for it now. You certainly have some time before she realises that you've gone. What would Coriolanus do? He will likely never dare hurt her, of course, lest he incurs Strabo Plinth’s wrath. But where will you go, when your inter-district travel pass has been revoked? You’ll most likely never get far, and anyone in the Capitol you ask help from, save your uncle, would turn you back into your fiancé’s custody in a heartbeat.

Your gloomy musings are interrupted when you notice you’ve just turned to the first shop on 9th Street. You face its window, with the words ‘Second Chances Pet Shelter’ in bright paint, and without thinking, you push the door open and enter.

The establishment is rather small, but stacked with steel cages on the walls filled with all sorts of animals. At the end of the space sits a woman behind a counter who introduces herself as Patty. She gets to her feet when she sees you, greets you with a smile and begins recounting the shelter’s history.

They’re a local animal rescue organisation, you discover, and they began with the noble effort of rehabilitating abandoned animals after the war. They have since thrived to this day, given the Capitol’s rather flimsy trends – once a type of pet has gone out of style, the poor things are either euthanised or abandoned to the elements and left to fend for themselves.

Patty’s retelling is interrupted when you feel something soft brush against your legs. You look down to see what it is.

“Oh dear, Oscar has escaped his cage again,” she exclaims with a fond yet exasperated sigh. “Oscar…”

Oscar, a long-haired cat with a black and white coat resembling that of a tuxedo, just proceeds to weave through your legs and ignore the shopkeeper.

“I’m sorry, he’s just so frighteningly smart,” she says. “He keeps breaking the cage’s locking mechanism. This is the sixth cage he's broken in a month.”

“It’s okay,” you chuckle. At least one of you has the ability to break away. “Can I pick him up?”

Having no experience with pets since your uncle is allergic, you’re not sure how to handle him.

“I’d be careful if I were you; he’s a bit of an old-timer. He only tolerates me and he doesn’t really take kindly with other people. Come to think of it, you’re the only person who’s ever walked in here that he’s interacted with…”

You kneel on the floor to get close to Oscar’s height. Patty instructs you to hold out a finger for him to sniff at.

“In cat-speak, it means ‘hello.’”

To your surprise, Oscar rubs his whiskered cheek on your outstretched finger.

“Oh my!” Patty exclaims excitedly. “It means he thinks you’re friends now, I think. You can pet him if you want.”

But you don’t even wait for her instruction – Oscar takes it to himself to rub his chin on your hand, while you use your other hand to pat his head, and this goes on for about a minute before he turns his tail on you and walks gracefully away.

A few raps on the glass window alert you to Ma, waving at you cheerily and motioning to someone standing behind her with an almost curious glint in his eyes.

Coriolanus Snow flashes you a grin and tilts his head purposefully. You’ve come to know what that means in Coryo-speak:

Time to go.

You try not to think about the fact that you’ll likely never see Oscar the cat again, but you take out your rarely-used chequebook and write the shelter a hefty amount – hoping your Uncle wouldn’t mind – to which the lady thanks you profusely for. She lets you say goodbye to Oscar, who’s currently atop one of the shop’s shelves, grooming his pretty long coat. He snubs you completely, which you think is for the better – it’s a lot less heartbreaking for you that way when you finally exit the shop.

Coriolanus immediately gives you a fleeting kiss on the lips in greeting. “How’s the shopping going, my sugarplum?”

“It's going well, thank you.” Until you showed up, anyway.

You notice his gaze flick momentarily back to the shop, then back to yours.

“Let’s get you home, then, shall we?”

Without waiting for your response, he grabs you by the waist and steers you into the car. When you arrive in his apartment, you learn what he just meant by getting you ‘home.’

Once he’s taken his coat off, he drags you to his bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, and issues a simple command:

“Get on your knees, sugarplum.”

Enter Level 15

Next on Level 15 - Uncle Cas officially leaves to his exile immediately after the engagement party; you make a friend of sorts out of a former bully; Snowball tries to cheer you up by giving you a gift; you make a surprising choice for your maid of honour.

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated! Anyone wonder what this gift will be? 😊🤭🫣

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #Young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

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aughtpunk · 29 days

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On the subject of Disability and the "Forgiveness of the Lamb" series

It has been brought to my attention that there's a person (who will go unnamed) going around accusing my work of being ableist on the grounds that during the series The Bishops have their Narinder-inflicted injuries healed and therefore are no longer disabled. I wanted to take a moment to address this.

The Bishops are healed in the Forgiveness of the Lamb series not because being disabled is bad and they need to be "fixed". I am disabled myself and find that very concept horrible. The Bishops are healed because it's a literal manifestation of their and Narinder's relationships being fixed. He apologizes, they forgive him, and because of this the injury he inflicted on them is undone. The healing is symbolic, not a means to "fix" them.

(I even tagged the fic with 'The Literal Healing is also a Metaphor' to stress the point).

It's also worth nothing that The Bishops aren't fixed. While their relic body parts have been returned each of them are still disabled. Leshy's sight has been damaged causing him to be nearsighted and to have blurry vision. Heket has breathing problems making physical activity hard. Kallamar is still deaf in one ear. And Shamura now suffers from debilitating migraines. I have touched on all of these lightly so far but plan to go into them with each POV story.

I request that in the future if anyone has a problem with any of my stories you should contact me directly with them and, as long as you are respectful, I will gladly talk to you about it. Do not spam and bother other people on their own posts for enjoying my work.

To everyone who has been enjoying the Forgiveness of the Lamb series and leaving kudos, making art, or leaving comments: Thank you. It's been a long time since I've felt welcomed in a fandom like this. I hope all of you enjoy the rest of the series.

#cult of the lamb #cotl #the forgiveness of the lamb #to forgive is divine

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 4 months

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AITA for calling a nineteen-year-old character a kid?

(For context, I (19FtM) am autistic and they refused to elaborate on anything and never asked anything clearly.)

I have an RP character with his own blog, and on that blog I wrote a post from his POV, where he called himself a kid and implored an institution in the fandom (SCP Foundation) to treat him like a person. I had just turned 19 at the time and still considered myself a kid and the adults in my life considered people my age (18-20) to be children who could vote. I know a bit about brain development and had been taught that mental maturation is a physical process. The character is immortal (born 1349) but, because his brain can't age, he's still got the physical brain structure of an eighteen-year-old guy. He's still mentally eighteen and will always be mentally eighteen.

For the next three hours, I was bombarded by anons telling me how creepy that was and that I shouldn't have done this. I didn't understand and defended my choice. I talked about brain development (they instantly turned this into "the character is brain-damaged" and when I said he wasn't but mentioned that I am, they started being pretty ableist about that.) I also mentioned that both the character and I don't do anything with minors and find even the thought to be disgusting (they were calling my use of the word kid to somehow be paedophilic,) and they said that sounded like something a paedo would say. To my knowledge, I did nothing other than call this character a kid and defended it by pointing out the ways 18 is an adolescent and that neither of us were doing anything harmful with it.

There were a few minor issues the anons never directly mentioned (he makes his own medication because he doesn't trust other people not to drug him and because his metabolism is significantly enhanced, they didn't like this. They didn't like him being a level 6 mutant but I think I should be allowed to write a level 6 mutant. Two of his children are white, but all of his children are adopted. He has a husband who is immortal and 19. He uses a name not from his culture, meaning not Aztec, because he survived the Aztec genocide and chose a new one to fly under the radar, which I guess is a fair point but they never addressed that directly.) But almost all asks were about the age thing. They got progressively angrier and started calling me a paedo for calling him a kid, and they told me to end my own life.

When I asked one of the people involved in the discourse (part of the RP community I had reached out to immediately before this all went down,) she was weird. She insisted I should know why calling him a kid was creepy and refused to elaborate. She claimed they had been far more direct about the other issues, but I had a maximum of one ask per issue and none of them even directly called it an issue. I made an apology post even though I still didn't understand what I'd done and she said it just made the issues worse.

At this point, I made a "screw an apology I'm not sorry for anything" post criticizing the hours of hatred and told them to block me, then disabled anon.

Clearly I'm missing something, but they refused to tell me what I was missing and they told me to end my life. Is it really so wrong for a fictional 18-year-old to call himself a kid? If so, can one of you please explain why?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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problematicturtle · 2 years

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Takeaways from the ep:

- Claudia realizing that she’s not meant to be a daughter but a proxy for Louis’ sister hit so hard. Louis, who has lost everyone and everything, who finally managed to feel comfortable as a vampire by throwing all of that love, that life that he has into that one girl - whether fairly or not, is another matter entirely, but her actually *seeing* Louis, the way Lestat, for all his proclamations of love, never truly acknowledges, breaks my heart.

- Louis losing Claudia was always going to send him over the edge: he was already there, she just held him in place for a while. Does Louis love Lestat? I’m sure he does. Does it matter? Beyond the catholic guilt, Lestat is inhospitable to Louis’ nature. Louis is passive and suicidal and depressed and Lestat is absolutely the worst man to support him through any of that.

- hints of Lestat’s past, and the vampires out there, but Lestat never talks about it, so again, does it matter? Your trauma is just all your sharp edges cutting everyone else in your proximity if you don’t acknowledge it and try to work through it. Same goes for Louis, to be honest. They can’t communicate, and so are stuck in this toxic stew of not being able to be what the other person needs them to be.

- Kudos to Sam Reid for making Lestat cheating on Louis an act you feel sorry for Lestat for. All that desperate, delicate yearning for connection, and finding it elsewhere when he can’t get it from Louis. Heartbreaking. (Also he keeps threatening to kill Antoinette whenever Louis finds out Lestat is still fucking her, but she’s still around. I love Antoinette.) also kudos to Jacob Anderson for the absolute betrayal and hurt on Louis’ face without a word when Claudia drops the A word.

- why did the house turn into a pigsty? Louis didn’t do the cleaning? What are you, Lestat, do you have a disability that prevents you from doing the housework?

- IWTV fandom, please stop framing Lestat cloud dropping Louis as a result of emotional abuse from Louis. Please, just don’t. You can frame it as two dudes in a toxic, fucked up relationship if you want, and it is, because they’re both not human, and a violent act between them can be just that. But stop framing it as “well he was physically violent because Louis was emotionally abusive”. I cannot abide. Let them be fucked up, you don’t have to justify it. You can love a character who would drop a man from a cloud because he never said he loved him. He’s complex. And so is Louis. You don’t have to woobify a character to love him. He’s not real. (That said, I want to say I’m surprised, but… I’m not.)

- I’m deathly curious about Lestat’s POV of all this. We have only seen Claudia and Louis’, in all its imperfections and self-justifications. Suspect Lestat will have a wildly different take, and the truth is somewhere in between.

- hate what happens to Claudia. First writing move I disagree with. I shall, like Louis, tear the pages out and pretend it didn’t happen. You can grow up and mature without going through that. It’s a cheap shortcut to emotional maturity for a teenaged character, and I hate it.

- Louis and Claudia are both Black, and this matters still. Being vampires doesn’t change the way they have to navigate the world because you can’t kill everyone who engages in fuckery, can you.

#iwtv spoilers #interview with the vampire

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wawawawawawawawawawawawawa · 1 year

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honestly, looking at izaya's life from a third person pov, it's just... sad? like.

here's this guy who touts himself as something akin to a god and a master manipulator and someone to be feared, and he IS very good at what he does, except... when you take a look at the rest of his life, you see a mid-20s man who has no friends, nobody who really likes him- his clients fear him, his secretary isn't fond of him, and the one friend he DOES have is honestly kind of a garbage friend. and when people draw attention to this, izaya goes on this spiel about how this friendship is so intricrate it can't possibly be understood by an outsider, but what's REALLY happening is that shinra routinely doesn't care for izaya on a personal level via ignoring and ostracizing him, and izaya kind of just. takes it up the ass

he sees everyone around him as an object and the sad thing is everyone, in turn, sees HIM as an object- less an actual living being and more an abstract concept, or at least something that only exists for others to gain something from. it's this vicious cycle of izaya keeping everyone at arm's length and denying his own humanity, which in turn leads to people also denying his humanity, unknowingly feeding into this fucked up cycle of self depracation that most likely started when he was a child- his parents didnt see him as a person, just a mouth to feed and later, a way to have the life they wanted while still appearing respectable- they had kids, just like society said they should, but theyre not obligated to care for them.

and the one person who DOES notice there is something unhealthy going on can't be assed to do anything about it- in volume 9, shinra explicitly says that he doubts izaya expects to live long enough to die of old age- celty actually agrees with him! celty not being assed about it i'd expect, she already hates izaya and doesn't actually know all that much about him, but shinra at least should realize that there's something off about the whole situation. wether thats out of apathy or he just genuinley doesnt believe izaya is being unhealthy, i don't know.

but as it stands, here's a man who insists he can't be manipulated and that he's in control, who's... routinely mistreated by his only friend whom he still talks to and expects some sort of closeness from, and who ultimatley not only loses control, but loses it so spectacularly that he ends up disabled, possibly permanently. i KNOW the spinoff novels said he couldve walked if he went to physical therapy, but "ability to walk" does NOT equal "not disabled anymore."

like... it's just. a sad life! it's a horribly sad existence of a perpetual misery cycle that izaya not only doesn't pull himself out from but actively perpetuates via constantly giving in to his worst impulses and keeping everyone away from him via said impulses, ensuring nobody will notice anything wrong, and that people who DO notice and DO realize its unhealthy, won't give enough of a shit about him to help

#durarara #orihara izaya #izaya orihara #sowwy if this is like. bad. im sick with the ffflllu i think #or at least a real bad cold #waposts #and this isnt me painting izaya as like. a victim whos done nothing wrong btw #its EXPLICITLY his shit behavior that ostracizes anyone that could break the cycle #its a hell of his own making and its really sad #esp if u headcanon hes got aspd because then the reason hes like this is bc of untreated mental illness #which gives him even LESS control over The Situation than he thinks #wa-kun go one post without mentioning aspd challenge (FAILED)(NOT CLICKBAIT)(I ALMOST DIED)

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steddiebang · 6 months

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Road to Nowhere | Teen and Up | 27k

Author: @sharpbutsoft Artist: @patternscolorsflowers Beta Reader: @dodger-chan

Eddie Munson isn’t dead, and he’s trying not to make it everyone’s problem. After the horrorshow that was Spring Break, he’s been keeping to himself, attending his “legally you cannot call this a bribe but, yes, obviously it’s a bribe” physical therapy sessions, and trying to recover from his brief but violent death. Enter Steve Harrington, and his compulsive need to be useful, who’s volunteered to taxi him to and from these sessions (with minimal bitching.) This newfound friendship isn’t without its challenges though. Steve, not the best with his words, struggles to define his feelings for Eddie, who has it in his head that the only reason they’re not together yet, is because he’s not better yet. When an argument threatens to snuff out the sparks flying between them, Eddie has to learn that better is a journey, not a destination, and one he doesn’t have to take alone…

Fic | Art

Pairings: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Eddie Munson, Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Jeff (Stranger Things) Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eddie Munson Lives, Fix-It(kinda), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Injury Recovery (Well.....), Disabled Eddie Munson, Driving, POV Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is Not Okay, Steve Harrington is a Little Shit, Glossing over of what a Physical Theray Session entails, Eddie Munson Needs to Cop On

#steddiebang23 #steddiebang23 masterposts

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mswyrr · 6 days

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"If all ghouls can go feral, then the humans who chase them out of communities have a point--"

No, they don't. They're people with a medical condition?? No more prone to being dangerous than anyone if they're managing their condition and have safe options for end of life choices?

Like yes the "ticking clock" aspect of it is meant in the TV show to emphasize how Cooper's like a ghost haunting the Wasteland... but looked at from a worldbuilding rather than narrative themes pov, assholes who refuse to let ghouls live in community have made them exiled from life. That is not an automatic byproduct of their physical disability.

The idea that someone with an illness would deserve bad treatment if that illness was inconvenient enough/required "too much" care from their community is just so messed up.

And I bet we are going to see that what really broke him is when people started looking at him, seeing a monster, and then treating him like that no matter how hard he tried to do right...

So the TV show might even point out how bullshit that pov is.

#cooper howard #fallout tv #fallout 2024 #my meta #fallout meta

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euphoniouspandemonium · 5 months

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Cotton Mendings — a WIP intro by yours truly

finally doing a proper introduction yayy!! who would have foreseen this .

stage: drafting (rip it's been so long and it's going soo slow)

tags: #wip: cotton mendings ; #aes: cotton mendings

genres: historical fiction, literary fiction

themes and tropes: idealisation and romanticisation of people, queer love and toxic queer relationships, friends to lovers, tenderness and love for the world, hope, grief, obsession, mythological and religious imagery, breaking out of other people's perceptions of you, relearning gentleness after having it beaten out of you, being loved as being known

warnings: emotional abuse and implied/mentioned physical abuse, character death and mentioned animal death, period-typical homophobia & transphobia (will add on)

pov: 3rd person past tense

setting: 1920s England

summary: Oscar ignites a relationship with an old friend – charismatic socialite Salvatore – whom he has had repressed love for for years. But despite everything their relationship is haunted by the death of Oscar's brother and a portrait simply called Percy, made by a German artist: a portrait of a red haired man who appears perfect and soft and yet incredibly, beautifully tragic. It makes Oscar question Salvatore and their relationship and wonder about the life and seemingly inherent sorrow of the subject, while Salvatore grows ever more enticed by ruthless, enigmatic Yvonne. Their separate obsessions grow and push them apart, while at the center of everything is Percy, devastatingly alive and spiteful, trapped in a narrative he did not create. Who is Percy, who is Salvatore, who is Oscar in rotation to them? Does he want to know at all?

characters, notes, excerpt & taglist under the cut <33

characters:

Oscar (he/him, bi): world's #1 most pathetic sad boy. romanticises everything to the point of self destruction. scared of acting on his desires but full of soooo much love. obsessive, incredibly sensitive, artistic, melancholy. also sooo autism.

Salvatore (he/him, bi): charismatic, intelligent, flamboyant, philosophical, hedonistic. he sees everything in a very realistic and nihilistic way. emotionally detached yet surprisingly protective and gentle with the people he loves.

Percy (he/him, bi, trans): babyboy !! baby!!!!!!!! full of so much life and love and poetry. he is very sweet and sarcastic and loves going on little adventures. mentally ill & physically disabled. he's suffered more than jesus but his wonder and whimsy are unmatched.

Yvonne (she/her, bi): hot evil woman❤️ ruthless, vicious and cold. her love is almost violent and repugnant. she only cares about few people but if they are in danger she knows no morality or law. also she's mischievous like a little cat <3

notes: Cotton Mendings is my passion project, my Magnum Opus, my baby. I have worked very hard on it and I've developed the character dynamics and symbolism sooooo much I could talk about them for hours. It all started with the song Angie by The Rolling Stones, but it has strayed very far from its original concept (actually Angie isn't even on the playlist — it is now completely a product of my obsession with The Smiths I'm afraid). It has helped me through so much and I will be very happy if people like it :] I love my horrible insane bisexuals. Why is everyone bisexual, you ask? well. I ❤️ bisexuals.

excerpt:

He thought again of Percy, of the way he glowed as if coated in honey and sunlight, the sweet smile on his face. What if Percy had spent his life failing at it, too? Trying to be the perfect picture of a beautiful boy. Turning hazy and translucent, like a ghost, from trying. And those few minutes with him, how the light extended and held Oscar too, how Percy was perfect and beautiful but couldn't possibly be only that. How they were both an image without a body.

(general) taglist: @ribelleribelle @talesofsorrowandofruin @writing-is-a-martial-art @alexwritesfiction @aether-wasteland-s @sculpture-in-a-period-drama @phantomnations @olimpias (ask to be added or removed)

#wip: cotton mendings #wip intro #writeblr #original writing #syd's writing

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physalian · 25 days

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Tackling Characters with Mental Health Issues (or, ‘Write What you Know’)

**Trigger warning for this entire post**

This is completely off the cuff and unplanned but here we go. I just read a book that POV switches between its two romantic leads. One of these leads was intended to be written with a severe case of generalized anxiety. I have confirmation from the author that it’s not an author-insert. This character was entirely based on research, not experience.

Without putting them on blast, because they really did try…. While ‘neurodivergent’ or ‘mental health disorder’ isn’t a protected class, it should still fit squarely under other topics you shouldn’t write about if you don’t experience it with a massive asterisk.

TL;DR: If you yourself aren’t part of X minority or suffer Z physical or mental disability, you should not be barred from writing characters with those traits. ***HOWEVER*** writing these characters struggling, suffering, or overcoming this given trait in a pro-cis, straight, white, neurotypical, able-bodied America is not yours to touch.

This suffering isn’t your story to profit off of, when you didn’t actually suffer any of it.

I cannot remember who said it and I am absolutely paraphrasing but for example: White authors can and should include characters of color (and I am a White author). White authors should *not* write about a character of color as their protagonist experiencing bigotry, discrimination, hate crimes, and all that hardship, at the hands of white society. It’s just not your story to tell, and all the research in the world will never give you the lived experience you need to do it justice.

Like, you can write about the concept of slavery existing in a fantasy novel. Or sci-fi. Or some Alternate Universe historical fiction. You cannot write about the American slave trade like you lived it and still suffer the ramifications of it when you didn’t, especially when it is the thesis of your entire book.

Anyone remember that awful Amazon movie, My Policeman? Based on a book written by a straight, white woman whose straight female lead took an entire narrative to whine about how she was jilted by her gay husband and his gay lover who she got arrested and institutionalized so she could keep her husband… and never told them? With the predatory 3rd love interest and the whole ‘liar revealed’ and… yeah. That one.

Unless you do the work very few authors are willing to do, with permission and encouragement and a backing from whatever minority you’re writing about and their stamp of approval that you knocked it out of the park, just don’t. Save yourself the headache.

—

As I read this book, and this entire character’s arc is about her mental health, for 100k words… why would you *want* to take on that responsibility? Why would you want to take on all that extra research, all the stress of making sure you get it right, all the costs of hiring sensitivity readers and the risk of your character falling apart with readers who do fit these traits?

Characters with mental health problems are very, very tricky to get right for one massive reason: Accurately depicting many disorders and anxieties means your character can come across as extremely unlikeable, uncompelling, confusing, and frustrating. These characters won’t make logical choices or arguments, they’re likely to self-sabotage, contradict themselves, argue in circles, and die on molehills they think are mountains. This is just what anxiety does to people in the real world. We are not always compelling protagonists, and we don’t always get happy endings.

Writing illogical characters takes a lot of practice if you yourself are not an illogical thinker and if you’re writing half a book elbow-deep in 3rd person limited, intimately trying to describe how this disorder impacts their daily life, you, my friend, have so much more work cut out for you than you anticipated.

So why?

It got very sticky very quickly when the message I took away from the book was “character A can love away character B’s anxiety” and that just… it’s just not how it works. That is a very dangerous mindset to have, for both parties involved.

Character A does not exist to “fix” Character B, nor should A exist to be B’s therapist.

Making A B’s “medicine” can encourage some dangerous codependency. Especially if they break up, B backslides and spirals, and A takes on guilt for not being there anymore, as if any of this is A’s fault.

It says that ‘curing’ anxiety just takes a little romance. Which. No. B has to love themselves, first, before they’re able to love anyone else or let anyone else love them.

It got stickier when the author accidentally wrote a trauma-induced ace who wanted to start liking sex to please her partner and not for her own peace of mind (with internalized self-hate for her anxieties around sex as if not liking it after a traumatic experience isn't completely justified), as if she wasn’t good enough with the boundaries she had. And the narrative backed it up because she was *cured* after a couple rounds in the sheets—I worked really hard on my Ace character guide to help stop people from doing this.

Had Character A accepted these boundaries B had, and these two come to a creative compromise around intimacy that B does like, it would have been so much healthier. B liked making out, just not being the 'recieving' partner, while A chose to die on a 'if we can't have the sex I want, I can't be in a romance with you' hill and it just broke my heart for B. B wasn't being picky. B was traumatized.

The worst thing you can do to your ace character is a) reinforce the idea that they’ve failed as a human because they don’t like sex and b) reinforce the idea that they “just haven’t found the right person yet” and this narrative hit both in the bullseye.

The author wasn’t trying to write an ace, I can tell, but aceness aside “good sex is the best cure to your sexual trauma” is… also, not great? If you yourself didn’t experience this? The point of all of this was clearly to attempt exposure therapy, it just got so bogged down with other problems that the nuance necessary to stick the landing was completely lost.

If this was fantasy, like Twilight, with Bella’s dangerous codependency on Edward in New Moon, mental health is not the point of that book. The author didn’t set out on a mission to provide respectful representation of depression and healthy relationship goals. It’s toxic as hell, but it also takes a backseat to the actual story and the audience who loves those books couldn’t care less about how toxic it is.

The books aren’t about Bella overcoming her depression. They’re about sparkly vampires and the dangers of… teen pregnancy?

It got even *stickier* when the character revealed she’d apparently been in therapy for a decade and a half, only for her therapist to shrug and go ‘I guess you’re stuck with it’ while her mental health issue became a physical health issue, because she should have had a crippling eating disorder that the narrative didn't at all take seriously.

Why would you want the stress of writing this?

—

I am not at all saying you can’t write anxious characters if you yourself are not anxious. But make that an ingredient of the pie and not the entire pie, yeah?

Ask yourself why you’re doing this. The fundamental argument of that book seemed to be “anxiety can be loved away” and from the very first page, it was doomed. That was the book’s thesis. The entire story hinged on the success of this depiction.

I can’t even be mad, because it wasn’t intended to be harmful, but it inadvertently reaffirmed so many dangerous and incorrect assumptions and stereotypes about mental health. Good intentions historically do not guarantee good results.

If you do not suffer from anxiety, you are still allowed to write a character who experiences it (Or OCD, specific phobias, BPD, what have you). I tip my hat to anyone willing to do all the work to get it right because those are all tall orders, but you aren’t blacklisted from these characters.

But with any minority, anyone who isn’t “cis, straight, white, male, neurotypical, and able-bodied” write a character who is also X, instead of an X stereotype, who happens to be your character.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #writeblr #writing #character design #character development #mental health #mental health in media #anxiety disorder #anxiety #write what you know

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