this blog is proof that I have no control. random neurons will fire and take my attention span with them. give me ideas and I will run with them too; come talk to me.
(17)
$LAYYYTER

RMH
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Monterey Bay Aquarium

Andulka
🪼

@theartofmadeline
art blog(derogatory)
One Nice Bug Per Day

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
styofa doing anything

#extradirty

Product Placement
Peter Solarz
Not today Justin
Game of Thrones Daily
d e v o n
todays bird
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

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seen from Singapore
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@retinaldehyde
this blog is proof that I have no control. random neurons will fire and take my attention span with them. give me ideas and I will run with them too; come talk to me.
(17)

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suna who takes care of u when ur sick 😫
cw: touching imagery, gn reader, suggestive
he's not fastidious and conscientious when you're sick -- quite lacking, actually, to your and his knowledge. It's rather strange, now that you think of it, as you reminisce about how he'd get a few weighted blankets too heavy or neglect to warn you about the soup he prepared, gurgling hot, as it singed the roof of your mouth. but mirth comes easy to him, despite everything -- he finds his frenzied runs to and from the supperette peculiarly adorable, grinning proudly as he shows you a spotify playlist he made, dramatically named 'Troubled Mind: The Cold goes On and On,' featuring Swedish and Icelandic heavy metal acts (???) previously unbeknownst to you. he can be forgetful and feverish sometimes but you know he cares, more than whatever spotify playlist and 'get well soon' card and unprompted 'if I was a heart, would u let me beat?' text could ever express.
and sometimes he's a bit more surreptitious; a little more calculating, coming to check up on you at your weak, hoarse address, sitting on the edge of your bed, observing, thinking, contemplating. he doesn't make to get the thermometer, an act you only begin to admonish before you are quickly silenced at the presence of his large hand at your back, heated as it glides over your skin, pausing at the nape of your neck; the hem of your shirt fastened in between his fingers as he sees your skin redden against his grip, flushed against the blanket. squirming a little against him, a little desperate to move and feel his skin skim and skate against yours, reddened and clammy with friction against his callouses. he comments on how hot you feel against him, smirking as his hand retreats to grab a damp cloth, the water cold and welcoming on your forehead, fabric just beneath your hairline, slightly poised at the eyebrows; and he stays with you to make sure it stays that way -- asleep at your side, arms lazily circled around your waist.
suna who takes care of u when ur sick 😫
cw: touching imagery, gn reader, suggestive
he's not fastidious and conscientious when you're sick -- quite lacking, actually, to your and his knowledge. It's rather strange, now that you think of it, as you reminisce about how he'd get a few weighted blankets too heavy or neglect to warn you about the soup he prepared, gurgling hot, as it singed the roof of your mouth. but mirth comes easy to him, despite everything -- he finds his frenzied runs to and from the supperette peculiarly adorable, grinning proudly as he shows you a spotify playlist he made, dramatically named 'Troubled Mind: The Cold goes On and On,' featuring Swedish and Icelandic heavy metal acts (???) previously unbeknownst to you. he can be forgetful and feverish sometimes but you know he cares, more than whatever spotify playlist and 'get well soon' card and unprompted 'if I was a heart, would u let me beat?' text could ever express.
and sometimes he's a bit more surreptitious; a little more calculating, coming to check up on you at your weak, hoarse address, sitting on the edge of your bed, observing, thinking, contemplating. he doesn't make to get the thermometer, an act you only begin to admonish before you are quickly silenced at the presence of his large hand at your back, heated as it glides over your skin, pausing at the nape of your neck; the hem of your shirt fastened in between his fingers as he sees your skin redden against his grip, flushed against the blanket. squirming a little against him, a little desperate to move and feel his skin skim and skate against yours, reddened and clammy with friction against his callouses. he comments on how hot you feel against him, smirking as his hand retreats to grab a damp cloth, the water cold and welcoming on your forehead, fabric just beneath your hairline, slightly poised at the eyebrows; and he stays with you to make sure it stays that way -- asleep at your side, arms lazily circled around your waist.
you're sequestered between the couch's seat and duvet; the weight of cotton sufficient enough to disturb your neat chignon¹ -- from the preceding morning -- into a curtain of tousled hair from which behind sakusa's silhouette is barely visible. his profile is tense against the doorframe he leans against; stiff and tight with fatigue and exasperation. wondering if sakusa can feel your glare fixed on him -- a prelude to a grumbled I was sleeping -- until he speaks, the words quiet and clipped.
'I'm too tired to argue anymore, y/n,' sakusa begins, disregarding his typical salutation for an articulate disinterest in continuing your argument from earlier. the phrase is concise and polished as it leaves his lips, as if he's practiced talking to you since your argument, all meticulous and tentative, and you soften a little at the thought.
when you respond, curious about what he needs at such an hour, the question is wary -- a little gentler from stifling any trace of residual irritation from your voice, throat thickened with emotion from having to talk to him again. Despite all the anger and irritation you had, you still love him. You still longed for a pleasant, relaxing evening with sakusa even if it meant doing the most mundane things ever. and you know such an evening would've occurred if your argument hadn't soured the possibility for domestic bliss.
"You know that it gets cold at this hour, right? Especially since the heater here doesn't work well anyway."
"I am aware," you acknowledge, pulling the blankets closer to you. "That's why I bought these blankets to sleep on the couch." You gesture weakly at the fabric. "Besides, I can handle a little chill."
You recoil a little at your declaration, embarrassed at how every little sniffle and tremor contradicts your aforementioned assertion. You'd be a fool to believe that sakusa agrees with you; his own dissent apparent as he shakes his head, curls fluttering gently against his forehead.
He nears you and bends slightly. the scent of tea is heavy on his parted lips.
"Do you need someone to warm you up, y/n?"
¹ chignon = (hair) bun
^
I'm not even going to defend myself with this one

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^
I'm not even going to defend myself with this one
Lmaoo
shapes
cw: touching imagery, mentions (3) of intercourse
sakusa's gentleness is adorable. long strokes of his fingers along the column of your neck, delicately squeezing your nape within the circumference of his fingers, attractively soft and slow. leisurely tracing perimeters of triangles and squares and polygons upon your skin, of variable width, length, and area; the movements of his prettily trimmed nails indicative of a breezy little routine he indulges in after a bout of lovemaking with you.
noticing little singularities in his touch as you lay against him -- like how he likes using your moles as vertexes, or his partiality towards skirting the borders of your scars, blemishes, and hickeys; or, perhaps, stirring as you feel his index finger brush against your collar bone (for the nth time) as he makes to draw a little heart over your chest, concentrated on getting the curves right.
playfully confronting him about it, grinning as you're met with feigned annoyance as you break him from his reverie, although the two of you know he wasn't distracted. he caresses you with intent; determined to give his touch some sort of physicality beyond the hickeys littered across your neck: a timid and closeted expression of his desire to prolong his stay by your side, in your bed. after all, sakusa's touch is gentle and silken as you weaken him considerably enough in the knees and fingers from touching you a little more feverishly.
in a few minutes he will leave your bed to take a shower and return to his own apartment. but he wants you to feel him still. he wants that god-awful cardigan to evoke memories the same path his fingers took as it stretches and brushes over your abdomen. he wants the necklace you will wear (for your dinner party) to skim against the curve of your neck the way his nails did.
this may be a mere fling between the two of you, but he'd hate to be as insignificant.
tears
you'd describe your being here as a series of inconvenient events, stiffly narrating your rain-soaked arrival at osamu's doorstep as the result of a 'typhoon ruining your day,' eyes shyly retreating to the 'hi, welcome to chili's' doormat you gifted him, discouraged to continue; flustered into silence by his unwavering, intense stare. stirred from your quietude a few beats later as osamu invites you in his apartment, and you sheepishly thank him, throat thick from convulsive sobbing and crying from earlier, noticing his slight flinch as you make to apologize for the inconvenience.
stumbling into his apartment at the pull of his hand on your jacket lapel, jostling inelegantly into his broad chest, his pectorals firm and warm against your turned cheek, his heart just under your ear; beating a steady rhythm, uninterested; pulse composed under skin and cotton. you peel yourself away from him, quietly murmuring a desire to use the bathroom, following his outstretched finger to a room just beyond his bedroom.
surely there are better places to cry; undoubtedly, delegating osamu's tiny bathroom would draw contest from anyone contemplating a suitable location to break down during the evening. the porcelain toilet seat is stiff and cold, the tiles unyielding; the shower too quiet to silence your cries. yet here you are, palpitating under the weight of your tears, hands clammy and bruised from clutching the sink, careful not to disturb osamu in the adjoining bedroom.
You ask yourself if he really cares, however; if he'd be able to hear the difference between the trickle of your tears or the splutter of cold water down the valley of the sink; if he'd discern your painful gasps from the stuttering of the water heater--if he could still make out the tremor of your hands under a quivering, saponaceous mass of bubbles.
A tentative knock on the door announces his presence on the other side of the bathroom as you scramble to regain your composure. He asks if you're using the sink. Yes, you confirm. He comments on the peculiarity of its noise.
'It usually doesn't sound like that,' your ex boyfriend explains. 'It's the first time I've heard such a thing. I'll make a note of it to talk to the plumber later.'
'Sure, Miya.'
'Can I come in? I wanna check something,' he says, uncharacteristically quiet, clearly curious about the plumbing of his sink, obviously uncomfortable at the prospect of his apartment touched, prodded, and manipulated at the fingertips of a stranger. You allow him in, reassuring him that you're decent, watching him stroll through the entrance as he quickly settles at the sink to examine it.
He turns, twists and twirls the knobs about his palm, watching the water trickle slowly at first. as he gets ready to conclude the peculiar sounds as originating from somewhere, closing the faucet, a thick, throaty sniff escapes you.
'Was that you? Were you making those sounds, y/n?'
soap
cw: slight touching imagery
sakusa turns the hot water knob to the left, skin scalding and simmering under the shower, suffocating a little under thick, heavy steam; his breath condensing on his lips before sublimating in the fog spilling over the circumference of the shower stall. He welcomes the weight of the water, minacious with every droplet thrust by the showerhead, stupidly hopeful that the spray'll efface your very trace on him. letting out an inaudible whimper when his attempts prove futile, his skin puckered and creased, seemingly sculpted by your fingers, lingering and flimsy like beads of water dribbling from his limbs to the stall floor.
sakusa gingerly applies shower gel on his sore muscles, froth and foam cushioning the spray, startled by its scent, cucumber and aloe vera, confirming its yours as he holds the bottle in his hand. shrouding his body in the mousse and suds as he agitates the soap against his skin, secretly relishing in your smell within a saponaceous embrace. imagining your hands stroking and massaging him as the suds froth and retreat with lightest pressure.
interrupting his reverie with a stream of glacial, unfriendly water as he prepares to meet his girlfriend for a date this evening. stepping out onto the bathroom floor to dry and dress himself, zipping and fastening your scent to him within a 3 piece suit. spritzing cologne to deter her from discerning your fragrance; pausing to assess himself in the mirror, satisfied.
he makes a mental note to throw away the used bottle of shower gel sometime tomorrow. if he needs to pretend he moved on from you, he needs to act the part -- with his friends, his girlfriend, and within his shower.
inspired by @rinslutz and @diabolicalacid -- your sakusa smaus are genuinely so good, and I couldn't stop thinking about them! I had to write a piece))
touch me
cw: touching and suggestive imagery
you love iwaizumi's touches. fingers bracketing your neck so nonchalantly; the presence of his hand just as assertive as his rough callouses against your skin. you redden at the way he reaches for you, fingers frustratingly light and airy as your skin bursts into goosebumps, itching and aching for the relief only his firm grip can deliver. stirring at the presence of his hand at the small of your back, parting fabric from skin, demanding your attention as his fingers linger at the hem of your t-shirt.
touch like a pacifier; sedating and insouciant, addictive and authoritative. fingers supple and pliant, stroking, pressing, and squeezing to placate your feverish panting into gentle, labored sighs for him and him only to hear. settling your shivers. moist with your sweat as he lovingly cradles and cushions your body; skin blemished red with heat and satisfaction.

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touch me
cw: touching and suggestive imagery
you love iwaizumi's touches. fingers bracketing your neck so nonchalantly; the presence of his hand just as assertive as his rough callouses against your skin. you redden at the way he reaches for you, fingers frustratingly light and airy as your skin bursts into goosebumps, itching and aching for the relief only his firm grip can deliver. stirring at the presence of his hand at the small of your back, parting fabric from skin, demanding your attention as his fingers linger at the hem of your t-shirt.
touch like a pacifier; sedating and insouciant, addictive and authoritative. fingers supple and pliant, stroking, pressing, and squeezing to placate your feverish panting into gentle, labored sighs for him and him only to hear. settling your shivers. moist with your sweat as he lovingly cradles and cushions your body; skin blemished red with heat and satisfaction.
soap
cw: slight touching imagery
sakusa turns the hot water knob to the left, skin scalding and simmering under the shower, suffocating a little under thick, heavy steam; his breath condensing on his lips before sublimating in the fog spilling over the circumference of the shower stall. He welcomes the weight of the water, minacious with every droplet thrust by the showerhead, stupidly hopeful that the spray'll efface your very trace on him. letting out an inaudible whimper when his attempts prove futile, his skin puckered and creased, seemingly sculpted by your fingers, lingering and flimsy like beads of water dribbling from his limbs to the stall floor.
sakusa gingerly applies shower gel on his sore muscles, froth and foam cushioning the spray, startled by its scent, cucumber and aloe vera, confirming its yours as he holds the bottle in his hand. shrouding his body in the mousse and suds as he agitates the soap against his skin, secretly relishing in your smell within a saponaceous embrace. imagining your hands stroking and massaging him as the suds froth and retreat with lightest pressure.
interrupting his reverie with a stream of glacial, unfriendly water as he prepares to meet his girlfriend for a date this evening. stepping out onto the bathroom floor to dry and dress himself, zipping and fastening your scent to him within a 3 piece suit. spritzing cologne to deter her from discerning your fragrance; pausing to assess himself in the mirror, satisfied.
he makes a mental note to throw away the used bottle of shower gel sometime tomorrow. if he needs to pretend he moved on from you, he needs to act the part -- with his friends, his girlfriend, and within his shower.
inspired by @rinslutz and @diabolicalacid -- your sakusa smaus are genuinely so good, and I couldn't stop thinking about them! I had to write a piece))
soap
cw: slight touching imagery
sakusa turns the hot water knob to the left, skin scalding and simmering under the shower, suffocating a little under thick, heavy steam; his breath condensing on his lips before sublimating in the fog spilling over the circumference of the shower stall. He welcomes the weight of the water, minacious with every droplet thrust by the showerhead, stupidly hopeful that the spray'll efface your very trace on him. letting out an inaudible whimper when his attempts prove futile, his skin puckered and creased, seemingly sculpted by your fingers, lingering and flimsy like beads of water dribbling from his limbs to the stall floor.
sakusa gingerly applies shower gel on his sore muscles, froth and foam cushioning the spray, startled by its scent, cucumber and aloe vera, confirming its yours as he holds the bottle in his hand. shrouding his body in the mousse and suds as he agitates the soap against his skin, secretly relishing in your smell within a saponaceous embrace. imagining your hands stroking and massaging him as the suds froth and retreat with lightest pressure.
interrupting his reverie with a stream of glacial, unfriendly water as he prepares to meet his girlfriend for a date this evening. stepping out onto the bathroom floor to dry and dress himself, zipping and fastening your scent to him within a 3 piece suit. spritzing cologne to deter her from discerning your fragrance; pausing to assess himself in the mirror, satisfied.
he makes a mental note to throw away the used bottle of shower gel sometime tomorrow. if he needs to pretend he moved on from you, he needs to act the part -- with his friends, his girlfriend, and within his shower.
inspired by @rinslutz and @diabolicalacid -- your sakusa smaus are genuinely so good, and I couldn't stop thinking about them! I had to write a piece))
do you right
cw: slightly suggestive content
dawn is a quiet and pretty thing, sifted through the blinds as ribbons of light that warms your cheek as you begrudgingly stir from slumber, hesitant to move beyond blinking your eyes. Your heart fluttering as you realize the slightly awkward position you fell asleep in, most of it body cushioned by osamu's and the rest smothering the mattress under your weight; your attempts to relieve him of your pressure negated by him pulling him closer with an unintelligible sigh, bed dipping as he settles you against him. Slowly acquiescing into his touch, careful not to betray your own surprise at the idea that he's not ready to let go of you. Determined that time to wake up -- all alone, blankets folded, flattened, and embossed with the heat and shape of your body that isn't next to him -- isn't for a few hours. He'll cuddle, shoot the breeze, brew tea, make love; but he wants to do this right. Let him love you for a little longer.
do you right
cw: slightly suggestive content
dawn is a quiet and pretty thing, sifted through the blinds as ribbons of light that warms your cheek as you begrudgingly stir from slumber, hesitant to move beyond blinking your eyes. Your heart fluttering as you realize the slightly awkward position you fell asleep in, most of it body cushioned by osamu's and the rest smothering the mattress under your weight; your attempts to relieve him of your pressure negated by him pulling him closer with an unintelligible sigh, bed dipping as he settles you against him. Slowly acquiescing into his touch, careful not to betray your own surprise at the idea that he's not ready to let go of you. Determined that time to wake up -- all alone, blankets folded, flattened, and embossed with the heat and shape of your body that isn't next to him -- isn't for a few hours. He'll cuddle, shoot the breeze, brew tea, make love; but he wants to do this right. Let him love you for a little longer.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
cw: minor suggestive themes
the lids are tighter than usual, you notice, cool metal unyielding under your grip. Not another convenient inconvenience. It doesn't help that all the cans and jars promptly positioned far from your fingertips, all attractively ordered by color, height, and content upon the counter, the way you would've done it when you're mad, lacquered surfaces still warm with kiyoomi's touch from how many minutes before. His touch, meticulously meddling and tinkering through the entire kitchen, obediently folding and tucking most things out of your reach hoping that you give up and apologize to him. He's hearing you pace restlessly around the apartment, footfalls echoing against the bedroom door, aching to right anything that feels out of place. He knows you're growing frustrated, agitated about your helplessness, begging for a distraction. There's nothing to hold, nothing to cuddle, nothing to fondle, nothing to watch, nothing to touch, nothing to do -- except for him.
He knows you'll figure it out soon.
relating to your previous drabble with atsumu, how would osamu kiss?
cw: kissing imagery
Osamu kisses you in private, his lips following his warm breath across your cheek before settling on your own, faintly quivering as he makes to embrace you beneath streaks of sunlight despite it being a sight for his and your eyes only. Your lips gently opening and yielding under his as he pushes delicately, small crumbs of flour and cinnamon suspended between his skin and yours, causing gentle friction as he adjusts and rubs you against him, intent on kissing you a bit better. His tongue lazily melting against yours, leisurely tasting your palate, tasting like vanilla and black tea. Occasionally retreating to brush against your lips to sample that lovely cherry chapstick of yours, a little desperate, a little wanton.
Moaning a little in your mouth, a throaty, rich sound, clearly satisfied with how you taste before going to kiss and lick the morsels littered across your mouth and chin for dessert.
You don't miss how slowly he retreats from you before going to continue kneading the dough he neglected for your lips.
'Is that part of the cinnamon bread recipe?'
'Did you miss it? I can do it again,' he replies.