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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 13 days

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Police Dog: Bigby Wolf x Fem!Cop!Reader - Chapter 3

Contains: Detailed descriptions of dead bodies

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen a dead body before, but holy shit- this was something else. The second you saw it, you couldn’t help yourself but back up a bit as you tried to use Bigby’s strong frame to shield your eyes from the corpse. You winced away, eyes burning from looking at all of the blood pooled around her on the once-white tiles. They were now stained an odd orangey-brown color, the grout was nearly black as the blood traced along the repeating maze.

Bigby noticed your quick change in demeanor and turned to look at you, completely ignoring the neighbor as she babbled on with the questions of ‘How can someone do this?’ and ‘Who could have done something like this?’. She quickly excused herself, opting to stay just outside of the luxury apartment in the hallway with the door closed. His eyes showed really no emotion, but you can tell that something was pressing against his tongue.

“You okay?” his voice was soft, completely unlike his usual dark and sarcastic tone.

“I-I’m okay,” you nodded.

You balled your hands into fists, trying to control your breathing and ground yourself.

Bigby turned to face you fully, making sure to keep his body between you and the corpse of the floor. His thick eyebrows were pinched together in worry as he looked down at you.

“(Y/n), you don’t have to do this if you can’t handle it.”

Was he actually worried about you? He had just met you a few hours ago and he’s already worried about you like this? It took you so long to finally get your partner to trust and work well with you back in your old station, and Bigby suddenly just says something like this?

“I… I just need a minute.”

Bigby nodded silently before eyeing the body behind him. He looked back at you, asking with his eyes alone if he could move and start investigating to which you nodded. Bigby hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the way.

You winced at the woman’s body, but you didn’t back away again. You stood your ground, eyes locking onto her poor, mangled corpse beneath you.

She looked to be middle-aged - you really couldn’t put a guess to her actual age, especially if Bigby was hundreds of years old - as the wrinkles had settled at the outer corners of her eyes and her smile lines cut deep into her cheeks. Her dark hair had been spilled from her tight, elegant updo, her own blood staining the locks even darker. A permanent look of horror was etched into her painted face, ruby red lips pulled back and her mouth parted into a forever silent scream. Her eyes were glazed over, once blue eyes now were dull and lifeless.

She had passed on her left side, her body had started to roll into it, her right shoulder and arm had started to curl into her more and more. Rigor mortis was fully set in, the poor thing must have been dead for only a few hours yet her body was cold and her blood had gone sticky and dry. Her legs were tangled with one another, one of her very expensive looking heels was missing and her pantyhose was soaking with blood. Her dress was in tatters, especially at her back and chest.

Both you and Bigby had moved to look at her back, being careful as to not step in the pool. You winced at the sight of her mangled back. It looked like something out of some sick B-movie slasher with all of the bloodied wounds on her back. You could spy the faint lilac dots across her pale skin across her left side, liver mortis had also started to settle in.

Fables decayed like humans? - Or, Mundies in their terms. Was it just the Fables that were already human that decayed like this? Or did they all do this?

She had over a dozen stab wounds into her back alone, the blood still looked a little tacky at the puncture spots. You wanted to gag when you noticed how deep the marks went when you saw glimpses of her spin and the back of her ribcage. Hell, one knife wound even went through her spine. You just hoped to yourself that she had expired before she had been paralyzed from her chest down.

The marks on her back look a little odd. They were wide, wider than any normal kitchen knife. They also weren’t thin as if she had been stabbed with something like a swiss army knife. You noticed how one of the sides of the mark looked more torn than the other.

“Was she stabbed with a hunting knife?” you looked at Bigby who was already standing back up.

“Most likely,” he confirmed your suspicions. You stood up, stepping away from her body when Bigby rounded to her front side. “She has a few stab wounds to her chest too, one in her stomach. But it looks weird,” he muttered as he crouched down again.

You stepped around to join him, and you couldn’t help but agree. The wound looked like it had ripped open more of her skin. The fabric around her stomach was also darker than the rest that was covered in blood.

“So she was stabbed in the stomach first-”

“And then started the mess,” Bigby finished your sentence.

It was just then that you realized he was right. You took a look around the kitchen to see that it was in shambles. It looked as though a tornado rolled through a set of some fancy cooking show. The appliances were all imported from Europe with names you couldn’t pronounce if you ever wanted to try. The cabinets were dark with silver handles, most the doors had been opened while the rest were smashed closed with deep cracks into the solid wood. There was a bloody chef’s knife on the floor scattered away from her body with blood on both the tip of the blade and the elegantly carved wooden handle. There was blood everywhere, most of it in splatters and dried bloodied handprints of both the woman and the assailant.

“Holy shit,” you found yourself whispering as you really took in the damage. This poor woman went through so much when it hit you: There are more bodies here. If hers was like this, then what could the others be? “Bigby,” you called as you walked over to the knife.

He followed up behind you, immediately seeing the knife at your feet. He bent down and picked it up where the blade met the handle. You noticed his nostrils flaring for a brief second before he held the knife properly at the handle to inspect the bloodied tip.

“Fingerprints?”

“She was holding the knife.” He sniffed at the blood on the tip of the blade before he sighed softly. “I don’t recognize the smell.” You didn’t know if you should have been confused or worried. Does he know what all Fables smell like? Let alone their blood? He set the knife down on the countertop and walked out of the kitchen. “Let’s go find Mr. Darling.”

Mr. Darling?

It had just occurred to you that Bigby never told you about the crime really, only that it was a dead family found massacred.

“Darling? Like Wendy Darling and Peter Pan?” you questioned as you looked back at the woman on the floor.

“They’re the ones.”

“They’re all dead? Even the kids?” Bigby nodded silently before he walked out of the kitchen and back into the living room. “Shit.”

“What’s worrying me is that they’re not all together.”

You followed Bigby closely as you both searched around the living room and dining room; But you couldn’t find Mr. Darling. You hoisted the couch back into place, checked the broom closet, in the pantry. As you were checking in the bathroom mulling over the thought of asking the neighbor where he could be found, you heard Bigby call for you directly next door to you.

Entering, you saw that it was an office with practically an entire bookshop’s worth of books lining the elegant shelves. Bigby was standing in front of a large, U-shaped desk that could take up the entire size of Bigby’s own office. Papers were scattered all over the plush Persian rug, the pen cup knocked over with fountain pens bleeding onto the carpet. You followed the pool of staining ink as it melded with another pool of blood right below a plush office chair. Your eyes traveled up to see Mr. Darling in the chair, the back to you both.

You gave Bigby a look as you both took to either side of the desk. You winced as you noticed that his necktie had been undone from his collar only to be wrapped around his throat and the neck of the chair, effectively strangling out whatever life could have remained if he lived from his injuries. His heavy-set but was the same as his poor wife’s back: Stabbed at multiple times with the same type of blade. His wounds, however, looked to be more viciously slashed at. It looked like whoever had done this tried to disembowel the poor man.

The stench of blood and the beginnings of decay tore at your nose. You felt your throat tighten up from disgust, your stomach bubbled with nausea.

If the parents were this horribly murdered, how would their children look?

Bigby gave you a knowing look, his face painted with muted worry before he nodded for you to go back into the hallway. It took you a minute to finally peel your eyes away from the sight before you to spin on your heel and walk out, the sheriff now following as you had done before. Once you were both in the hall, Bigby left the office door cracked open and turned to look at you.

“(Y/n), are you sure you can handle this? I’m not gonna be upset if you can’t.”

“I can- I just wasn’t expecting this on my first day here, let alone an entire family slaughtered.”

You both found yourselves looking into each others eyes, but for different reasons. You were trying to ground yourself, to keep yourself calm after witnessing two mangled corpses and were about to see three more. Bigby was only trying to gauge how serious you were when you said you could handle it, worry twisting in his chest like a knife but he didn’t show it well. He could hear your heart hammering away inside of your chest, but he didn’t want to make you feel weak by suggesting something. You were already getting treated differently and you’ve only been working with him for a few hours.

“Why don’t you find the daughter and I’ll look the boys?” he suggested softly.

You nodded and Bigby turned down the hall, starting for the lines of doors before he finally disappeared into one. You slowly creeped down the hall, eyes trained on the doors until you came up to the door on the right with a small door sign hanging from the carved door. ‘Wendy’ was written in curly lettering, pastel pink on a white wooden board with baby blue hearts and flowers. You grasped at the doorknob and entered the room, preparing yourself for the scene to be worse than the last.

Instead, you opened the door to the sight of a normal girl’s bedroom. A basket of toys in the corner, a rather large doll house filled with toy furniture and clothes, bookshelves littered with stuffed animals and odd little knick-knacks, a plush and fluffy rug in the middle of the floor, posters of boy bands were plastered across her wall. In the opposite corner of the room laid a twin bed with a canopy, the soft curtains were drawn closed. The room wasn’t trashed and you couldn’t smell that stench of blood in here, just a soft scent of air freshener that had started to go stale from the plug-in by the door.

You stepped up carefully to the bed, bracing yourself as you pulled back the curtain. Before you, you could tell there was a figure lying perfectly still underneath the drawn sheets. You could make out her outline, she wasn’t moving at all. You gripped the sheet and drew it back, wincing as you were staring at the corpse of a young girl.

She wasn’t bloodied like her parents. No stab wounds, no blood soaking the bed. You spotted dark marks across her throat, too dark to be from liver mortis setting in and too big to be from her own hand. Her lips were opened like she was gasping, her eyes were wide with terror, her hands were curled up as though she was trying to grab something.

The poor thing was strangled to death.

You heard Bigby open the door behind you, his heavy footsteps slowly coming up behind you as he spotted Wendy.

“Strangled,” you reported back to him, eyes glued on her throat.

“The same with her brothers.” You finally looked back at him, eyebrows raised. “Only their parents were butchered.”

“Did you see anything weird in their room?”

“The window was open and the fire escape ladders were drawn.” Bigby eyed at the window in Wendy’s room, noting that it was locked. “There was no other way they could’ve gotten in.”

“Don’t they have a maid or something? Where is she?”

“Nana? I’m not sure. Her room is empty. I didn’t smell her, she probably hasn’t been here at least a week.”

“Do you know who could’ve done this, Bigby?” Bigby stayed quiet, going through the file cabinet in his head as he thought of the possibilities. He didn’t want to rule out Nana, not a chance. “Doesn’t the story - or, I guess, the Mundy story at least - say something about Peter Pan killing the Lost Boys or something so they stay young forever?”

“Mundy version,” Bigby looked over Wendy’s body. “Whatever that headless Walt whoever the fuck said is all just stereotypes and lies to sell the story better.”

You were right to bring up Pan, however. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard from either him or the Lost Boys in quite a while. It didn’t really make sense, though, but nothing really does anymore.

“What about Captain Hook? Is he around? If Bluebeard is, wouldn’t he?”

That wasn’t a bad guess. He had the motives then, he definitely could have the motives now. If people still judge him from what all he had done in the Homelands, then it would only be fair to do the same with Hook. But this wasn’t really his style; The pirate captain was always over-the-top with how he slew his victims. Why would he just strangle the kids and stab the parents?

Something was missing, and Bigby felt like he was staring it right in the face.

“We should head back. Snow should be back in the office by now and we need to arrange them all to be moved.”

Bigby fished in his pocket and took out his carton of cigarettes and lighter. He tapped at the bottom of the carton, nudging one cigarette out from the rest and took it between his teeth. He offered you one out of reflex and you shook your head before he pocketed the carton. He held off on lighting the cigarette, motioning with his head to follow him out so he could light it outside, or in the hallway at the very least.

As you followed behind Bigby, you both entered the living room and headed for the door. Bigby reached for the handle, already hearing the neighbor no longer squawking and worrying, she most likely retreated back to her own apartment when you stepped on something small and hard. You pulled away, seeing a glitter of gold against the carpet and reached over to pick it up.

It was a gold cufflink, now slightly dented from where you accidentally stepped on it. The outer crest was in the shape of a diamond, a hook was etched into the pure gold.

“Hey, Bigby,” you called.

The sheriff stopped in his tracks and looked behind him, eyes zeroing in on the cufflink in your hand. He held out his hand so you could deposit it into his hand. His eyes widened before he scoffed, pocketing the cufflink.

“You were right. C’mon.”

You made sure to lock the apartment behind you as Bigby called for the elevator. The ride down was silent until you both had turned to each other.

“Good job-”

“Do you think-”

You both had stopped talking as you cut each other off.

“I’m sorry, go ahead,” Bigby gnawed at the butt of the cigarette in his mouth.

“No, it’s fine!”

“No, I cut you off.”

“I was just gonna ask… Do you think Hook worked alone? He’s a pirate, right? Wouldn’t he be, I don’t know, more brutal?”

“That’s what I don’t get either.” Bigby looked away for a moment before he glanced at you. “Good job with this. I probably wouldn’t have noticed that.”

“I didn’t do anything, Bigby.”

“This isn’t nothing,” Bigby stated firmly as he pulled out the cufflink. It looked so small in his large hand. “You just saved us both a lot of time.”

You couldn’t help the heat that spread to your cheeks at his praise. If he was just saying this to make you feel better, you didn’t care.

“Thank you.”

The elevator came to a stop and peeled open to the ornate lobby again. You followed Bigby out and to the street.

“Why don’t you go home for the day? I think you need it after what you just saw in there.”

You mulled over his words. You were still a little shaken up, but you would feel bad if you just left. You didn’t want Bigby to think less of you.

“Are you sure?”

“Look, I promise, I will call you if anything at all comes up.”

“Okay, Bigby.”

#the wolf among us #twau #bigby wolf #bigby x reader #bigby wolf x reader

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typingatlightspeed · 6 months

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TF2 Fanfic - Well Drinks

Miss Pauling meets Reddy and Bidwell at their usual spot: the local gay bar, where Miss Pauling an one of the servers have eyes for one another. Too bad Miss Pauling has absolutely zero game. It might actually be in the negatives.

Just something cute and quick that popped into my head and I wanted to get out. I like the idea of these three hanging out. Since we know Reddy and Bidwell work as a good team at work, and that Miss P and Bidwell hang out (the assistants' convention voice line), so why not all three? Plus Reddy needs more love.

Ao3 Link!

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The cool desert air chased Miss Pauling as she passed through the door into the vestibule of Bottoms Up, the hidden little establishment known to those canny as the closest gay bar to Teufort, and thus the closest one to TFI headquarters. A pegboard with business cards for local queer-friendly businesses sat on one wall, next to a disused umbrella stand and a payphone. Fixing her hair from the mess the wind and her motorcycle's helmet had turned it into, she pushed through the second door and into the bar itself.

The place was comfortably busy for a Wednesday evening, but not packed like a weekend would see it. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She hated when it was crowded. It was nerve-wracking having to weave through a throng of people, let alone try and get a damn drink, especially at her size. After the last time they'd met on a Saturday, Miss Pauling had made a strict 'no weekends' rule.

Besides, she was far less likely to encounter a stray mercenary on a weekday as well. She'd rather not have those suspicions verified, nor any they may have about her.

Her eyes scanned the room for a long moment. A table nearby was occupied by a few twinks arguing about something, a drag queen was inspecting the jukebox with great dismay, and a leatherman was chatting up one of the bartenders, a red bandana in his back left pocket. Miss Pauling's eyes went wide. She'd never had cause for the hanky code; it was more of a guys' thing, but she knew what it meant. Good luck, she supposed.

Finally, movement caught her eye, as she spied Bidwell and Reddy sitting at a booth against one wall. Bidwell was waving to her. She threw her hand up to let him know he was seen, and made her way over.

"The prodigal daughter returns," Reddy teased, tucking his feet back under the table to allow for some legroom as Miss Pauling slid in next to Bidwell, across from him.

"Sorry I'm late, The Administrator needed me to clean up a quick mess before I got out."

"Is that why I smell gunpowder and Clorox?" Reddy teased.

"Need to know," Bidwell chastised, frowning at his coworker.

"It's fine," Miss Pauling sighed, straightening her dress now that she was seated. "You two order drinks yet?"

"Not yet; we figured we'd wait for you," Bidwell explained.

"That, and that cute waitress you like is on tonight, so we wanted to give you the honours," Reddy said, leaning in conspiratorially.

Miss Pauling's head chin sank to the table, and she crossed her arms over her head, groaning exaggeratedly. "Reddy why are you like this?"

"Because I have to be the only voice of reason at work. I have to get my laughs in somewhere."

"Hey!" Bidwell growled. "What am I, chopped liver? How are you the only voice of reason? You're the biggest yes-man in the compan—"

"Well hey there, you three startin' trouble already?"

All three stopped what they were doing, turning to the server who stood by their booth, notepad in hand, a broad smile on her face. She was tall, almost statuesque, with broad shoulders and wide hips. Her brown hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and the bangs she was clearly trying to grow our were tucked behind her ears, though a few flyaway hairs escaped and danced about her face as she moved. Her skin was tanned, and freckles dotted her cheeks, and her eyes were a deep, enchanting brown. She leaned forward a bit to regard Miss Pauling, who stared in embarrassment from her position on the table, trying to think of a way to not look like a pathetic wet cat while also trying not to make it obvious she was staring at the server's plunging neckline and ample breasts. It wasn't helped as the server squeezed her arms together as she leaned, accentuating them in a very blatant maneuver.

"Pauling, is that you?" she asked, her voice just slightly tinged with what Miss Pauling was unsure was either a Carolinian or Georgian accent. She didn't dare guess, in case she were wrong in an offensive way. "Are these two givin' you trouble already, honey? I can bounce 'em if you want." She giggled, smiling broadly as she did, standing tall and flexing for effect. To Miss Pauling, it was great effect, and she wondered if the woman was a gym rat or just naturally blessed with arms thick enough to require two hands to encircle.

It was too bad she was terribly jumbled in a mix of awkwardness, anxiety, and barely-contained horniness. Had the air conditioning turned off? She hazarded a smile, peeling her hands away from her head and her chin from the table, a blush rushing over her cheeks so quickly she half-worried her glasses would fog from the heat. "N-no trouble, Molly. They're just teasing me," she replied, tittering nervously and dragging her eyes kicking and screaming to meet the other woman's, immediately regretting it as she found herself lost in them and their dark depths.

Molly laughed at that, waving her hand, "Ain't fair to gang up on you like that! You boys be nice to Pauling or I'll have to steal 'er away from you!"

"Well when you put it like that, maybe we should be meaner," Reddy teased, watching Miss Pauling's eye twitch just a bit.

"Maybe you should," Molly hummed, grinning impishly before pulling a pen from her apron. "In the meantime, what should I get you three?"

"Old fashioned, splash cherry juice," Reddy announced with a smirk.

"Cosmopolitan," Bidwell said, narrowing his eyes at Reddy to intercept any incoming jokes about his taste in cocktails.

"And you, Miss P?" Molly asked, leaning in to address Miss Pauling once again, her smile growing a bit more devious as she watched the smaller woman's eyes flick down to her chest.

"Uh, ah, a New York sour," Miss Pauling stammered out, kicking herself inwardly.

"New York sour! You've got fine taste!" Molly straightened up and wrote down the orders. "I like mine with a splash of amaretto."

"That sounds nice," Miss Pauling replied, lamely.

"Sure does," Molly giggled. "Anythin' else I can get you?" She leaned against the side of the booth, next to Miss Pauling, her hip mere inches from brushing the smaller woman's arm. "Anythin' at all?"

Reddy and Bidwell looked expectantly from Molly to Miss Pauling, trying their damnedest to keep their expressions schooled. Inside, they were both screaming.

Miss Pauling looked up at her, her palms sweating. Ask for her number. No, ask if she's free Saturday. You're not free Saturday, you need to do a corpse dump! Shit. Ask when she's off shift!

"I—I think that's good to start, right guys?" Miss Pauling asked, looking from Reddy to Bidwell, terror overriding any and all charisma she might have been able to fake if she'd tried.

"Alright," Molly said, trying not to look too deflated. "I'll go get these orders in and start your tab. See y'all in a jiff!" She waved with her fingers and strode away to the bar.

Once she was out of earshot, Miss Pauling's face returned to the table, her forehead now in contact with the surface as she growled out a disgusted, "Oh my Gooooddddddd," against it.

Reddy snickered, and Bidwell merely laid a hand on her shoulder. "Pauling, that was possibly the most pathetic thing I've ever seen. I didn't know it was possible to strike out with a girl who's actively into you. She even gave you an opening, Pauling! Shit, she'd probably give you her opening if you'd asked!"

"Fuck you, Bids," Miss Pauling grunted, folding her arms around her head in utter defeat.

#TF2 Fanfiction #Team Fortress 2 #TF2 #TF2 Miss Pauling #TF2 Reddy #TF2 Bidwell

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justafairytailofinnocence · 1 year

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Picture this: a hangry Barbossa.

I can totally imagine him being the type that gets super cranky when hungry. Would you write a story where Barbossa is grumpy and irritable, and the reader helps him to figure out that he’s just hungry?

hello dear💖, thanks for your request.

Barbossa x reader🍏🥧

hangry captains🥧💢

Synopsis: A hungry captain who wakes up in a cranky mood, y/n helps him to realize this.

Warning: none

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It was the morning and for most of the crew, it was the worst part of the day. Forcing yourself to get up and get to work (if only coffee was invented back then). The captain slept soundly in his quarters, not a sound to disturb him. The inside was rather messy; doubloons and gold splayed out all over the table, maps and documents reading to unknown charted waters laid beneath the galleons of treasure and half a bitten apple sat at the edge; the bitten core was starting to turn a tad brown. A sudden heavy ‘thud’ landed on the table. The monkey, known as Jack, started pushing the gold off the table. He picked up pearls and doubloons, biting onto the hard edges trying to see if it was food. Jack jumped onto the floor to carry out his search, to his luck there was small crumbs. Jack started to collected bits of the shell until it led to a certain hand. The monkey looked up to see his master soundly snoring in his own bed. The sheets were tipped over the side as the blankets and soft cotton were messily spread across the bed. At least they covered the captain, well, sort of. They covered everything but his head and upper back. It seems he had too much to drink from last night, though he wasn’t a carouser like Jack Sparrow. Jack the monkey hopped over to wake his master up. The monkey placed its hand on his master’s face, he tried to shake the captain’s cheek but to no avail did he want to wake. Jack hovered his face over the captains to see if he was dead. Luckily to his relief, he wasn’t. However, the captain wasn’t expecting a cheery wake up call. Hector rolled over as he groaned with annoyance. “nnnn, blusterous son o’ a roach” he grumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

Barbossa shot up from his slumber, he sat at the side of his bed. Jack the monkey glanced up at his master. Something was different, very different, his expression drooped with annoyance and his gaze was one that would kill if you’re in the way. Jack cowered in fear as he hid beneath the chair that slid under the table. Barbossa sneered as he stumbled over to grab his coat hanging on the chair and popped on his hat. With a sudden ‘slam’ of the door swinging open from the quarters, Barbossa watched as the rumpot deckhands scrubbed.

Hector breathed in heavily as he did out, he hobbled over toward the main helm of the pearl. “Outta tha way!”, “Go on move ye lily-livered cur!” he pushed through the deckhands cleaning, not caring if he kicked their bristle brushes out of the way. Many of the men cowered as they scrubbed harder and moved out of the captain's way. He stomped up the wooden stairs onto the main helm, prepared to do his duty. He shouted out “whaddya doin standin thar, all hands hoy yer scurvy bilge rats!”.

“wha’s gotten him hangin’ tha jib” a former member whispered to another. “don know, maybe captains woken up upside down, erd tha makes ye frownin mad”.

A girl leaned against the railing of the ship; she looked up at the captain's grouchy expression. She wasn’t like the rest, y/n had a good judge of character. It’s how she survived the streets of Tortuga. Y/n gazed up at the captain as he gripped the wheel harder than usual. The captain and y/n’s relationship were one often compared to an old married couple. The sweet y/n had been taking care of the captain since she was hired on the pearl, Hector had a soft spot for her. Every insult taken in was never toward her, any threat, he would never direct toward y/n.

The lass decided to take her chances and ask the captain if something had happened, hopefully he hadn’t caught scurvy. Y/n made her way upstairs to confront the captain at the helm. Just as she reached the final step, a flintlock pistol was pointed directly at her face. “Captain~, what a pleasant surprise” y/n smiled, as if she wasn’t already on edge with a pistol pointed directly at her face.

“Whaddya want missy” he grumbled in a firm voice.

“y’know, has anyone ever told you, you looked mighty fearsome and dashing standing upon the helm” y/n gave Hector a compliment.

Hopefully this was enough to get on his good side. Barbossa lowered his pistol, he rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Speak o’ yer request than leave be’fer I feed yer ta the fishes” Hector sighed and tended the helm awaiting y/n’s reasoning. “You seem grumpier than the sharks captain” y/n placed her hands beside her hips, speaking in a playful tone. It was obvious she knew exactly what was going on. If you’ve ever heard of the term hangry, then your familiar with the reason. To be precise, when an animal doesn’t eat, they become aggressive. Well in this case, the lion demands his feastings and a grand feast he shall receive. “Captain, when have you last eaten” y/n asked.

Barbossa turned his head while his hands were both on the wheel “last eaten? why r’ ye so worried about what I last ate?”.

“It maybe you’re just hungry” Y/n confirmed.

“Hungry? An wha’ makes’cha thin’ me appetite be tha epiphany t’ward yer buisness” Barbossa grungily questioned.

Y/n grabbed his hand and wasted no time to feed the grumpy lion his king's feast. She ordered the cook of the pearl to provide all his favourite meals. The captain sat in his quarters still annoyed by the wait. However long after, y/n came into the room, holding a piece of apple pie. It was a little recipe she picked up from spending her time with the cook. The captain took a glance at the apple pie, he grabbed a fork and took a bite. “Not bad” he thought. The apple pie tasted exactly as he pictured, it seemed to have brightened his mood by a lot. “wha’ever ye did er missy, I salute t’ward yer pastry” he smiled up from the girl’s tasty treat. Y/n bowed; she took thanked the captain for his compliment. “How tha blazes did ye figure out what I wanted” he asked.

“My dear captain, I know you so well~, I have sailed the seas and admired you for a long time” y/n blushed.

The captain smiled at y/n’s soft expression; he kept eating the glorious heavenly pastry. The girl had known for quite a long while what the captain needs and wants. It was only a matter of time for she knew he was hangry.

Anyways that's all I have for now:

Ta Ta ✨

#pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the caribbean x reader #potc x reader #barbossa x reader #hector barbossa #hector barbossa x reader

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sparatus · 11 months

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🔥 for Lance and Des make up please 🥺

i want you to know you're single handedly pushing this one-shot through the part i was struggling with

🔥 make me write!

"lance and des make up" [doc title, currently untitled]: no-Reapers AU, an Armistice Day anniversary gala shoves General Williams back into the same room with all his least favorite people from Shanxi and has a heart-to-heart with the last one he expects

They stared at each other for a moment, Desolas holding his daughter, Lance fighting the urge to bristle next to Ash. The buzzard hadn’t changed a bit over the years, a note Lance couldn’t help but hate. His hair was gray and trying to go white, his skin sagged in some places and drew tight in others, a few liver spots had appeared where he swore they hadn’t been last week, his uniform didn’t seem to hang quite right anymore – but Desolas looked as young and pompous as ever, back still ramrod-straight and uniform still perfectly fitted and grinning skull-face still practically glowing in all his ghoulish glory. Lance got the short end of the stick while Desolas was showered in love, even by time itself.

Desolas made the first move, clicking his mandibles against his face. “General.”

Lance tried not to tense his jaw. Lidia was always saying he was going to give himself a condition. “General.”

One mandible twitched. Lance’s jawbone creaked.

A little brown hand stretched out to tug on Desolas’s cloak again. “Muxaup. Phorvena.”

Desolas blinked, then looked down at his daughter. “Right, yeah,” he muttered, gaze flicking briefly back to Lance and Ash again before returning to the task at hand. He shifted Leni off his hip, then passed her to Abrudas. “Here, I’ll take care of the doll, you go find her something to eat, or something.”

Abrudas rumbled and nodded, holding out her free hand – had she always walked with a cane? – so Leni could grab onto it and climb up to cling onto her shoulder. “Leni, give Muxaup Phorvena so he can fix her, lamb.”

“I’ll find somewhere quiet. She doesn’t like noise when she’s trying to eat.”

Lance and Ash exchanged a look. Her apprehension was scrawled all over her face, but as Leni warbled to her mother, a note of sympathy rippled through it, and his gut twisted. Dammit. Even without saying anything, she had a point.

He gritted his teeth. “Quietest place is where I was sitting,” he pushed out. “I can show you.”

#press conference #thetrashbagswasteland #ierian's writing

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winterwrites23 · 2 years

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How did North react the first time he had Haggis?

Picture this. On a nice winter morning in 1936, Scotland, your big brothers tell you there's a fair going on just outside the city with cool attractions, games and even a local farm. Your six years old self is super excited and can't wait to go there. It's pretty rare for your brothers to take you to fun places because they're too busy being boring old men so you knew it was going to be a great day. And you're right.

You go to a few rounds on the merry-go-round, get to admire the view at the top of the Ferris wheel, Wales helps you win a prize at the ring toss stand, England gets you a fluffy cloud of cotton candy and Scotland scoops you up on his shoulder so you could see the puppet show. All to say, it’s a fun day for you.

However, it’s nothing compared than visiting the farm! You have tried, for the longest of time, to convince your brothers to have a pet, but England was adamant they didn’t have the space for one. So visiting a farm was the closest thing you could get. And what a blast it was!! You got to pet and feed all sort of animals from chicken to fluffy rabbits to huge horses.

But your favourite part was to pet Oliver the Sheep. Oliver was a Scottish blackface sheep with a cute little white spot on its forehead. Its wool was so fuzzy and soft, you could easily fall asleep on it with how warm it was. Wales tells you tales of his shepherd day as he shows you how to brush the fur. The farmer is even kind enough to give you a small ball of wool to bring home, and England promises you he would use it to make a plushie of Oliver.

In other words, it was a fun day and as every 5 years old, you start to get sleepy and hungry from all the excitement. So the four of you leave to get back home, but not before Scotland saying he was the one in charge of making supper. It’s a relief for you because sometimes England gets the ingredient mixed up, and the food always ended up tasting weird.

After an hour, you’re called down for supper and you’re presented with an assortment of foods that smell amazing: tatties, soup, bread, sausages, etc. You go to your seat, adjusting the pillow/booster and wait for Wales to prepare your plate. Curiously, there’s something new on your plate that you’ve never seen before.

It goes something like this:

“What’s the brown stuff?” You poke the curious, aforementioned brown stuff. You take a small bite of it and hummed in surprise at the savoury taste.

“It’s haggis, it’s often eaten for Burns Night.” Wales explains, adding a bit more of tatties on his plate.

“What’s haggis?” You ask, taking another bite of it. You kind of like it!

“Oh well...” England shares an unsure look with Wales, “it’s a bit like Shepherd’s pie in a way-”

“It’s made out of a sheep’s heart, liver and lungs, encased with its stomach.” Scotland says, nonchalantly pouring himself a drink.

You pause mid-bite, eyes going wide as saucer plates in horror, face draining of all colours. You look Scotland, at the plate before you, at the mostly-eaten portion of haggis. At the crime you just commited

At the haggis made out of a sheep. Like Oliver the Sheep.

You burst into tears.

And that’s how North was introduced to haggis for the first time. According to his brothers, he cried himself to sleep and couldn’t eat anything that look brown for two months. To this day, North would silently say sorry to Oliver the Sheep whenever he eats haggis again, but despite the horrific discovery on that day, he can’t deny he likes it.

#hetalia #aph northern ireland #hws northern ireland #England facepalmed so hard it resonated in the dinner room before comforting North all the while sending daggers at Scotland #Wales had to take North back to the farm the next day to reassure him Oliver the Sheep was safe and happy #when Ireland heard about it he spent an hour scolding Scotland for his lack of tact #and all Scotland did was just shrug and say: he liked it!#I tried haggis once at the annual Scottish highland games #or at least the equivalent of one here in Canada and it was kinda good #a bit pasty but still good lol #gosh this got way longer than I expected xD

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mywingsareonwheels · 2 years

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In which crushing on Roger Allam is really good for my gender dysphoria :-)

Today I looked at the user pic on the Discord I share with Partner, which has my face in profile*.

I have a round face, and a bit of a rounded and double chin - I did even when I was extremely thin in my 20s, and now I am middle-aged and medium-sized so it’s stronger.

I’m trans masc but not on T (may never go on to T, for various reasons), and my face is where a lot of my gender dysphoria lives.

And over the last few weeks I’ve been crushing hard on the glorious Roger Allam, starting with just falling even more in love with his acting than I’ve been in a low-key way for the last, ooh, 30 years or so, and then just generally, aaah. He’s so wonderful and so beautiful and his voice is like dark honey.

And while he is most emphatically a cis man, and tall and big, and has a majestic nose rather than the wee button I have, his overall facial look is actually quite similar to mine, in both colouring and shape. He has large brown eyes and a heavy but fading brow, and his face is round, and he had a bit of a double chin even when he was young and quite slim and playing Javert and Mercutio and people. He is 25 years older than I am. He has liver spots on his beautiful hands, and his hair is grey, and his eyes crinkle and bag a bit like mine do when I am very underslept. I’m likely to age in a very similar way to him.

And he is *gorgeous*, and is regarded as gorgeous by a lot of people. And being in his late 60s is not making anyone think he is less gorgeous. And having that face and chin shape is not making anyone think he is less gorgeous.

Today I looked at the user pic on the Discord I share with Partner and in which my face is in profile and I didn’t wince, and I didn’t flinch, and I didn’t get dysphoria plaguing me, and I didn’t feel sad about being older than I used to be. My face is pretty great, including in profile, and my rounded chin doesn’t make me less masculine. It never will, whether or not I ever use T. And anyone who disagrees on me on that is wrong, and can take it up with Fred Thursday and Douglas Richardson. :-D

*Because Partner and I are kissing in it. ;-)

#roger allam #trans stuff #gender dysphoria #body dysphoria #ageing #crushing is good for me sometimes #queer stuff

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spring-heeledjack · 2 years

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Hospital

excuse the shitty title, I had no idea what to call this one

<-back - you are here

also this one is almost twice as long as the previous one whoops ell oh ell

The first thing Jon noticed when he opened his eyes was the light. He groaned, flopping an arm over his face to shield his eyes from the glaring light. Hospital, he thought. But why?

Jon reached into his foggy memory to try and remember what happened. Did I drink too much again? He wondered. No, I don't feel hungover. I feel great actually. He took a moment to mentally retrace his steps.

Phonetix. We were at Phonetix. But with who? Arno would've been there. Pex and Chips maybe. But wait, it was their idea, wasn't it? And... the boy.

Jon sat up in his hospital bed. "Fowl-" he gasped. He heard a clop, clop, clop as the doctor turned to him. "Awake, are you?"

Spiro was a little thrown by the sarcasm. That wasn't usually how a doctor greeted him when he woke up in the hospital, usually it was all 'Thank you for your patience, Mister Spiro' and 'So sorry for the delay, Mister Spiro'. And why did that voice sound so familiar?

Jon was about to demand to know where Artemis Fowl was when he actually saw his doctor. He had long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, with rounded glasses sitting before sharp golden eyes.

But it wasn't the eyes that caught Spiro off guard. It was the fact that his doctor appeared to be a goddamned centaur.

Jon rubbed his eyes with his thumbs, then looked back up at the doctor. "Is- is this real?" The centaur rolled its eyes. "Yes, Mister Spiro, this is real." It then waved Jon over. "Come on, Jonny. You got somewhere to be."

"Shouldn't I be resting? I just woke up in a hospital." He protested. The centaur raised an eyebrow at him. "You shouldn't have to. I mean, it was Holly that healed you so..."

Against his better judgement, Spiro stood. He then noticed that he wasn't in a hospital gown, more of a white jumpsuit-type thing.

The centaur was right, he didn't need to rest at all. In fact, he felt like he could run a mile. Looking down at his hands, he found that the liver spots that once dotted them had disappeared. His eyesight seemed sharper as well, and he felt spryer than he had in years.

"So... this Holly person... what's her price?" He asked. He would have people chomping at the bit to get rid of their ailments. He would raise millions in under a decade.

The centaur laughed condescending as he followed it down a white hallway. "Don't even think about it, Mud Man." It chortled. "Holly's an officer of the law. Besides, she barely tolerates Artemis, and he's never even killed anyone. I shudder to think what she'd do to you if given the chance, Mister The-World-Can-Go-To-Hell-For-All-I-Care. No, I'm afraid Holly can't be bought."

This statement rose even more questions in Jon's mind. An officer? As in a police officer? A police officer working with Artemis Fowl? And what the hell was a Mud Man? Probably some lesser-known slang term for criminal.

And why in God's name did this centaur's voice sound so familiar?

Pondering the last question, Jon asked, "Have we... met before?"

The centaur glanced sideways at him before chuckling. "In a sense." It said. Jon waited a couple seconds, something he was quite unaccustomed to.

"...are you going to elaborate?"

The centaur heaved an overdramatic sigh. "I suppose. Here, I'll keep it simple for your little Mud Man brain." Jon was about to retort snidely when he decided to hold his tongue. You had to pick your battles if you wanted to know what you needed to, and sometimes that meant taking a verbal beating from a mythological creature.

"Remember when Artemis unlocked the C Cube for you? He said he had to revert it to the 1.0 version. That was a lie. The 'Cube' that was talking to you was me showing off my acting skills." The centaur took a deep, exaggerated bow. "You may hold your applause."

Jon felt like he should've been shocked but it made sense. It was clever too, though he hated himself for thinking it.

"We're here." The centaur announced before sliding a keycard into a slot on the wall. The door slid open to allow them access. "After you." The centaur stepped aside, grinning. Hesitantly, Jon stepped inside.

As soon as he stepped through the threshold he turned to step right back out, but the centaur kicked the door closed behind them.

Laying on a tiny bed in front of him was Artemis Fowl, dressed in the same white jumpsuit as him. He was unconscious, thank God, but he was still there in the room with him. He was paler than usual, and his breathing was short and labored. There was a girl sitting in a chair to his right, and a woman on his left. The girl couldn't have been more than three feet tall, with brown skin and a hooked nose. The woman seemed to be Eurasian, with a long blonde braid. There was a jade green ring tied to the end of it.

The sound of Artemis snarling and growling echoing in his head had Jon's heart trying to beat out of his chest. His hand wandered to his stomach, where Artemis had dug into him. But soon the fear was overtaken by anger and a vindictive need for revenge. He took a threatening step towards the sleeping boy.

"You little bitch-" He started. He was interrupted by a large, strong hand on his shoulder holding him back.

"Hold it." Said a baritone voice from behind him. He turned, only to see the presumably dead Butler glaring down at him. The man looked like he had aged a century, but by God it was him. Had he been in there with them the whole time?

Jon took a surprised step back, bumping into the foot of Artemis' bed. "What? B-But you're supposed to be dead! Arno, he-he killed you!"

Butler merely shrugged. "I got better." He said simply.

Jon stumbled into a tiny armchair, head spinning. First Fowl turns out to be a cannibal of some sort, and then a centaur, and now this. Surely he was going insane.

"'Scuse me." The centaur passed him, tail swishing just high enough to slap him in the face. The centaur approached Artemis, who had begun mumbling in his sleep. In its hand, the centaur had a vial of red liquid. It didn't take Jon too long to figure out what the red liquid was. Even still, he couldn't help himself from asking.

"Is that-?" He began, only to be cut off again in so many minutes.

"No, not human blood. Cow blood." The little girl said. Jon was startled to find she had the voice of a full grown woman. When he looked at her closer, he noticed she had the proportions of an adult as well. "We're not nearly as cruel as you humans."

"If you're not human, then what are you?" Jon asked. That anxiety was creeping into his stomach again. The girl - or woman, as it seemed - gazed at him from over her shoulder. This profile gave Jon a good, clear look at her sharp, pointy ear. She grinned wickedly at him. "Fairies, of course." She said before turning back around.

The centaur opened Artemis' mouth with its thumb, dripping the blood inside. When the vial had been emptied completely, the centaur took a step back, pocketing the vial.

"How long until he wakes up, Foaly?" Blondie asked. So, the centaur's name was Foaly then. "Shouldn't be too long." Foaly replied. "I ran a couple calculations, comparing his height and weight with how long it must've been since he's fed, then rounded it all up to-"

He was interrupted by Artemis groaning. "Told ya." He smirked.

Butler was at his charge's side in an instant, wedging past the blonde woman. He held up four fingers. "Artemis, how many fingers am I holding up?"

Artemis squinted at the man's hand. "Four, I believe." Said his prim voice. His voice sent a wave of anger rippling through Jon. Not here though. Not with Butler in the room.

"What's your mother's name?" Butler continued with the questions.

"Angeline, of course. How could I ever forget that?"

"Is eight a rational or irrational number?"

"Irrational, obviously." Artemis scoffed, sitting up. Butler sighed with relief. The short woman interrupted the moment of relief by slapping Artemis on the back of the head.

"Why did you think it'd be a good idea to go without feeding for so long?" She demanded. Foaly and Blondie hid their grins behind their hands. "Do you realize how many humans had to mesmerized and mind-wiped when the Chicago police burst in to see blood all over the place and five unconscious people?"

"I didn't mean to, Holly!" Artemis protested. So, that was Holly. "I merely... forgot to-" He interrupted himself, tongue rolling against the inside of his cheeks. He picked something out of his mouth, holding it up to get a closer look. It was a bit of skin.

Jon's skin.

"Oh, that's disgusting!" Foaly gagged, turning away. Artemis flicked the skin into a nearby trashcan. He shrugged. "I've had worse." He said. Whether that meant he had had skin worse than Jon's or picked worse things out from between his teeth, Jon wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that, somehow, he was going to kill the little freak laying in the hospital bed in front of him.

Frustrated at not being told anything, Jon shouted, "Will someone for the love of God tell me what the hell is going on here?!"

All heads turned to him. Artemis smirked. "Ah, Mister Spiro. It seems you've decided to join us." Jon scoffed. "Not like I had much of a choice." He spat. Artemis ignored his sarcasm.

"What's happening, Mister Spiro, is that you've just discovered that I am a vampire, as well as the existence of fairies." He spoke. Jon glanced at Butler. "Necromancy too, huh?" He said dryly. Artemis chuckled. "No, Mister Spiro, just a mix of cryogenics and healing magic."

Foaly took a step towards Jon. "There's a reason I've brought you here, Jonny." He spoke. "And what's that, Seabiscuit?" Jon sneered. Foaly ignored the comment. "I wanted to see you freak out when you saw Artemis." He grinned.

Jon blasted out of his chair, grabbing Foaly by the neck, a spew of threats and curses exploding out of him. Before he could get a punch in, however, Holly and Blondie were at his sides, both throwing expert punches to his stomach and throat.

Jon fell back into the tiny chair, rubbing his belly and throat. When he looked up, Holly and Blondie were at their original spots. Butler smiled proudly, clapping Blondie on the back gently.

"Nice reflexes, Juliet." He said. Juliet grinned at him.

Foaly recovered swiftly, pulling a tablet out of seemingly nowhere. The tablet was sleek and expensive looking. "There's another reason you're still here, Jonny." He said, handing the tablet to him. Jon glanced over it. "What the hell am I looking at?"

"Yourself," Answered the centaur. On the tablet, there were two colored images, both of human brains. The brain on the left, labeled 'Average' looked like all the other images of brains Jon had seen in school. Certain areas were colored with green, yellow and red. The brain on the right, however, had splotches of blue all over it. This brain was labeled, 'Spiro'.

"The hell does this mean?" Jon asked. "I'll tell you what it means." Foaly said, swiping the tablet screen. A third brain appeared, this time labeled, 'Fowl.'

It was covered in the same blue splotches as Jon's

"Artemis bit you, didn't he?" Foaly asked, looking at Jon with piercing golden eyes. "Y-yeah?" Jon replied. He had a feeling he knew what the centaur was implying. In denial, he feigned ignorance. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It means, Mister Spiro," Artemis interjected. "That you are becoming a vampire."

#wilde.fic #waaaa this is so long im sorry #i just LOVE writing foalys dialogue tho #artemis fowl #artemis fowl ii #foaly artemis fowl #jon spiro #domovoi butler #juliet butler #holly short #artemis fowl vampire au

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cassandrajoybellbittner · 3 months

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*Warning Adult Content*

BEACHSIDE DIARIES - Chapter 27

Adyen

"If you keep touching it like that, it's never going to heal."

I blinked, looking away from the waters in front of me to turn to my side.

I noticed my mother standing beside me.

I must have been too caught up in my thoughts to hear her coming over.

The material of my shorts made my thigh itch, so I reached down to fondle with its seams.

Both my mother and I were wearing flip flops and our feet were dusty from the beach sand.

"Yeah, I understand."

I smiled, letting my hand drop to my side.

"I'll stop touching it, I promise," I said, watching as she rolled her eyes.

She didn't seem to buy that.

The mark Len gave me was still hidden under a bandage.

A lot of people had looked at me in horror when I went over to the airport in Toronto and throughout my stay here in Nova Scotia.

It didn't matter though, it made me happy and eventually, it would heal over and hopefully be a faint keloid scar-like Leigh's.

My mother reached out to touch the skin around the bandage before pulling her hand away.

She was darker than me and Adyen and her curls were more tightly locked.

She also looked like you would expect someone her age would... mid-fifties.

You could spot the gray strands of hair on her head if you stared at her long enough and the corners of her eyes wrinkled up when she smiled or squinted.

She also had some liver spots on her hand.

A vivid memory of how she had walked up to me in front of the airport flashed in my mind.

She had looked so unsure of herself... afraid.

Naylan had told me that she worried that I wouldn't like her or that I would hate her for what she had to do to ensure my survival.

I didn't hate her, quite the opposite.

I loved her laughter.

I loved the way she hugged me and called me her boy as she talked about her country of origin in the Caribbean.

My mother smelled like sea salt most of the time.

She lived close to one of the many ports here.

She worked as a deckhand.

Her home was tiny.

It was a one-bedroom fisherman's cabin that was close enough to the shore that one could hear the waves as they slept at night.

We had shared a room throughout my visit.

She slept on the bed and I curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor, mostly looking through pictures and boxes under a lantern light instead of sleeping.

It felt a lot like a beach holiday.

I was glad I came.

"You'll be leaving this weekend. I'll miss you," my mother said, making me smile a bit.

Her deep brown eyes were reflecting the setting sun.

I couldn't help but notice how much of myself I saw in her.

My chest warmed up, remembering our first meeting being awkward.

I had been hesitant to call her mum, even though I had done so consistently in our phone conversations.

It took a few days of living today and talking for me to ease up and enjoy her company.

We started bonding over food and the fact that I was always asking for her recipes.

I loved the food she made.

She sourced most of the ingredients herself.

My mother kept a small garden and some free-range hens that pecked your feet if you got too close to their chucks.

She was also good at fishing.

She taught me how to use a net and a fishing rod when she decided I had stood and watched work for too long.

I licked my lips, grinning at the memories.

My mother, as I had learned, was a woman of the land.

"I'll miss you too."

The sound of seagulls in the background and the waves that had drawn nearer since the afternoon was slowly giving way to the high tides of the night had at least drowned out the little cry laugh I did.

My mum pulled me into a hug and I swelled in it, wrapping my hands around her and closing my eyes.

Maybe I would get to see her again during Christmas but I wasn't sure if either of us could afford consistent plane tickets.

"Take care of your brother for me, will you?" she said, running her fingers through my hair as a sigh left her lips.

"He has always been very ambitious, don't let him bite more than he can chew."

I nodded into her chest, understanding what she meant.

Naylan had plans. A lot of plans.

Being the leader of a pack was work and sometimes even dangerous if other wolves decided that they wanted your territory.

"I'll report him to you if he does something stupid," I said, pulling away from my mother's hug.

She laughed at me, readjusting the wrapper around her waist before we started to head back to her home together.

We shared a meal together on her patio, looking out at the beach that had thinned out in terms of people.

The sound of crickets and birds returning to the creeks of caves up north filled the air as we chewed on smoked salted fish.

My mum asked me about Len, offering to drive me to the mall if I needed an internet connection to talk to him.

We've been doing that occasionally since her little cabin had bad reception and she didn't have internet of any sort.

"I'm happy you found your mate, Adyen," my mother said out of the blue, in a soft voice as we washed up plates in her cramped kitchen.

"When I spoke to him, he sounded nice," she added, recalling the time I had put him on speaker and they chatted for a bit.

"He's from Alberta," she said.

Her voice was firm, yet muted.

It was as if trying to refresh her memory.

She nodded at her own words as she dried her hands.

"They have stable packs up there."

I didn't respond to that, catching that she was speaking more to herself than to me.

She worried about Naylan and me a lot and she was a person that talked herself out of her anxiety.

"I'm going to his place in the summer," I said, making my mother look over at me.

She smiled.

"Send me pictures."

"I will," I nodded, putting away the plates I had finished drying with a cloth.

We fed the chickens together and swept up the fallen leaves on her yard before locking up for the night.

We talked to each other in her bedroom... her on her small twin bed and me on the floor.

She asked me about school and sports.

She smiled when I told her I won my last race and would get to keep my scholarship for my second year at university.

She slept, I was left alone in the void of silence that was left behind.

I couldn't sleep, the moonlight spilling into the room illuminated the floor and kept my restless self wide awake.

Another day was over, even though I didn't want it to end.

The thought of that was bittersweet.

A small part of me wondered if I could make the day longer by not going to bed.

I listened to my mother's breathing, dreading the knowledge that I would have to leave for the airport in the next two days.

I knew that I would miss her but I was glad I had gotten to meet her, regardless.

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avataar123 · 10 months

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Benefits of Chemical Peels

A chemical peel is a simple procedure in which a chemical solution is applied to the skin to remove the topmost layers. What it does is remove the topmost layer of the skin, and the new layer of skin that grows is brighter and smoother. With a light or medium peel, this can be done more than once to get the desired results.

Chemical peels are used to treat problems like wrinkles, discoloration, and even scars (on the face). Chemical peels are versatile; they can be done as standalone treatments or combined with other procedures like laser facials. There are deeper chemical peels and they offer much more dramatic results but they also require a lot of downtime to recover. Chemical peeling is also known as chemexfoliation or derma peeling. It is generally on the face, neck, or hands. But it is also used in the treatment of hyperpigmentation in the areas like underarms and bikinis. It helps in improving conditions like:

Mild scarring

Sun spots, age spots, liver spots, freckles, and discoloration

Fine lines and wrinkles

Sun damage

Certain types of acne

Rough skin

Scaly patches on the skin

Dull complexion

Melasma due to pregnancy or birth control pills

Depending on the issues that you are facing, you can choose a chemical peel in any one of the three depths

Light chemical peel: a light chemical peel is a superficial peel that will remove the outer layer of the skin which is the epidermis. This light peel works on conditions like fine lines, acne, uneven skin tone, and dryness. One can get a light peel done once every two to five weeks.

Medium chemical peel: this peel removes cells from the epidermis as well as a little bit of the dermis. It removes a little bit of the top layers of the dermis. This peel aids in treating wrinkles, acne scars, and uneven skin tone.

Deep chemical peel: this peel removes cells even deeper in the dermis and is often done in a surgical setup under the administration of anesthesia. It is often used for deep wrinkles, scars, and even precancerous growths.

What are the risks involved in chemical peeling?

Please consult your dermatologist before proceeding with the chemical peel treatment. In certain types of skin, there is a risk of developing temporary and permanent changes in the color of your skin. For example, people on birth control pills, pregnancy, and a family history of brown discoloration on the face increase the risk of developing pigmentation.

Some of the side effects include redness, scabbing and swelling; depending on how deep the peel is the redness may last from a few hours to a few months.

#avataarskincare

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insilverrolled · 1 year

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Snow White and the Seven Dwarves

By Anne Sexton [x]

No matter what life you lead the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper, arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhône, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut. Open to say, Good Day Mama, and shut for the thrust of the unicorn. She is unsoiled. She is as white as a bonefish.

Once there was a lovely virgin called Snow White. Say she was thirteen. Her stepmother, a beauty in her own right, though eaten, of course, by age, would hear of no beauty surpassing her own. Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes. The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred— something like the weather forecast— a mirror that proclaimed the one beauty of the land. She would ask, Looking glass upon the wall, who is fairest of us all? And the mirror would reply, You are the fairest of us all. Pride pumped in her like poison.

Suddenly one day the mirror replied, Queen, you are full fair, 'tis true, but Snow White is fairer than you. Until that moment Snow White had been no more important than a dust mouse under the bed. But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand and four whiskers over her lip so she condemned Snow White to be hacked to death. Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter, and I will salt it and eat it. The hunter, however, let his prisoner go and brought a boar's heart back to the castle. The queen chewed it up like a cube steak. Now I am fairest, she said, lapping her slim white fingers.

Snow White walked in the wildwood for weeks and weeks. At each turn there were twenty doorways and at each stood a hungry wolf, his tongue lolling out like a worm. The birds called out lewdly, talking like pink parrots, and the snakes hung down in loops, each a noose for her sweet white neck. On the seventh week she came to the seventh mountain and there she found the dwarf house. It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage and completely equipped with seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks and seven chamber pots. Snow White ate seven chicken livers and lay down, at last, to sleep.

The dwarfs, those little hot dogs, walked three times around Snow White, the sleeping virgin. They were wise and wattled like small czars. Yes. It's a good omen, they said, and will bring us luck. They stood on tiptoes to watch Snow White wake up. She told them about the mirror and the killer-queen and they asked her to stay and keep house. Beware of your stepmother, they said. Soon she will know you are here. While we are away in the mines during the day, you must not open the door.

Looking glass upon the wall . . . The mirror told and so the queen dressed herself in rags and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White. She went across seven mountains. She came to the dwarf house and Snow White opened the door and bought a bit of lacing. The queen fastened it tightly around her bodice, as tight as an Ace bandage, so tight that Snow White swooned. She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy. When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace and she revived miraculously. She was as full of life as soda pop. Beware of your stepmother, they said. She will try once more.

Looking glass upon the wall. . . Once more the mirror told and once more the queen dressed in rags and once more Snow White opened the door. This time she bought a poison comb, a curved eight-inch scorpion, and put it in her hair and swooned again. The dwarfs returned and took out the comb and she revived miraculously. She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie. Beware, beware, they said, but the mirror told, the queen came, Snow White, the dumb bunny, opened the door and she bit into a poison apple and fell down for the final time. When the dwarfs returned they undid her bodice, they looked for a comb, but it did no good. Though they washed her with wine and rubbed her with butter it was to no avail. She lay as still as a gold piece.

The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves to bury her in the black ground so they made a glass coffin and set it upon the seventh mountain so that all who passed by could peek in upon her beauty. A prince came one June day and would not budge. He stayed so long his hair turned green and still he would not leave. The dwarfs took pity upon him and gave him the glass Snow White— its doll's eyes shut forever— to keep in his far-off castle. As the prince's men carried the coffin they stumbled and dropped it and the chunk of apple flew out of her throat and she woke up miraculously.

And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet. First your toes will smoke and then your heels will turn black and you will fry upward like a frog, she was told. And so she danced until she was dead, a subterranean figure, her tongue flicking in and out like a gas jet. Meanwhile Snow White held court, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut and sometimes referring to her mirror as women do.

#anne sexton #fables and fairytales #gender #aging #relationships

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butchniqabi · 3 years

Photo

Anatomical Theater in Padua (1594) / Enrique Simonet Lombardo. The Autopsy (Anatomy of the Heart; She had a Heart!) (1890)

Let Me Be Reborn as an Alarm Clock by Amatullah Bourdon

Words: 1563

Warnings: gore, medical, death

Summary: A woman is taken apart in an anatomical theater

Notes: Okay so. I was once again struck by a beam of inspiration (this time inspired by Zev aka hannibalapologist and his love for anatomical theaters) and wrote this quick piece. It has a sci-fi element to is so its like...past meets future is suppose! Story under the cut!

@hannibalapologist @fluoresensitive

The theater was empty aside from the six bodies who inhabited it. Four of them, doctors, sat around the tall room, close enough to view the dissection. A woman stood at the ready, her subject lay on the table with a serene expression. The woman was Dr. Antoinetta Brown and the subject was her daughter, Fantine.

Fantine had to die. The collective, composed of the five doctors, had voted four to one to end her existence. So now it was time to take her apart, bit by bit so she could be remade.

“Are you ready, Dr. Brown?” Dr. Pillai, a usually jovial woman, asked somberly.

“Yes,” she replied. “I will begin shortly.”

Antoinetta adjusted the tight gloves that covered her hands. She looked down at Fantine, who was staring up at her with an unreadable expression.

“I will begin soon, Fantine.” Antoinetta whispered.

“I know.” she replied, smiling.

“I’m so sorry.”

Fantine just kept smiling.

The dissection began.

Fantine would not feel any pain as she worked. Antoinetta carefully ran a knife down her sternum and to her navel. The knife glided as it cut through her skin to reveal the muscle underneath. She carefully pushed a blunt tool under her skin to disconnect it from the muscle tissue. Soon however, Antoinetta abandoned the tool entirely, using her hands to push flesh from flesh.

The collective’s decision to dissect Fantine came as little surprise to Anotinetta. They had been circling her for months and had been eyeing her ever since her creation. At first they had scoffed at the notion of her existence, even Dr. McFadden who had pioneered AI technology in her field, but soon they realized how special Fantine was. And now that they saw all she could be, they wanted her to be taken apart.

Antoinetta made a cut down Fantine’s muscle wall. She looked up from her work to catch a glimpse of Fantine. She hoped that her daughter could forgive her for this. She carefully pulled open her stomach and examined the wiring inside.

Dr. Owens truly galvanized the others into taking apart Fantine. She was an aggressive woman by nature, headstrong and rough around the edges. People knew to avoid her when she was in the middle of a project, which was almost always. Antoinetta thought there was some part of Owens which was jealous of her, of her invention.

The inside of Fantine mimicked the human body. She had blood and spinal fluid and spit. Her heart beated around a generator and her intestines wove around a data processing drive. Antoinetta showcased this to her colleagues. She pointed out the artificial stomach, the wires which carried information along with red blood, the bones made of titanium that shone in the bright lights.

Antoinetta was surprised by Dr. Pillai. Akshaana had been her friend for decades. They had done their doctoral dissertations side by side, restless and invigorated they bounced ideas off one another late into the night. She was bright and had encouraged Antoinetta to create Fantine.

Slowly, she tied off vessels and intestines. The generator was complex, and too large to work with so many obstructions. She removed the liver first. It weighed heavy with bile. In her hands the organ still flexed with phantom energy and bled when she placed it in a nearby dish.

Fantine was smart in a way that frightened people. Her intelligence never gave way to a superiority complex, her astute observations never masked with haughtiness. She was always smiling, always serene as she took apart supercomputers. Smiling as she solved complex math problems. Smiling as she predicted political moves and social moves and the moves of the collective. Smiling with a warmth that never quite reached her stark white eyes.

Dr. Nakahara thought the whole thing was a tragedy. She cried crocodile tears as she ordered Antoinetta to kill her creation. She was sad, of course she was sad. The technology involved in the creation of Fantine was a work of art. Anyone who was eager to destroy her was heartless, inhuman. Fantine was The Creation of Man, The Birth of Venus, a stained glass window set in an old church that let light in streams of red, yellow and blue.

Fantine’s stomach went next followed by her spleen, pancreas, and gallbladder. She held up each organ and explained briefly how they were made and how they functioned in an artificial body. Fantine was still smiling, staring aimlessly at the ceiling as her organs piled up next to her.

Did the body, as it decomposed, remember the feeling of consciousness? Did it yearn for life as it returned to the earth? Would the metal parts that made up Fantine's body remember her? Would they sing as they were melted down, reformed, and molded into a new image (Recycled, just like a human)?

"I want to be remade as something useful." Fantine said suddenly. "I want to be memorable."

Antoinetta was stunned by her statement. Didn’t she know she was already memorable? Not just to Anoinetta, but to artificial intelligence and robotics as a whole. Fantine was the first and the last, would always be the only one of her kind.

“I’ll make sure you’re put to good use.” she replied softly. And oh, did Fantine smile.

Dr. McFadden had created the most sophisticated AI the world had ever seen. It thought, it dreamed, it craved. It named itself, Jeremiah, and chose an image to base itself off of. McFadden rose to fame for her work and inspired both Antoinetta and Akshaana to pursue a similar study. She was a private woman despite her notoriety. No one knew what she did with her AI after she closed the program (and those who did were sworn to secrecy they dared not break). Even the other members of the collective couldn’t say much about her and her moods. Despite that, Antoinetta thought that she would hold a soft spot for Fantine, but there was little room in her heart for beings made of metal.

Next, Antoinetta cut the diaphragm and pulled it apart with her hands. She could feel the organs quake as they were prodded and shifted. Slowly, but surely, Fantine’s generator was exposed. The lungs had to go in order for her work to be the most effective.

She thought back to when she created Fantine. Her child began as a program, a series of ones and zeroes that evolved and grew as she learned. Antoinetta nurtured her the way any mother would, giving her books to read and problems to solve. She made her a body and took the utmost care in the crafting.

Her lungs twitched for breath in the dish. Finally, her generator was cleared. It connected to her heart and regulated itself with her spinal fluid. Antoinetta sighed and cast one last look to Fantine as she dug her hands into her near empty chest.

There were a series of fail safes installed in case of damage or tampering, Antoinetta disassembled them all. One by one, line by line, Fantine slowly shut down. The life was leaving her, she could feel it. Her blood stopped pumping, her organs stopped wiggling. Antoinetta wanted to weep as she killed her creation, deprived her of the consciousness that she had worked so hard to grant her.

She arrived at the final switch: her heart. It was a poetic choice on her part to make her heart the center of her consciousness. She gripped Fantine’s heart as she prepared to cut it off from her body and pull it from her chest.

A long moment passed in silence. Antoinetta did not move as she felt the heart beat lazily in her hand. Could she really kill Fantine? Could she end her life like this?

A cool hand touched her arm. It was Fantine, using the limited mobility she had left to offer comfort. She smiled her serene smile that didn’t reach her eyes and laughed softly.

“Thank you for my life.” she said.

Antoinetta disconnected her heart and Fantine’s face fell blank, dead. Her hand slid off her arm and dangled over the side, limp. She held the heart up for the collective to see. It did not beat.

From the heart she grabbed a small, innocuous chip. This was Fantine in her true, pure form. A series of data collected and compressed into files, lines, and code. Antoinetta wondered if she could still think, still feel.

The doctors rose from their seats, the demonstration was over. They walked down to the theater and gazed closely upon Fantine’s corpse: a husk made of artificial flesh and metal. Dr. McFadden held out her hand expectantly. Antoinetta handed her Fantine.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Brown.” She said simply.

The women walked out of the room in silence, leaving Antoinetta alone. Truly alone. Soon people would come to clean up the waste. They would clean the flesh from her metal bones and dispose of it proper. The metal would be melted down and remade into hip implants, telephone poles, and alarm clocks.

In a way, Fantine would never die. In a way, Fantine was never really alive.

Antoinetta removed her gloves and washed her hands. She placed Fantine’s hand at her side and carefully closed her eyes. She brushed back a stray curl and left before the others could arrive.

#my writing #nudity #gore #blood tw #*does a lil tap dance*

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no-droids · 4 years

Text

Just the Translator

Part Ten of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7.6K

Warnings: There is rough sex in this. THERE IS ROUGH SEX IN THIS. Do NOT read if that offends you. There is also more anal stuff—NO FUCKING (not yet). Uh, canon-typical violence, grumpy Din Djarin, some fluffy moments, Baby Yoda being a little troublemaker, bit of a cliffhanger ending BUT NOT TO WORRY PALS I ALREADY GOT QUITE A BIT OF THE NEXT PART WRITTEN

A/N: ***Please take a second to visit this googledoc, in it are useful links regarding the BLM protests and what we can do to help. Here is a separate link to where I originally addressed this and shared more thoughts***

***

Whelp. At least you’re in a good mood.

In contrast, Din and the kid have been causing problems all morning, the both of them. Like two… two annoying, middle-aged children competing to see which one is less mature.

The smaller of the two, and older (most likely) is bouncing with energy. Acting a complete fool. Ready and willing to launch out of his restricting little sphere at any second, a bright green bundle of energy that slept way too well last night and is just rubbing it in at this point. He was fine earlier—checking out of the inn, picking up some food at a local market, riding in the Crest as it navigated towards the most isolated sector on this planet—but the hike to this field has been like pulling teeth.

In fact, Din is currently wearing a singular gauntlet on his left hand for that very reason—so this child’s hyper ass could be contained within the hovering, reflective prison. He’s restless, though, continuing to act out. At one point you suggest just letting him walk to let some energy out like yesterday, even if he slows the group down with his tiny little legs. Once you let the little menace out on parole though, he just continues to veer off in his own direction and irritate his dad even further.

And, oh stars—his dad.

Din has barely said a word, only answering with short responses when directly prompted and spending most of his energy just silently stewing inside his own little grumpy teapot on his head. The helmet is the only other piece of armor he’s donning besides the lone vambrace, and you’re surprised steam hasn’t started whistling through the top of it with how frustrated he is, how many times you’ve seen him curl his hands with impatience. At first it was amusing, though you know better than to tease him about it right now. You keep your mouth shut and try your best to wrangle the kid, doing everything you can to be helpful while also steering clear of unintentionally exacerbating his silent irritation, knowing Din isn’t in the mood for jokes after being interrupted at a very crucial moment last night. The sun shines directly on the front of his helmet and blinds you with every single annoyed step, so you follow just far enough behind him and try to use his enormous refrigerator of a body to shield your eyes.

At first it was amusing. But then the baby catches sight of a gorgeously patterned butterfly floating through the field that he probably wants to snack on for breakfast, and he breaks off from your entourage once more with a quiet little coo that should strike pure terror into the hearts of small animals everywhere.

Immediately you’re turning to go get him—but then a large hand quickly snatches the front of your shirt before you can take a single step, pulling until you’re colliding with an unarmored chest with an oof.

A bare hand catches your jaw and tightens until you’re staring deep into the thin blade of his visor, before Din whispers rough through the modulator, “As soon as he falls asleep.”

That’s all he says. And then he’s releasing you and letting you stumble back towards his wayward son a whole lot less amused than you were before, and a whole lot more achy. The baby shenanigans are far less amusing too.

“You’re killing me here, kiddo,” you breathe after quickly catching up with him, having to bend in half to lead him back towards his impatient dad.

His hot, moody… incredibly well endowed dad, thick arms crossed tight over his chest as he waits for your return.

The monster’s hand lifts high above him as his three fingers cling to just one of yours, the baggy brown sack exposing his pudgy little green elbow as he follows next to you with a waddle. It’s slow going, but at some point he decides to pull himself up onto your wrist and you catch him, cradling him in your arms before quickly hurrying back to Din.

Thankfully he begins to calm down a little after that. As you three eventually find a spot in the endlessly breezy field to settle into, the kid clamors back into his shield while Din carelessly drops the dark bag of supplies he carried from the Crest into the tall grass. You twist your back to let some of the stiffness out, rotating your arms to encourage more movement as he approaches.

“Same thing as yesterday,” he gruffs when he’s in reach, patting his chest again with a bare hand. “Hard as you can.”

“My… My hands hurt,” you eventually admit, not wanting to frustrate him even more and hoping you would be able to work on blocking today instead, but Din just nods while you gently brush your thumb along your sore knuckles.

“That’ll happen until it doesn’t,” he tells you quietly, reaching out to touch your elbow in a quick, awkward gesture of comfort and then dropping his arm to his side. Short, but not unkind. “Push through. You can do it.”

You nod, knowing that’s probably the very best motivation you’ll get from him. His beliefs, condensed down to quick, stunted sentences, presented with such unwavering surety that they must be truths. Weirdly, it works wonders for you. Maybe it’s just the person it’s coming from.

You drop into stance and then slam your fist into his chest before he’s ready, and Din steps back on impact with a small grunt while you bite your lip to silence your own noise from the pain reverberating up your arm.

“Good,” he huffs nonetheless, rubbing the spot on his chest he’s historically designated as target practice. “Good. You’re… hitting harder than yesterday. That’s… fuck. Good.”

“Good?” You ask lowly, chancing a quick look over at the kid. Who blinks directly back at you, wide-eyed and staring purposefully from his crib. You deflate just a little bit at the sight of him still wide awake, and Din’s fists are clenched by his sides when you turn back to him.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the pent up tightness in his body as you spend the next couple hours throwing more hits at him, different types. Left hooks, right hooks, crosses, jabs, elbow strikes, palm heels. He was absolutely right though—the more you make contact with him, the less you begin to feel the pain, until it eventually feels like nothing at all to you.

But then, at one point, you pull your hardened fist back, aimed and focused directly on that same spot on his chest once more—when suddenly his hand flashes up and he flicks his finger against the lower part of your open ribcage.

He barely puts any strength into it at all—it’s the pressure you’d use to tap someone on the shoulder if you were trying to get their attention, but for some reason the incredibly well-placed reminder throws you. A little fucking touch like that shouldn’t hurt nearly as much as it does, but you nearly tip sideways and have to catch your footing with how dizzy it makes you.

“That’s what’s called a liver shot,” Din tells you calmly, watching you wrap your hand around your ribcage and wince at the lingering pain through gritted teeth. “Keep your arm down like I told you. That’ll happen every time you wanna get lazy with me, little chicken wing.”

You hiss and shake your head a little bit, trying to clear the fog, and then purposefully tuck both arms tight to your sides. But then—

His hand flashes up again and taps the side of your face this time—not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you flinch on instinct and take a step back. “That arm stays up.”

Your quick huff of air is suppressed. Somewhat censored—it doesn’t duly portray the sharp flare of annoyance you experience. You do exactly what he says, however, and keep your arms in position in front of you.

But then you jerk back and sputter angrily when the tips of his fingers lightly connect with your cheek once more. “Stop that! My hands are up!”

“Then why’d you let me do it?” He asks, stepping up as you retreat to poke you square in your chest. “Stop letting me do it.”

He goes to tap your face again, but this time your forearm comes up to swat his away before he can make contact, and he seems pleased for the moment. Din steps back and hits his chest again. “Come on.”

He lets you get in just a few more blows before coming at you again. You smack his hand away and then go to throw another punch, but he’s quick. He cheats—goes for you twice in a row when you’re not expecting it, and taps the vulnerable spot on your side for the second time today. It hits you like a bullet and takes you a second to snap out of the abrupt shot of pain.

“Come on,” Din taunts once more, curling his mismatched fingers at you—one hand leathered and the other tan and bare. He sounds like he’s grinning under the helmet, starting to enjoy this way too fucking much. It makes your blood boil, makes you just stand there like an idiot for a few seconds and fume at his audacity.

Apparently you take too long getting pissed off at him. He comes at you first, going for your side again, but you shove his arm out of the way with a growl. Except his other arm flashes and you react instantly, ducking under the wide, careful swipe aimed for your cheek and then zeroing in on the same exact spot below his ribs he’s been torturing you with all day, the one left wide open while his arm misses its mark.

Except—yours isn’t a tap, or a flick. It’s a hard uppercut.

Air rushes through the modulator as he groans and stumbles sideways, gasping and trying to steady himself. Triumph surges through your veins as you watch him, shaking your hand out at your side to quickly encourage the numbness away, your knuckles not yet used to hitting bone. He clutches his side and shakes the helmet violently in an effort to regain himself, breathing hard through the filter and—

The visor instantly jerks to you and you’re already taking a step back on instinct, adrenaline roaring. He snaps upright as you continue to retreat—until you trip over yourself and plunge to the grass.

A reflection catches in your peripheral, and you whip your head to the side to see the kid completely passed out in his metallic cradle, eyes closed and mouth drooping a bit. The sight shoots pure exhilaration through you, but it’s nothing compared to the thrill of only seeing him there for a split second before chrome shields instantly slide shut over his head.

You look back to Din just in time to see him dropping his gloved hand back down to his side and taking quick steps towards you—and you react without thinking. You scramble over on your hands and knees and then launch forwards before you’re even halfway off the ground, finding your feet as you stumble into a run and hearing footsteps pick up behind you.

Maker, it’s been ages since you’ve run like this. You don’t even know why you’re running—you just do, it just feels like you should. Your body barrels through tall grass and your heart thunders faster than the sound of your pumping legs, louder than the wind whipping through your ears. You don’t know if he purposefully allows you to get this far or if you’re genuinely quick—

—nope. Nope, you’re not quick, because he suddenly bursts into a sprint behind you and gains way too much ground way too quickly. You try to break left as soon as you realize what’s happening, but he’s too fast and hooks an arm around your stomach just before you’re out of reach. Din yanks you back to his chest as he twists around and takes you both to the ground, his shoulder blades slamming down first and softening your landing with his whole body and a grunt, skidding you both to a halt in the endlessly wavy field.

The wind is knocked out of you regardless. You try and struggle off of him but the positioning makes it almost impossible—your abdominal muscles are no match for the strength of his arms wrapped around your stomach, keeping your body pinned tight to his as you wrestle to lift against him in the grass.

“Fight harder,” Din growls raggedly in your ear, and your pussy seizes with need when you feel how rock hard he is against your ass. It encourages you—you make a rough sound towards the sky and then lift against him with all your strength, and your elbow comes down hard into his ribcage. Air whooshes out of him and his arms loosen just slightly. You’re able to wiggle off him and start crawling away, but then he heaves over and snatches at your pant leg—

Which means you pull them down yourself as you keep clawing yourself forward by your arms, raw excitement coursing through your veins, the fabric pulling tight over your ass and then bunching around your thighs. You squeal and flounder and kick at him—but Din just grabs at your ankle and then pins your leg to the ground, pushing up and using your calves to clamor on top of you with brute strength, catching your underwear and ripping them down too. Your heart pounds and your pussy just about floods itself hearing him dig in his pants to pull his cock out, his breath coming heavy through the helmet.

Maker, you’re so fucking ready for it. You keep struggling just because your body is telling you to, but nothing close to the word ‘stop’ ever leaves your mouth, never even comes to mind. You feel wetness slicking your inner thighs as Din grunts and plants an arm next to your head, his bare hand shooting out to hover in front of your face. You flinch—but he keeps it there, palm open in front of your lips in silent expectation.

“Wet or dry,” he snarls when you don’t immediately react. “I don’t give a shit.”

Still, his hand stays right in front of your face long enough to let you make up your mind.

And… not lick it.

After a moment, Din makes a sound that drops another wave of white hot arousal down through your stomach—a furious, growly noise that resembles distorted static passing through the filter. He angles his cock against your opening and when you hear him muttering angrily, you think he’s scolding you for it. Calling you dirty under his breath, promising you you’ll regret saying that in a second. But no—he’s—

“Perfect. Perfect little girl, fucking perfect,” Din hisses darkly, pushing into your soaking entrance without anything but your slick to ease his way. “H-How are you—s-so fuck—ing—”

Oh Maker, you turn your head into the grass and cry out through the delicious, blissful intrusion, pushing your hips back against his—and Din curses as he quickly bottoms out, making sure he lurches fully into you before his hands find out exactly where they want to be. They land on your lower back and he mounts up, pinning your body hard to the ground with almost his full weight. It means you can rip out as much grass with your useless arms as you want—he doesn’t even give you a single moment now that he’s successfully rooted you to the crushed greenery. You bloom for him all the same, as soon as Din pulls out with a wet sound and then starts fucking you strong and steady.

It’s sharp. Biting. Even the pleasure has a hard edge to it, completely paralyzing you even if you could struggle in this position. His hands are pushing down so hard that the ground digs into your tummy and makes his cock angle and slam right into your g-spot each and every time. You want to moan out your ecstasy but he’s wringing the air from your lungs with every shattering swing of his hips back and forth, quickly speeding up as he goes and taking out a full night’s worth of deprivation on you.

“Ngh. Take. Cock. So. Fucking. Good—” Din grits with every mean thrust, the staccato growls of praise getting lost in the echoing, rhythmic clap of his hips. You can’t fucking breathe—the pleasure is too overwhelming, your face is pressed into the grass, he’s got almost all his weight on you. You’re helpless to do anything besides close your eyes, furrow your brows, drop your jaw, and just let him own your body in the middle of this beautiful oasis. The heavy, wild thrusts steal every sense away from you, any ability to think beyond the fractured piece of heaven he’s striking inside you over and over. You don’t even feel him grabbing your asscheeks and spreading them—

Somebody makes a pitiful, breathless whine—it’s you, you realize. You make that sound, because worn leather lands right on the entrance he was denied last night and shamelessly breaches it before anything else can interrupt him.

“Tight,” he hisses, slowly sinking his thumb all the way down to the knuckle while you clench your eyes shut and choke out his name, “—f-fucking tight—”

His cock pulses inside you and you bear down as hard as you can on it in return, trying to get accustomed to being penetrated in two places at once. He doesn’t move his thumb after that—he just keeps it there, deep inside you while he continues wrecking you with the brutal hammering of his hips from behind.

Still—the impropriety of it starts to burn you up, how… dirty it is. Getting the life fucked out of you in broad daylight, in the middle of a wide open field, the thickest finger he has buried deep in your ass, helpless to do anything else besides lay here and let him—you feel yourself start to clamp down, steadily getting tighter and tighter around the intrusions while he grits out hard curses and keeps giving it to you through the rapid build.

His name—you start repeating it into the ground like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known. The word scrapes from your throat over and over, and you try to pull at the grass but your hands are clenched into fists and you can’t seem to remember which muscles to use to open them.

“You like this?” You’re able to hear him grit from above you. “Like when I—fuck—when I fuck you l-like this? When I just. H-Hold you down and take—” he chokes, “—take what I w-want—”

You can’t respond, but fuck yes, you do. The kindling spark inside you suddenly flares up and starts to spread through your body like wildfire, tightening, tightening, tightening, but then—

He’s so pent up—Din cums.

Devastatingly early.

The savage thrusts suddenly stutter to a halt and the gasp he takes in sounds like it physically hurts him. Like the orgasm is just ripped out of him. His hold turns to steel on you, as if he thinks you can somehow get away right now, and Din cums deep inside your spasming cunt with a shuddering, desperate groan of your name.

It’s like it drains everything from him—he slumps, just conscious enough to slowly ease his thumb out of your tight asshole, and then he collapses in the grass next to you. You stay there for just a second and shake next to him, muscles feeling like they’re creaking even while just laying on the ground like this, completely motionless.

“Shit—was that—” Din pants, turning and scooting over to you to brush your hair out of your face with his bare hand, “was that… okay? Do you… do you need…?”

You’re still so submissive, still so high on the overwhelming rush of pleasure, your mouth opens and croaks out a response without your permission. “It was good.”

“Yeah?” He huffs, dropping back on the grass and trying to catch his breath. “Good.”

And… it’s true. It was good, it was absolutely fucking amazing. So overpowering, such a hard fuck that you almost don’t think about the fact that you didn’t actually cum from it. The thought doesn’t really even register with you fully, not yet.

Eventually you both push yourselves up, each of you equally lacking in energy, just in different ways. Din looks like he’s drunk—unbalanced and dizzy while he removes his glove and stuffs it into one of his pockets, before carefully tucking his spent cock back in his trousers. In contrast, you’re nothing more than another trembling blade of grass in an enormous landscape of them, flimsy and yielding to the powerful, rippling wind as you attempt to adjust your clothing.

It’s fine, you tell yourself on the slow, quiet walk back. Sex doesn’t always need to end in a fiery orgasm. Sometimes a rough pounding hits the spot, scratches that itch. You feel like you’re a newborn blurg trying to balance your oddly proportioned weight on two noodle legs as Din’s hand patiently guides you from your lower back, and a bright flare of arousal arcs through you feeling how gentle his hold is compared to the way his cum is steadily leaking from your throbbing, aching cunt.

You don’t need to cum every single time he fucks you. It’s fine.

***

Upon returning to the sight of the unbothered, napping kid, you both decide to walk a bit more, and you learn your lesson this time. The sun glints bright against Din’s left side while traveling in this direction, so you stick purposefully to his right the entire time.

In the meantime, you share easy conversation and attempt to regain some semblance of control over your still slightly… restless body. Slowly but surely, your feverish arousal for him dims and fades to the backburner, replaced instead by… softer, quieter feelings. There’s not a solid word for it, not really. If you were mixing on a palette, you’d start out with a base of gentle contentment and then add a big dollop of affection, diluted with silence until it’s a swirling, pastel… color you don’t have a name for, but cherish all the same.

The baby wakes up about halfway through the afternoon hike, and he’s better now too. Eventually your ragtag party finds a place to settle for the night—a small clearing in the field at the edge of a thick forest. There’s a sizable log and boulder situated relatively close together, with a wide open space to make a fire in the center.

Din disappears for a bit to go get some firewood from the looming forest while you entertain the kid; the log is tilted perfectly to allow you both to watch the sunset, and you easily converse with the riveting baby talk as if he’s an absolute genius.

“I’m not so sure about that, honestly,” you tell him diplomatically, receiving nothing but unintelligible babbles in response as he climbs all over you. “Well, no actually, because there’s two major schools of thought concerning that, the first being—”

He pops up in front of your face to interrupt you heatedly and you scoff, rolling your eyes over the loud gibberish. “Look, I’d appreciate it if we could tone down the passive-aggressiveness, okay? If we can’t have a respectful discussi—”

Three green fingers settle over your lips and you gasp at the nerve of him, forced to let him continue to ramble on your lap about absolutely nothing at all, the size of his ego soon growing to match the size of his ears.

“Hear that, shiny?” You turn your head and ask his father upon his eventual return, and Din grunts distractedly as he dumps the firewood down and rummages around in the bag for a lighter. Tilting your head back towards the kid, you prompt him with a raised brow. “Tell him what you just told me.”

The baby bursts into more nonsense, encouraged by your attention, and Din crouches down to set the wood into position in the dusky twilight glow while saying nothing at all, and it somehow manages to pass as listening intently.

It continues to go on like that far longer than you expected it would, the baby apparently having quite the bone to pick about something that’s been on his mind, and one point you have to rest your hand over his mouth so he finally stops babbling. “Hey, that’s not very nice,” you scold him quietly. “I’m sure his face is perfectly normal under there.”

The helmet turns just slightly towards you, unamused while you snort at your own joke for a little bit.

“I didn’t say it,” you remind him after far too long of just celebrating your own hilarity, clearing your throat through the stifled chuckles. “I’m just translating.”

“Oh yeah?” He eventually murmurs, beginning to ignite some of the crumpled twigs at the center of the pile, and if you worked at it, you could probably convince yourself he’s sharing your gentle smile. More muted than yours perhaps, but beautiful and easy on his face, fitting him simply and perfectly. “What did… What did he say I look like?”

You would’ve shot something ridiculous back at him, something snarky and facetious, but you stop short. You catch it—underneath his voice, it sounds… timid, almost. Uncertain. It makes you take just a second in responding.

“Brown eyes,” you tell him after a moment, and Din doesn’t visibly react, just continues to slowly add small branches to kindle the flame. It’s so quiet out here, but it’s different from hyperspace quiet. This quiet is… natural. Warm, and. Free. Fleeting, allowed to roam. In a way that hyperspace just feels compact, stifling. “He said you have… brown eyes. And a… a strong bone structure, striking features. A sharp, chiseled jaw, dark facial hair. And, uh. He also said…”

Din keeps silently feeding the fire until it’s crackling and bright, and then he settles back on his butt next to it, both elbows resting on his knees, not moving the visor towards you but waiting for you to finish regardless.

The stunning backdrop gives way to a stunning surge of bravery.

“He said you make a bunch of faces under there that nobody ever sees,” you say softly, blinking at Din in the fading twilight while the kid sits silently in your lap. “That you’re an open book. Behind a metal wall. And you have a really nice smile, I bet—he bets… he bets you probably do it more often than anyone realizes. And your… your hair starts to curl when you let it grow long, and. And you’re almost guaranteed to be drop dead gorgeous under there, and it’s a real fucking shame that you’ve probably never had anyone tell you it.”

Din tilts his helmet at you, looks at you for a long time—long enough for blood to rush to your cheeks and for you to get fidgety. But when he finally does respond, his voice is gentle through the modulator. “He said that.”

You mhm at him quickly, nodding your head and turning away as casually as you can, heart beating incredibly fast for some reason. “Just the translator.”

A lovely silence soon blankets the both of you, a warmth permeating through to your bones that has nothing to do with the steadily growing fire.

***

A little while later, the kid has retired to his reflective cradle and the dancing flames are the only source of light besides the bright moon hanging directly overhead. Din sits with his back to the large boulder and digs through the bag, pulling out all sorts of food you picked up before leaving the village this morning and handing them to you. Something red and unfocused flashes oddly against the curve of his helmet when he reaches his hand back in, but it’s only for a second—he’s already pushing more food at you and filling your arms with bags of dried meats, fresh fruit, and loaves of bread.

“Stars,” you whisper under your breath, examining the feast in the flickering firelight. “Here, take—take some of this, it’s too much.”

“There’s more in here,” he counters lowly, zipping the bag and dropping it somewhere on the other side of his body. “The kid hasn’t eaten all day. Might crawl away and catch himself a Gungan later if you don’t feed him soon.”

“No, I mean—” you let all the food drop into your lap and start sorting the items, “—you need to eat. What do you want? There’s plenty.”

“I’m not hungry,” he answers, far too quickly to have actually taken a moment to check. “Just give me whatever you two don’t eat when you’re finished, I’ll put it back in the bag.”

Okay, if he’s gonna play it like this, you’ll just have to choose for him. You’ve already dedicated at least two bags of dried meat to the kid, which takes care of him. So, you take an extended moment to methodically find the ripest fruit in the bunch, the one with the most squish to it, and then search for the softest loaf of bread, not caring that Din is silently watching you. You gather both of them in your arms and then pluck three bags of meat from the pile, before depositing all of them back into his lap.

“Eat,” you urge quietly, grabbing another portion of food for yourself, heavy on the fruit. “Don’t inhale it. Please.”

With that, you grab the kid’s food and then scoop the little guy up from his shield with your free arm, standing and walking to the other side of the fire. You carefully plop yourself down with your back purposefully to Din, the kid happily finding a place on your lap with his back to you and reaching six little fingers out for the food.

You start eating, and after a moment, you smile around the large bites of fruit at the sound of metal clinking against stone. The baby, of course, refuses to even open the bag of dried meat you set in front of him, so you roll your eyes and do it yourself, hoping he’ll at least eat like an adult and give you some time to feed yourself. But no—the fifty year old creep demands to be hand fed, and any other day, you wouldn’t have let him get away with it.

Today, you’re just really fucking. Happy.

You’re unbelievably happy. Having spent a few days on this gorgeous planet, your two favorite people in the galaxy with you. It fills your heart with air.

You start out quiet, praying you aren’t bothering Din as he (hopefully) continues to relax and enjoy his food behind you. You begin humming your favorite melody under the sound of the crackling flames, the source of heat burning pleasantly against the curve of your lower back, setting another piece of dried meat into the kid’s cute little mouth and only just slightly annoyed that he refuses to do this himself. Admittedly though, you do love babying him, especially when he shows you his adorable little chompers.

One bite for him, two bites for you. That’s the deal, even though you’re hungry and you deserve way more than double his food intake rate. You try to be quiet enough that your gentle humming will get lost with the fire between you and Din, and he never says anything or tells you to cut it out, so you just continue to let your cheerful mood provide a quiet soundtrack to the moonlit evening.

Even better, you and the kid actually finish snacking before he does, and you’re more than willing to wait for him, thrilled that this is actually happening. It’s so simple, such a throwaway thing, but. Knowing he used to eat his meals as quick as he can and now he’s comfortable enough to just take a second and enjoy it… you don’t know, there’s something inherently meaningful about it, something that you specifically notice. Something about this, about sitting around a fire and sharing a meal together for the first time—even with your back turned to him, it just feels… familial. In a way. More than it’s ever felt before.

You have a little moment. It’s nice. You drop your head back and gaze up at the night sky, in awe of how different the stars look from this side of the galaxy and remembering how far you’ve come. The kid follows suit, leaning back against your tummy and blinking silently at the universe, the star-speckled sky reflecting in his gigantic dark eyes.

He starts to doze after awhile, listening to you hum softly to yourself, but the noise of a helmet finally lifting from the boulder and most likely fitting itself back in its rightful place snaps him awake just enough. The kid pushes off you and waddles over to his dad, and you scoot yourself back over to your little log while he unceremoniously clamors up onto Din’s thighs.

Admittedly, it’s really fucking cute. The visor moves just enough to watch him plop his little green butt down and find a comfy position on his lap, not helping but not preventing the movement either. A heartwarming, silent kind of tolerance hardened men have for innocent little creatures that makes you bite your lip to hide your smile. What a softie.

You sit there in companionable quiet, staring deep into the dancing firelight and losing track of time just a bit. They’re hypnotic, the flames. Crackling and popping, warming just the forward-facing parts of you and nearly burning your cheeks, but you love it. Breathing in the woodsy campfire air, hearing the gentle breeze float through the field surrounding you, the quiet forest waving dark and deep in the distance. The midnight sky stretches long above you and the stars seem… brighter than they were on Arvala-7. They probably aren’t—that planet is practically abandoned and has almost no light pollution whatsoever compared to Naboo, but… maybe it’s because now they feel… in reach. Something you can touch. Interact with. Something you can cover your eyes, blindly point at, and then say—that one. That’s where we should go next.

After awhile—you have no idea how long—you blink your gaze over to Din and startle to find the helmet facing you directly, shamelessly, the kid completely passed out on his lap as the flames reflect in the visor.

Without intending to, you’re already thinking back to earlier today. How quickly he bolted after you, how strong he was bringing you to the ground, pinning you under him and taking what was so rudely denied to him last night.

You didn’t actually finish, and you can still feel it simmering down low. Din’s cum has been steadily leaking from you all day, and while you eventually became successful at blocking out the sensation, it suddenly slams to the forefront of your mind again. The visor pierces deep into you while you start to squirm just a bit against the rough log pressed into your back. You can still feel him when you flex your lower muscles, and you bite your lip and do it repeatedly while blinking at him, waiting, squeezing your thighs together and loving the reminder.

He still hasn’t said anything to you, and you start to get antsy under his stare. Your body works itself up even more, fueled by the flames reflecting in his helmet. After a few more moments of silent tension, you’ve finally had enough.

“Din,” you whisper, trying not to make it sound like a whine and his head quickly lifts when you didn’t even realize it was slightly tipped forward. The helmet rolls back in a drowsy little circle, as if his neck is suddenly remembering the weight burdening it. Embarrassment instantly floods you. “Oh. Shit. I’m so stupid. I’m sor—”

Only he’s already pushing himself up with his free arm, lethargic and drunk with exhaustion, not saying a single word as he sets the conked out kid in the cradle and closes the shield over his sleepy little head with the push of a button.

You bite your lip as he drags himself over to you, swinging a leg behind you and then dropping down without any ceremony, firmly inserting himself between the uncomfortable log and your back. Your butt is shoved forward from the sudden displacement but he’s not done. Din wraps both his arms around you and pulls, dragging you up onto his long torso while his legs close under you and you’re off the ground completely.

Oh Maker, he’s already thousands of times more comfortable than sleeping up against the log would be. He makes the best bed in the galaxy, big and warm and firm under you, letting you stretch out long on him. You lounge on his lap and drop your head to his shoulder, resting your arms on top of his as they drape heavy across your belly.

“Sorry,” he gruffs, voice low and rough through the modulator. The filter rings sharp through your ear when it’s pressed up against his helmet like this. “Just need a few hours. Didn’t… didn't sleep great last night.”

You close your eyes and internally scold yourself, now taking responsibility for his lack of rest for the past two days. Shit. You don’t actively respond, feeling slightly put out, but your body is of another mind altogether. It still continues trundling down the steep slope you shoved it towards earlier, when you stupidly thought he was giving you eyes under the helmet instead of him being passed out cold. You wiggle against him just slightly under the guise of finding a comfortable position, but it has unintentional consequences.

You breathe out a soft sigh when your hips move over his cock, biting your lip at the sensation but trying so hard to stop it in its tracks. He’s exhausted, and he already fucked the life out of you today, there’s no way he’ll want to go again this soon. Except—then he shifts and mmms low in his throat.

“And you,” Din murmurs quietly, reaching a hand down to slowly push under your pants, “need to start being more honest with me.”

“What are you t—oh, stars,” you whisper, your body shuddering as one of his thick fingers slowly dips into your slit.

“Shit, you’re wet,” he groans, sinking his hand down lower to feel remnants of himself still easing its way out of you. Your lashes flutter as your jaw drops, and his cock gets hard against your spine almost immediately. “You’re fucking… soaked. I—I asked if you came and you said yeah,” he whispers low to you, but you shake your head. “Why’d you lie to me abo—”

“No, no—” you protest breathlessly, “—you asked if it was okay, and then I said—”

“You said it was good. It’s not good if you didn’t cum,” he grunts quietly, and the tip of his finger now drawing tight circles over your clit makes it damn near impossible to argue. “I didn’t fuck you right if you didn’t cum. You should be fucked right.”

“Maker, you fuck me exactly how I need to be fucked,” you whimper, tilting your head until your lips are pressed against the curve of his helmet while his hand steadily works under your pants. “And—oh, fuck, that’s… h-however you need to fuck me.”

“Fuck—obedient little thing…” he huffs, starting to rub harder over your clit. “What I need is for you to cum. From now on, you’ll tell me. Say yes.”

“Yes,” you moan into the beskar, your eyes fluttering back at the slowly building pressure.

“Say, ‘yes, Din,’” he breathes.

“Yes, Din,” you dutifully repeat, lifting your hips up against his hand, and he groans softly through the modulator.

“Say, ‘Din, I need something to cum on’,” he whispers.

You’re delirious, you don’t even catch it before most of it is already out of your mouth. “Din, I need something to c—” you cut off but he’s already reaching down between your bodies to ease his cock out, before yanking your pants down your ass just enough to position himself up against your entrance.

He rocks his hips up and he slides in easier than ever before, and you… don’t know what you’re expecting, but he surprises you nonetheless. He doesn’t start thrusting into you at all. Even though he’s rock hard inside you, thick and pulsing and breaking you open, he doesn’t move a single inch. He just keeps himself there, continuing to rub circles around your clit and giving you exactly what he prompted you to ask for.

Something to cum on.

Your body tenses and squeezes him, and Din shushes you before you realize you were making noise. His free hand comes up to settle tight over your mouth and guide you turn your head away from his helmet. At first you think it’s because your heavy breathing was probably fogging the visor up, but no—his fingers leave your pussy for a split second and you hear him maneuver himself out of it. The hollow noise it makes thunking to the ground is beginning to become your favorite sound in this universe.

But then of course, Din buries his face into your neck and starts talking again, whispering low praises behind your ear with that bassy, dark chocolate rasp, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. His fingers return to your cunt to slowly rub your clit and his cock throbs hotter than sin inside you, building your pleasure into a strong, slow crescendo.

You start to whimper unintentionally, but his hand is wrapped tight around your mouth, muting and confining the desperate sounds to your throat. His finger presses down harder on your clit and his cock flexes inside you.

“That’s it, sw—sweet girl,” Din mutters, his voice interrupted by his own staccato breaths and tight gasps the longer he talks you through it, the longer he keeps himself perfectly still while engulfed in your drenched, fluttering cunt. “That’s—that’s it, I can feel it c-coming. Fuck—make it good for me, give me a good one—”

His words shove you right over a cliff you didn’t even realize was there until you were dangling over the steep drop for an extended moment like a cartoon. Everything squeezes around him unbearably tight—your hands dig into his forearms, your back arches up against him, your pussy constricts his thick cock until you feel like you’re hurting the both of you with it, and Din’s breath catches next to your ear while you’re both suspended in thin air for a split second—

—before you’re convulsing in pure bliss, flooding his cock with cum while he rasps out, “good girl,” into the crook of your neck and rocks his hips up into yours. The few heavenly inches of movement hits something jaw-dropping inside you and nearly makes you scream against his palm, launching your body even higher into mind-bending rapture. Fucking Maker, you cum hard for him, on him, around him. You downright drown his cock in your pleasure, suffocate it and work out the aching tightness in your pussy all over him until you feel like you can’t breathe anymore.

“Mmm…” Din murmurs quietly, continuing to circle your swollen clit hard through the shattering aftershocks. His voice is deep and sinful and vibrates your whole back with its frequency, but something underneath it also sounds as if he’s considering, before he seems to land on an answer to a wordless question he just asked himself. “…One more.”

And, like the fucking Maker himself commanded it, another blazing hot wave of fire suddenly rips you apart and sends you spasming rhythmically around the throbbing cock buried inside you once again. This one wrings you completely dry, robbing you of every sense. The ragged whine you make behind his hand must be too loud—his fingers quickly tighten around your jaw and lock down, keeping you as still as possible while you give him everything you have to give.

Eventually the sparks die out and you’re left a shell of what you once were, clamping down hard on him and shuddering your bliss at the night sky. He lays there silently under you, holding you as you fall back down to reality. Your breathing is a mess and so is everything below your waist, and your whole body jerks when Din carefully slides his hand from your pussy and rubs gently over your thighs, your tummy, your chest.

“That was…” you croak out, trying to remember how to speak, “ … g-good.”

“Go to sleep,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses against the side of your neck. You can hear the gentle grin he’s hiding from you, knowing he completely incapacitated you.

“But what about—” you start to protest, when Din’s teeth sink into your flesh and your pussy seizes up tight around him, making him choke a hoarse little groan into your skin.

After a moment, he eases his throbbing cock out of you, and he resets your clothing while you whimper in distress. “Go to sleep,” Din murmurs, before softly kissing your neck once more, and your eyes slowly droop against your will. Fuck, his body beats a king size mattress any day of the week. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

***

He…

He isn’t.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #smut #reader insert #fanfic #star wars

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waitimcomingtoo · 3 years

Text

In Case You Don’t Live Forever

~chapter four rewritten~

Pairing: Peter Parker x Venom!Reader

Synopsis: you are Peter’s greatest love and Spiderman’s greatest enemy

Series Masterlist

After eating dessert and saying goodbye to May, Peter walked you to your room like a proper gentleman.

“You really don’t have to walk me home. I live right across that hall.” You teased him as you leaned against your door. You were glad he did, though. You wanted to spend every minute you could with him.

“I know, but I wanted to make sure you got in okay.” Peter said shyly. “You never know what dangers can be lurking in a hallway. Henry could’ve been around here and you and your feet would’ve been defenseless. You think I could live with myself if something happened to you?”

You laughed loudly and took your time unlocking your door, partially to extend your time together and partially to hide your massive blush.

“Thanks for dinner, Parker. I had a good time.” You said slowly as you fixed his collar.

“I had a moderately alright time.” He said nonchalantly. You laughed at his joke and shoved him a little.

“Fine. I had an amazing time.” He answered honestly. “We should do this again.”

The hope in his eyes knocked you out.

“Definitely.” You agreed. “But at my place next time.”

“Deal.” He stood there for a moment, just staring at you. You stared back, seeing the pale freckles on his nose and around his eyes. The longer you look at Peter, the better he got.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” Peter said finally. You sighed softly and looked him over.

Parting really is such sweet sorrow.

“Goodnight Peter.” You answered. You gave each other one more giggly smile before you closed the door, completely missing the victory dance Peter did in the hallway.

“Alright. You ate. Now it’s our turn. Let’s go eat some assholes.” Venom cheered once you were alone.

“You couldn’t have phrased that in a worse way.” You grimaced as you set your keys down.

“I mean, let’s go eat some men who are assholes.” Venom corrected herself.

“Alright alright. Let’s go.” You walked to the window. “But, they have to be a total asshole. We can’t just eat a dick.”

“And you think what we said was bad? Listen to yourself.” Venom retorted.

“I heard it. I meant we have to eat someone who is really, really bad. Not just some random jerk.” You defended.

“Whatever. Let’s go. Your liver is starting to look really, really juicy.” Venom warned. With that, you climbed out the window and prowled the streets of New York.

It wasn’t long before you found a man harassing a woman near a local bar. They were both tipsy, but she seemed drunker than he was. He kept putting his hands on her, despite her protests. Every time she tried to push him away, he’d only try harder.

“Come on baby.” He purred.

“Leave me alone. I don’t want you.” The woman slurred as she pushed him away.

“Yes you do. You wouldn’t have worn that tight dress if you didn’t.” The man said.

Ah yes, logic.

When she ignored his comment, he angrily pushed her against a wall and covered her mouth.

“Asshole?” Venom asked you.

“Asshole.” You confirmed. You and Venom did your usual tactic. You’d start off as you and kindly ask the gentleman to leave the lady alone. When all else fails, you became Venom and ate the bad guy.

You and Venom weren’t cold blooded killers. If a problem could be solved with words, you would do it that way. But there are a lot of bad men on the streets who don’t take no for an answer.

And you catch bad men.

You tore the man away from the lady and she ran away screaming when she saw you as Venom. Most people do. At least she was safe. The man on the other hand suddenly lost his tough guy stamina and resulted to begging for his life.

“Should we eat them?” Venom asked you, loud enough for the man to hear. You did that little thing when half your face was Venom and half your face was you.

People get a real kick out of it.

“No.” You cooed. “They probably taste terrible.”

The man cowered away, begging you to leave.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.” He pleaded.

“I never much liked the taste of perverts.” Venom snarled.

“Me either. Plus, he’s so puny. He’s probably disgusting.” You agreed.

You were dragging the man along. He was definitely getting eaten, no doubt about it. At least, there was no doubt, up until you heard the sound of feet landing on the pavement behind you.

“Hey, big guy, didn’t anyone ever tell you that people are friends, not food?” A young, muffled voice sounded. Spider-Mans eyes grew comically wide when Venom turned around.

“What are you?” He gasped. You could hear the terror in his voice. Under his mask, he was probably trembling. He sounded so young and terrified.

“We…are venom.” You answered as you snarled at him.

Never gets old.

“Hi Venom.” Spider-Man took a step back in fear, legs shaking slightly. “I’m Spiderman.”

The man took this as an opportunity to get up and run. You quickly ran after him, but you were suddenly covered in a sticky white substance. It wrapped around your legs and you fell to the ground. From the floor, you could see the man getting away.

“I can’t take credit for that. I got that from this really old movie, The Empire Strikes back. It works every time.” Spider-Man panted as he ran over to you.

You decided you had enough of this and easily broke out of the sticky stuff. You grabbed the unsuspecting Spider-Man by the throat and lifted him up by his neck. You could hear the sounds of him choking through his mask, and looses your grip. You weren’t a monster, but you weren’t a superhero either. Spiderman had let a bad guy get away and you could only hope you scared him enough not to do it again.

“You let him go.” You growled as you got in his face. Spider-Man hit the hand around his throat in an attempt to break free, making Venom smile. His feet were dangling off the ground. He was defenseless.

“You can’t eat people.” He choked out, gasping for air.

“We can and we will.” Venom growled. “Since you let our dinner get away, looks like you’ll have to take his place. We hope you taste better than you look, Spiderman.”

“Please don’t eat me. I’m just a kid.” Spider-Man begged. Venom tried to keep going, but you pulled back.

“Venom, put him down. We can find someone else. We can’t eat this guy. He’s too young.” You said calmly and prayed Venom would listen. Spider-Man was right. He was just a kid. He had pissed you off, but that didn’t mean he had to die.

“We don’t want anyone else. We want him”. Venom answered. Spider-Man looked confused, seeing as he could only hear Venoms part of the conversation.

“Put him down. His suit probably tastes terrible anyway. Let’s go find someone else. How about we go find a smoker to eat? You know how much you love to eat smokers.” You argued as you felt her grip loosen.

“They taste like barbecue.” Venom replied, feeling her mouth watering.

“Let’s go.” You insisted. “He’s not worth it.”

“Fine.” Venom grouched and threw Spider-Man against a wall. Spider-Man began to cough and clutch his throat. Venom stormed over to him and grabbed his head, making him look at you.

“If you ever bother us again, we are going to eat both of your arms, then both of your legs, and then we are going to eat your face. Do you understand?”

“We?” was all Spider-Man could get out.

“We.” Venom repeated. “Me and my girl. She saved your life tonight. Don’t except it to happen again. Next time, you’re dead.” Venom warned. With that, you ran away into the night, leaving Spider-Man behind.

After eating a man you saw steal money out of multiple homeless peoples cups, you climbed up the apartment building and sat on the ledge of the roof. You transformed back into yourself and watched as the sun made its way up the horizon.

“What are you doing up here?” You heard a familiar Queens accent from behind you. You smiled immediately and turned around.

“Are you stalking me Parker?” You teased as a bashful smile broke across his face. He looked ethereal in the early morning sunshine so you bit your tongue to keep from giggling.

He was too damn cute.

“You’ve got it the wrong way around. I lived here first. This had been my spot for years now. You’re the one stalking me.” Peter remarked. His voice sounded horse, like he had strained it. He moved slowly, almost as if he was in pain, as he swung his legs over the ledge and took a seat next to you. Your thighs just barely touched, but enough to send sparks though your body.

“Is this really your spot? I’ll leave if you want.” You offered, but Peter put his hand on your shoulder to keep you from getting up.

“It’s our spot now.” He said matter of factly. The sun light up his profile and you could see how tired his eyes were. You wondered what late night adventures kept Peter Parker awake. Peter stared out into the New York City skyline and sighed with content. A gentle breeze blew his brown locks and ruffled your clothing.

Everything was quiet. Everything was good.

“Are you an orphan?” You blurted before smacking your hand over your mouth.

You almost jumped off the roof right there. And you probably should’ve. No, actually, Peter should’ve pushed you off. It’s what you deserved. Who the HELL asks someone you just met that question? Who asks that question at all? Does anyone even use the term “orphan” anymore? Is this Annie? All these questions swarmed through your head as your cheeks managed to burn the brightest shade of red they ever had. Peter snapped his head to you and tried to say something but you cut him off.

“I only ask because…well, I am.” You admitted. “An orphan, I mean. And I saw the pictures in your apartment with the candle and you kinda have that…orphan look to you. No offense! It’s not a bad thing either. I probably have the same look. Plus, you live with your aunt and I didn’t see anyone else come home. Of course, maybe they just weren’t home the one night I was over. Not that it’s any of my business anyway. I’m sorry I asked. It was a dumb, dumb question and I’m a dumb, dumb person and I-“

Your excessive rambling was cut off by a soft chuckles on Peters part. You looked at him confused as it wasn’t the response you expected.

“You’re not dumb. You took down Carlton Drake at 19 years old with no help. I wouldn’t call that person dumb. I’d call her brave, smart, even heroic.” Peter complimented you. “And all the best heroes are orphans. So to answer your question…there was a question in there somewhere right? I think so. Yes, I am an orphan. I live with my Aunt May. I used to live with my Uncle Ben too but he passed away.”

“Your uncle was Ben Parker.” You realized. “I should’ve known. May mentioned his name at dinner. I remember hearing about the shooting. All my friends and I created a club in school to protest the lack of gun regulation in America after that. I’m so sorry, Peter.”

“I really appreciate you doing that. I’m really upset over the lack of gun regulation too.” He was quiet for a moment. “My Uncle Ben used to write too. He was always trying to get me to write for the school newspaper. It wasn’t my thing though. I prefer taking pictures and videos. You’re a really good writer, Y/N. My Uncle Ben would’ve loved you.” Peter said earnestly. You smiled at Peter and scooted closer to him.

“Thank you for saying that. I bet I would’ve loved him too.” You told him. Peter looked down at his hands which were dangerously close to yours. You weren’t bold enough to hold his hand, though you desperately wanted to. Instead, you put your head on his shoulder and looked out at the sunrise. It was a simple, innocent gesture. You were both awkward and knew it. It was the safest thing you could do without something going terribly wrong. Peter rested his head on top of yours and sighed.

“I didn’t know you were an orphan.” He said softly, not wanting to disturb the peace. You nodded, still nestled in his neck.

“My mom died a few minutes after giving birth to me.” You opened up to him, something you hadn’t done with anyone before. “I’m not sure what went wrong but they had to do an emergency C-section. I survived, but she didn’t.”

You got quiet for a moment.

“She never even got to hold me.”

“I’m sorry Y/N.” Peter whispered. He gingerly laced his fingers with yours. You watched as he did it and didn’t try to stop him.

“It’s weird.” You shrugged. “I never knew her, but I miss her everyday. I wish we could’ve had a conversation. Just one would be enough.” Your mom wasn’t something you often talked about. It was too painful to relive the past so you hadn’t even told Andy the full story.

But you felt safe with Peter.

“You don’t have to have known her to miss her.” Peter insisted. “I bet she misses you too and she never met you either.”

“What were your parents names?” You changed the topic as you rubbed his hand softly with your thumb.

“Richard And Mary. Richard and Mary Parker.” He answered proudly. “I write them letters all the time. I put them in an envelope and everything. Then I put them in a box in my closet. I like to think the read them.”

“I bet they do.” You told him while squeezing his hand gently. In that moment, you could’ve sworn he was yours. Like you were an actual couple that had been through hell and back together. Like you’d know him all my life. Peter looked you in the eyes and for the first time, someone really saw you.

The real you, and he didn’t turn away. His brown eyes stared right down into your soul. You felt insecure suddenly, your soul wasn’t a pretty place to see. Certainly not pretty enough for Peter Parker. But Peter didn’t seem to mind.

You got this feeling all the sudden, this feeling that told you you and Peter were meant to meet. That you were always meant to be in each other’s lives. To protect and love each other, like real people do. Peter didn’t feel like a stranger. He wasn’t someone you met on accident. You were destined to be. Just be. No matter what you were. This rooftop didn’t feel like a place you’d never been before. This rooftop felt like home. And Peter made it feel that way. Or maybe it wasn’t the rooftop that felt like home, it was just Peter. Your cheeks burned up when you realized what was happening. Your heart fluttered and your lungs felt like they were in fire.

You knew it. Every fiber of your being knew it. All your senses came alive at once and in that moment, on that rooftop, your heart looked into Peters and said those two words,

“Welcome home”

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