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ghosttownwherenoonegoes · 1 year

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A few people - @badgirlforeddiemunson @thefreak0fhawkinshigh @ilovecupcakesandtea - have asked me things about my hair; routines, products, hints and tips. And I figured it'd be easier to make a generic post with everything included and people can pick and poke at what they want.

I'm not a vain person, but I will freely admit that my hair is my pride and joy. It is my baby. I have told my mother that my hair is the only grandchild she's ever gonna get from me, and now when she helps me with it, she calls it "babysitting my grandkid".🤣

I have quite fine hair but I have a lot of it, so it's quite thick. Holding it in one fist is a bit difficult and it knots very easily. This post includes routines, products, hints, tips, and things I think are relevant. My hair is my baby and a lot of my leftover energy between my job and my degree goes into my hair. I've dreamed of having hair just like this since I was a child - maybe seven or eight - and now as a twenty five year old, I am living the dream.

I hope those of you who are curious about my rather extensive hair care find what you need in here! I am open to questions about it, as well.💖

TW; in the 'basics' section, there is one mention of actual physical assaults related to non-consensual hair-cutting which happened in my home town about a decade ago. Not to me, but I worry about it every day as a lasting point of anxiety. If you want to skip this, it is the LAST BULLET POINT OF THE FIRST SECTION RIGHT BELOW THE CUT.

Okay, so... where to start...

The basics/equipment I use

I sleep on silk pillowcases and I secure my braids with silk scrunchies. It helps to prevent knots and tangles (it's not perfect, but my hair is much more manageable thanks to silk).

I use a wooden comb and a boar bristle brush which moves natural oils from my scalp down to the ends of my hair. I would never be using a plastic brush or 'normal' elastic ties in my hair. The thought makes me shudder.

I wash my hair once a week unless it gets rained on. In which case, I will wash it more than once a week, but neither me nor my hair will be happy about it.

I pat-dry my hair with a plain white cotton t-shirt and I let it air-dry, which takes about twelve hours to become damp-but-dry-enough-to-safely-brush. (Hair wash day is a whole ordeal, I need a day! More on this to come.) T-shirts are gentler and less damaging than towels; wet hair should be treated like glass because it's very fragile.

I never go outside of the house or go to sleep without first brushing and then braiding my hair. I never go outside with it down. This is because, honestly, I'm terrified someone will come up behind me on the street and assault me by cutting all my hair off (I have severe anxiety but also, this actually happened to a few girls in my town as a series of three assaults when I was a child and I've never forgotten about it) but also, doing this helps to prevent knots and tangles, which minimises damage to your hair.

I eat a lot of meat and dairy but I also take a generic multivitamin every day. Protein and fat are super good for you in general but also, what your body doesn't use, goes to your hair!!! Happy body = happy hair.💖

I am very precious about my hair, very few people are allowed to touch it. If I let you touch it, you are trusted. It's pretty much an "I love you". My mum helps me with my hair every day. I'm very grateful to her for it, and I make sure she knows how much I appreciate it.

My hair only needs a half-inch trim every eight months or so; dad measures it out with a ruler, mum watches him to make sure he's doing it right, he shows me what he's cut off after the first snip and I'll approve it and then he's allowed to continue. I cry a lot when it has to be trimmed, I hate it, and I grieve that half-inch until it grows back in about three weeks.

My different hair-care routines (these are extensive)

Hair wash day!

Number of stages: 4

Duration of all four stages: 13 - 14 hours🥰 (I have to schedule an entire day to do it and it can be tricky because my job doesn't always align with my preferred wash day, which is a Sunday, so sometimes I have to go 10 days without washing it and that can make me very irritable. It's the little things, you know? It has to be an all day thing because my hair takes twelve hours to become damp-dry enough to brush without damaging it. I never use heat on my hair; pat-dry with a t-shirt and then air-dry only. And then I have the brushing routine on top of it, which takes an hour if I do it myself, and ten minutes if mum does it for me, which she often does).

Brushing routine:

I brush my hair before I wash it. This is the first stage of hair wash day, and I do this routine after work. It takes me an hour to do it alone or ten - twenty minutes if mum does it.

I section my hair in two, over each shoulder, and then section it again so that my hair has been quartered. I always brush from the back first (I tuck the front section underneath the back section, which has been pulled forward to the front). Whichever side isn't being brushed, I secure into a side-ponytail with a silk scrunchie to hold it there while I work on the other half of my hair.

Starting from the bottom, I finger-comb first and manually untangle any big knots or tangles. If this part goes wrong, I will cry about it. It's instant panic attack if I can't get a knot undone with minimal effort.

Once that quarter-section is finger combed thoroughly, I then use my wooden comb to go through the section again and I alternate as needed back to finger-combing if I find a section I missed the first time.

Once that quarter-section is done, I put it behind me and start on the other section, same process as above. Doing one half of my hair usually takes me a half hour.

Once one half of my hair is brushed, I use a boar-bristle brush, going from the top of my hair down to the tips; this moves the natural oils through the hair. The oil normally comes down to just below my ear, and obviously the further away I am from wash day, the more oil there is, and so from the nape of the neck down to the very ends of my hair, I apply Mielle's rosemary and mint scalp and hair strengthening oil (£8.99 for a 59ml bottle; half a pipette is sufficient for one half of my hair, so it's expensive but does last a while).

Once the hair is finger-combed, combed, brushed, I then pull that section back as well and braid it in a simple three-strand braid and loosely tie it with a silk scrunchie. The first few patterns are tight to hold the braid, but after that, I loosen it off so it's a loose braid and loosely tied. In the morning, I'll redo my braids as needed before I go to work without brushing them - I don't have that time in a morning to do my whole routine before work. To secure it, I tie the silk scrunchie around one more time so it's tighter and will hold longer (bedtime braid: tie it around three times / morning braid before work: tie it around four times).

Repeat this whole thing again for the other half of my hair, and then I can go to bed. A normal night, this takes an hour, a bad night as in really knotty hair or I'm tired, two hours. Unless mum helps me with it. I can and will cry if I find a knot I can't immediately undo and it's not unusual for me to be swaying at the bathroom sink because I will not go to bed unless my hair is fully brushed, oiled, braided.

If it's wash day, I don't braid my hair or apply more oil, I just finger-comb, comb and then brush it and then get in the shower...

Washing routine: Okay. This is the most in-depth and complicated part of my entire thing I do for my hair, and I have to get it right or I will have an anxiety attack thinking I've just fucked all my hair up and I have to cut it off (I catastrophise a lot, especially with my hair). This is the second stage of hair wash day.

So, hair is brushed, shower time!

I have the water lukewarm - too hot will burn your hair and damage it, but too cold and you won't be able to get the oils out properly.

I get my hair wet so it's plastered to my back, and then I use L'Oreal's Dream lengths shampoo; I apply it to my scalp and to the surface of hair up to the nape of my neck, giving myself a gentle scalp massage (treat wet hair like GLASS!!!!). I rinse it all out once it's all in there, and then I use the same brand of conditoner, which is applied from the nape of my neck down to the very tips. Leaving that conditioner in, I then shampoo the scalp up to the nape of my neck a second time (it's like a greasy pan - the first lot of washing up liquid lifts the oil, the second lot of washing up liquid actually cleans the pan - same concept applies here to hair, especially because I only wash it once a week). And rinse that off too.

Then, I apply conditioner for a second time from the nape of my neck to the very tips of my hair, wiping off any excess on the top of my hair (just below the scalp so I don't clog my pores). I leave it in there while I wash my body, which takes a few minutes, and then I wash it off again. I let it all come out, and then I change the shower temperature so it's now COLD, to effectively close the pores in my hair.

My hair is washed! I pat it dry with a cotton t-shirt, then from the nape of my neck down to the halfway mark of my hair, I apply a leave-in conditioner, then from that halfway mark through to the ends of my hair, I use one pipette of the oil to cover everything, and then my hair air-dries for twelve hours until it's damp-dry enough to safely brush, as above!

Using oils and leave-in conditioner:

I use the oil every day from the nape of my neck to the ends of my hair, and every few days I apply leave-in conditioner from the nape of my neck to the ends of my hair. The top section of my hair (scalp to the nape) will be fine, it has the natural oils from the scalp, which is evenly distributed by using the boar-bristle brush.

Brushing routine: After twelve hours, I brush through my hair as in the first stage of wash day, so this is now stage three of wash day for me, and braiding it is stage four!

And finally, a picture of my baby!!! This was taken about two weeks ago and I believe it was the day after wash day!😍💖

I love it (her) so, so much. I bitch and complain often about the knots, but nothing fills me with instant grief and abject horror quite like thinking about having to cut off more than a half inch. That, in itself, is already cause for tears. My hair is my pride and joy, my favourite body part, and something I cherish as a very real, long-lasting childhood dream. I hope you find what you need in this post; I know it's not applicable to everyone because we all have different hair types and budgets, but hopefully something is useful.💖

I'm pretty sure this is everything but I might reblog with additions if needed, and I'm open to questions as well! My hair was jaw length in late 2019 when I started to grow it out, so it's grown quite quickly and I'm very in love with it.🥰

#haircare tips #haircare #hair growth

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cherrycocaineee · 3 years

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18. Sodapop - A Love All Too Real

*Warning - Smut; spanking, biting, dirty talk, hair pulling, car sex*

“My baby did so well.”

“Cum one more time for me, I know you’ve got it in you.”

“I know, baby, I know. I’m right here, just breathe.”

*Sodapop’s p.o.v*

Mickey Mouse was playing loudly throughout the living room, trying to muffle the sounds of the rain beating against the roof. It worked a little, distracting all of us from the brewing storm outside. Two-Bit was sitting next between Steve and I, completely mesmerized by his favorite showing playing on the screen. It wasn’t getting late but most of us were ready to pass out in the spots we sat in; me including, my heavy eyelids sinking each time I blinked. However, we were shaken away when there was a rapid banging noise on the door. I pushed myself up off the cushion and peered towards the closed door like all the others, wondering who could possibly be standing outside in this weather. The knocking came again, except this time with a voice behind it.

“Seriously guys! Who else would be knocking at your damn door right now?!”

It was Anni.

Ponyboy hopped off the floor, leaving Johnny sitting there alone, and opened the front door quickly. Anni was standing there, her hand over her left eye, soaking wet from the rain fall. She glared at him.

“Took you long enough,” she grumbled.

“Sorry Anni,” he said, “we expected you to be at home.”

“I was at home. I got kicked out.”

When she stepped into the house, the multiple bruises on her skin, fresh blood was collected on her skin and clothes, and when she removed her hand from her eye you could see how bad it really was. Her eye was black and purple, and I could see that some of the blood vessels in her eye were popped due to the red color collecting in her eye.

“Holy shit,” Two-Bit muttered, his eyes staying off the television now.

No one cared about Mickey Mouse playing anymore, or how tired they were. We only cared about Anni.

She placed her bag down by the door as she passed Ponyboy, who was still in shock that he couldn’t even move to close the door. Steve did it for him, not wanting rain to get inside the house or on him.

“Anni,” Darry said, standing in front of her, “this is the third time this week.”

She looked at all of us before turning back to Darry, the unfazed look on her face never wavering, as she shrugged.

“So?” She muttered.

“So,” he continued, “you can’t keep livin’ like this.”

Anni waved her hand in front of her, rather annoyed that she had to hear this again. Anytime she came over covered in bruises, Darry or one of us would tell her she couldn’t live with her dad again. It was always met with the same unfazed look on her face along with a light shrug of the shoulders. Anni crossed her arm over her chest; I noticed that she didn’t even wince. She was so use to the constant abuse and beatings that they didn’t even hurt her physically anymore.

“Why not?” She asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Anni, you do realize that your eyeball is red right? Like the blood vessels in your eye have busted?” Dally inquired, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

“Well yeah, I’m going to clean myself up and wait for it to heal like always.”

“But what we’re sayin’,” I said, standing from my spot, “you don’t deserve to be beaten every time you go home. You deserved to be cared for and go to sleep safely.”

Once more, I noticed that the unfazed look in her eyes never wavered. She was so numbed to the abuse it didn’t seem wrong anymore. Instead, she turned away from all of us, facing the open bathroom ready to head inside so she could avoid the problem.

“Doesn’t matter to me. Lots of things shouldn’t happen but they do. People take what they want from me whenever they please; the want sex, they don’t have to ask they just take, if every night someone wants to beat the hell out of me so that they feel better then so be it. I’m nothing more than a toy; a disposable piece of shit that people tend to keep around until they’re done using me.”

With those final words, she walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. My heart broke into hundreds of pieces after hearing her say those words. Anni wasn’t a bad person, she just never knew what it felt like to be loved and cherished. All I wanted to do was love and cherish her. To lay beside her at night and hold her. To pepper her face with dozens of kisses while caressing her small form. To just show her what it felt to be cared about instead of used. But she was so brainwashed into thinking she didn’t matter, that she was nothing more than a throwaway doll, that she couldn’t see it.

Ponyboy wrapped his arms around him.

“We can’t keep lettin’ her live there, Darry,” he said.

“I know that, Pony, but unless she wants to leave there isn’t anythin’ we can do,” Darry said, “I’m goin’ to go make her somethin’ to eat.”

That was a normal routine when Anni came over all beaten up. She normally wouldn’t have eaten for two days before the beating. I had asked her why she didn’t eat two days in advance and she told me that it helped her not throw up when her dad kicked her in the stomach. Once more breaking my heart as I heard her tell me that she could anticipate when the beating was coming and how to make it hurt less.

I followed Darry into the kitchen, Steve and Ponyboy trailing behind me. He was already getting all of the sandwich stuff out, dinner having been served a while ago and with all of us here, there were no leftovers. I grabbed the mustard off the table and watched Pony take out some bread before spreading the yellow condiment on her sandwich. We worked in silence, not sure what we could say to one another. Darry was right; unless Anni wanted to leave her parents, to have a better life, there wasn’t much we could do.

As soon as we finished making her sandwich, and Steve added half a pickle to the plate, Anni came walking in while drying her hair with the towel. She was wrapped in nothing but a towel. In the kitchen light I could see her bruises more prominent.

“Soda, can I borrow some clothes?” She inquired.

“Sure thing, doll,” I said, rinsing my hands off and following her to my room.

I opened the drawer and took out a pair of gray sweatpants and a black wife beater that revealed a lot on the side. It was something I wore around the house when it was hot.

“You know, Pony has clothes that might fit you better,” I joked.

“Yeah, probably,” she laughed, “but they aren’t as comfortable as yours.”

I handed the clothes to her, looking at her beaten up face. I frowned.

“Does it hurt?” I whispered.

“No more than it normally does,” she shrugged, “can you close the door on your way out? Please, and thank you.”

Nodding my head, I left the room and closed the door behind me. Anni came out five minutes after wearing the sweats and wife beater I’d given her. It was much bigger on her than I’d expected, revealing all of her sides and if she moved her arms a certain way you could see the side of her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra, not that she needed one because her breasts were small and perky.

A lump formed in my throat as I watched her. I had to force myself to look away. She plopped down on the recliner, throwing her legs over the arm of the chair as Darry walked in with her sandwich. He handed it to her and smiled.

“Eat up, kid,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling back.

Soon the rain went away; Darry had gone to sleep an hour ago, having to get up for work in the morning. Pony had fallen asleep on the floor beside Johnny, Dally left with Two-Bit to a party that was close by, and Steve was sprawled out beside me completely knocked out. His mouth was partially opened which made me laugh a little.

Anni was still awake. She walked over to me, her arms folded over her chest.

“Want to come outside with me?” She asked, “I need to smoke.”

“Sure, come on,” I said, standing up carefully not to wake Steve or the others.

I closed the door behind us and she shivered. The rain had made the air incredibly cold, and she was hardly wearing anything. Her pale skin glowed in the darkness, and in the small, illuminating porch light, I noticed that her nipples were erected.

“Come on,” I said, leading her to Darry’s truck.

We climbed into the backseat. I reached to the front and grabbed the spare keys underneath the visors. I turned the truck on and let the heater kick in so we could warm up. Anni was digging through her bag, removing a lighter and a container out. I watched her open the container and take out a joint. Anni didn’t smoke cigarettes, couldn’t stand the taste, but she did smoke weed and I was pretty sure it was because it numbed her from everything. I watched her light her joint and hit it, a cloud of smoke releasing from her perfect, soft, pink lips. The smell of weed collecting in the car and I knew I was going to have to air it out before we went in. Darry had the nose of a hound.

She looked over at me and held out the joint, “want some?”

“No thanks, doll,” I smiled.

Shrugging her shoulders, she continued to smoke the joint. Her unwounded eye turned hazy and became a bit red. With each puff, she was getting higher and higher; this obviously not being the first time she smoked tonight. She slouched down in her seat, the shirt riding up a little bit. I guess I’d been staring too long because she faced me and raised her eyebrow.

“Why do you keep staring at me like that?” She questioned.

“Just takin’ in all of your wounds,” I whispered, half lying.

She let her eyes land on the bruises decorating her arm before dropping it and taking another hit of her joint.

“You know, I’m use to it but they still hurt like hell.”

“You shouldn’t be use to it,” I muttered, “I hate seein’ you like this, Anni.”

Anni put out her smoke, putting it back in her purse and folding her arms, “why?”

“Because I care about you. Every time I see you all bruised up like this, it pisses me off. I swear if I ever see your dad-”

“You’ll do nothing.”

Our eyes met; hers cold, and distant, mine shocked, and sad.

“If you do something it’ll only make it worse. I’ll just get beaten ten times worse than the last. He’ll do everything in his power to prove he’s got total control over me, and he’s right.”

I reached over and touched her shoulder. She flinched a bit but I didn’t pull away; her skin was cool to the touch, the heater barely keeping her warm. Anni sighed.

“It’s just how it is, Soda. Leave it be.”

“How can I do that?” I asked, “you don’t deserve it.”

“Because I’m not important, Soda!” She snapped, “if I left today, all of you would stop thinking about me! If I died tomorrow, you’d forget me as soon as you saw the next girl walk by! I’m replaceable! A nobody! Unloved!”

“You aren’t unloved!” I yelled back, “and maybe to your shitty dad you're replaceable, but to me you’re irreplaceable! You’re so fucked up in the head, you don’t even know what love is because they’ve got you all messed up.”

“So?! What do you want me to do about it!”

“Let me show you what it’s like to be loved, Anni.”

She started nibbling on her lip as I got closer to her. She didn’t move away from me though, as I leaned in closer and closer. The air between us almost felt thin, I could hardly breathe. I could see her chest moving up and down fast. Was she nervous? Scared? I couldn’t tell. My forehead pressed against hers.

“I’ll stop if you want,” I whispered, “I’d never do somethin’ to you that you aren’t comfortable with.”

It took her a moment to answer and when she was capable of doing so, it came out as more of a hushed whisper.

“I’m fine,” her voice croaked, “you can continue.”

She was definitely nervous. My words, along with my actions, had her flustered and confused.

Nodding my head, I pressed my lips against hers. Her lips were just as soft as I’d imagined them to be. When I pulled away, it was only for a second, going back into and kissing her deeply once again, this time more passionately. I softly pushed her back, keeping my lips on hers, and crawled between her legs. Her hands reached up and wrapped around my neck, her fingers tangling themselves into my hair. A soft groan left my lips as I felt her fingers tug gently.

I pulled away from her, a small amount of saliva pulling from our lips. Her eyes were hazy with lust and confusion.

“I’ve got you, doll,” I whispered, “I promise.”

She nodded her head. Leaning back down, I attached my lips to her neck and started leaving wet, open mouthed kisses along the nape. Softly sucking and nibbling on her flesh, I felt my cock harden at the sound of her breathy moans. A sound that I wanted to be familiar with forever. I bit down on her neck and she gasped, jolting forward, her chest pressing against mine. Her nipples were still hard. I swirled my tongue around the spot I bit down on before biting down on a different spot, repeating the process.

“Soda,” she whimpered.

It was the first time I’ve heard her sound so vulnerable.

“That’s a good girl,” I praised, returning my attention to her face.

The black eye didn’t bother me, neither did the blood in her eye. She was as beautiful as she always was.

I grabbed the rim of my shirt and pulled it off, revealing my tanned chest. Her eyes lingered a little lower, her teeth biting her bottom lip while she scanned over my body. I chuckled then reached for her shirt. She lifted her arms letting me pull the shirt over her head, revealing her exposed, bruised flesh. I groaned at the mere sight of her breasts. They were perfect; like beautiful clouds. I barely licked one of the hardened nipples and her back arched, eyes rolling to the back of her head. I captured her lips with mine once again, this time kissing her hungrily.

I pulled her off the seat and into my lap, breathing heavily as I started kissing down her neck again, tracing the purple hickeys I had left. My hands fumbled with my zipper first, my cock aching to be released from their restraints. Not bothering to lift her off of me, I lifted myself off the seat a bit and pulled my jeans down. Anni wrapped her arms around me, tugging my hair a bit as she kissed me hard. I grabbed the sweats she was wearing and dragged them down, my hands grazing her bare skin causing her to shiver. I loved watching her shiver after I touched her. It didn’t happen often with Anni, she hardly ever reacted to anyone touching her, so to see, to feel, her shake from my touch sent a rush of pride through me.

Anni lifted herself off of my lap as I pulled her sweats all the way off. She was completely naked in front of me now.

“God damnit, Anni,” I groaned, “so fucking beautiful.”

A soft laugh left her lips as she watched me pull my boxers down finally releasing my growing member. There was no need to wait any longer, no need for foreplay, no need for me to poke and prod to make sure she was okay. We were both ready as if we'd been waiting for years. I lined myself up with her and pushed her down onto me, groaning at the feeling of her tight walls gripping me. Anni buried her head into my shoulder and moaned softly at the feeling of me filling her up. Only a second passed before I started thrusting my hips back and forth, our skin slapping against each other’s. Small pants were leaving her mouth as she gripped my shoulders tightly, keeping herself upright despite being drilled into. Even though I wasn’t going too fast right now, the position allowed me to bury myself deep into her sweet little cunt.

“Holy fuck,” I moaned, “that’s it baby.”

My pace quickened as she started bouncing herself up and down; the truck started to rock a bit at the movement happening inside but we didn’t care. Anni’s moans became more erotic and lewd; she sounded almost angelic and I loved that I was the one making her feel this way. Her head fell back as she continued to ride my cock, meeting each thrust coming from me. I moved my left hand up to the back of her head and pulled her hair a little, just enough to get her to face me. I didn’t want to hurt her. She moaned at the feeling of me pulling her hair.

“Fuck, Anni, you sound so beautiful,” I groaned, pulling her closer by her hair so that our foreheads could meet, “such a beautiful girl for me, huh?”

She could only nod, her body shivering.

“Soda, I’m close,” she whimpered out.

“Let it go, baby,” I moaned, “I’ve got you.”

Those words with the quickening pace of our thrust sent Anni into euphoria. She screamed out, her legs violently shaking as she came all over my cock. I held her in place; one hand gripping her side while the other stayed tangled in her hair. I removed my hand from her back and smacked her perfectly, plump, sweaty ass. She yelped, rocking her hips into mine causing me to groan. Giving her ass a few more smacks, enough to pleasure her, I turned us over so that I was on top of her. My eyes danced across her sweaty body. I started pouring kisses onto her face and mumbling soft “I love you’s” as I continued to thrust into her faster.

“Soda,” she moaned, “I can’t.”

“Shh,” I whispered, holding back a string of curse words, feeling her walls tighten around me, “you can do it baby. Come on.”

I slammed into her repeatedly; removing my cock all the way at the tip and then slamming back into her. Her eyes rolled back as her hips arched. I could feel myself getting closer to my climax as I watched her, feeling her dripping cunt swallow me over and over again.

“Cum one more time for me,” I cooed, “I know you’ve got it in you.”

Anni couldn’t form any more words, all she could do was nod her head and let me coax her with my sweet words. Soon her body spasmed again and her legs shook harshly. Her screams rippled through the air, but I didn’t bother covering her mouth to hide them. I didn’t care if people heard and I didn’t care if that caused people to come over to see what was happening; all I wanted was to be focused on Anni.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum,” I croaked.

My thrust becoming sloppier, I watched her body go limp as pools of sweat collected on her chest. I thrusted into her three more times before spilling my cum into her fleshy, pink walls. Coating every inch.

“Fuck!” I yelled, “oh my God, fuck!”

I stopped moving, unable to ride out my high for too long. Anni was panting hard. I pulled myself out of her and brought her to my chest. Rubbing soft circles onto her bruised back as she gasped for air.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m right here, just breathe.”

When Anni finally did catch her breath, she rested her head against my bare, sweaty chest. A tired smile appeared on my face as I watched her look up at me.

“My baby did so well,” I praised again.

We stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like a lifetime. Her glistening skin glowed in the moonlight, the cool air chapping her dry lips making her lick them repeatedly, her breast heaving up and down as she took in large amounts of air. Her black hair was not sweaty and clinging to her beautiful face. I reached my hand down and stroked the bruise on her cheek.

“I love you, Anni,” I whispered, “so fuckin’ much. You’ll never be replaceable to me. I only want you.”

Anni chuckled and closed her eyes, she was definitely sleepy.

“I’ll hold you to that, Soda. If you love me, maybe I can let myself love you too. It may take a while but I’ll do it for you.”

Grabbing the blanket that Darry normally kept inside his truck, I draped it over us and sighed. She buried her head into my chest and let her heavy eyes close. The sound of my heart lulling her to sleep.

“No matter how long it takes,” I said, “I’ll wait for you. I’ll help you love again because you deserve it. That and the world.”

The sudden realization of Darry coming out in the morning to see us asleep, naked in his car with the lingering smell of sex, hit me. A low chuckle escaped from my lips. I knew I was gonna hear it in the morning, but right now, I didn’t care. It felt like it was just Anni and I, all alone. That’s what I wanted.

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maliby · 4 years

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Ride ~ jjk (m)

↬ Pairing: Jungkook x Fem. Reader ↬ Story Genre: stripper!au, SMUT, PWP ↬ Warnings: explicit language, explicit sex scenes ↬ Word count: 5.2K ↬ Summary: It all started with Jungkook inviting you for his new performance tonight. It all ended with you and Jungkook fucking like rabbits in the back room.

A/N: THIS is what Jeon Jungkook makes me do. I was in the middle of writing a new chapter for When the Night Comes and I just could stop my urges to destroy him in that fucking outfit. Anyways....hope all my fellow hoes enjoy <3

P.S.- If you want that extra umph in the strip scene, please listen to the song “Usher - Trading Places”, I promise you it’s double worth it ;)

You looked at the text message Jungkook had sent you as you were on your Uber to ‘The G Spot’. A wicked grin spread on your face as you felt your excitement grow with the thought of his performance.

You first met Jungkook when you were out drowning your sorrows in vodka. Your boyfriend of five years had dumped you because you spent too much time at your new job and you ended up spending the night in Jungkook’s bed.

That night he told you he was a male performer of some sorts that went by the stage name ‘Rider’ at the famous ‘G Spot’ club. He’d do some sexy performances on stage (most of the time they were themed) but, some times, he’d also work as a gigolo. Clients would pay to take him to one of the back rooms and, if he was interested in the client and/or the money they were offering, he’d have sex with them. Since then, you’d become a pretty regular customer of the club and Jungkook.

“We’re here miss,” the Uber driver mentioned, interrupting your thoughts.

“Thank you.” You left the car and looked up at the big purple neon sign saying ‘The G Spot’. You took out your purse to retrieve your membership card and walked right in, immediately showing it to the bouncer that then confirmed your identity.

“Y/N!” The familiar voice of the owner Maria greeted you as soon as you entered. “Rider mentioned you’d be popping by,” she smirked.

“Hi, honey!” You gave her a quick hug and followed her to the bar, watching her start working on your usual vodka cranberry. “Sugar told me he had a very special performance and wanted me to watch.”

“And you couldn’t miss it,” she teased as she slid you the glass with your drink.

“Well, you’ve seen him,” you took a sip and hummed, signalling that you liked the taste of the drink.

“Oh, believe me, if I wasn’t his boss I’d definitely give him something to ride if you know what I mean,” you choked at her confession, sharing a good laugh with her.

“Right sweety, you better go sit, the show’s about to start.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to lose my spot. When is he coming on?”

“First Black Magic is gonna take the stage and Rider will be right after him,” Maria told you as she cleaned the balcony of the bar.

The news came as a surprise to you. Usually, Jungkook would close the show since he was one of, if not the best, performers in the club. The news was especially weird since he said he had a new routine and normally when that happened he would always close the show.

“He’s second?!” The look of surprise on your face probably came as no surprise to Maria. In fact, you were sure it didn’t due to her expression of understanding.

“Yeah, I don’t know why either. He begged me to be second and usually, I’m really particular about the show but since it was him I accepted. That and V Jay and RoMeo have a special number prepared for tonight, so I let them be last.”

“Weird…” You both stood in silence for a few seconds before you remembered you had to go get your seat before someone else did. “Well, I’m gonna take a sit.” You pointed to the chairs and booths and gave her a small smile.

“Go, go, honey. Enjoy the show!” She waved you goodbye before she turned to get a customer’s order.

You sat down right at the front - as Jungkook had instructed - and waited for a few minutes while you sipped on your drink.

About ten minutes later the show started. You had watched Black Magic perform before and even though he wasn’t as good as the other guys (seeing that he was quite new to this) he still managed to get you all hot and bothered.

Tonight he was doing his ‘Anaconda’ performance. He walked in dressed as a zookeeper with a fake anaconda on his shoulders and once his Anaconda remix commenced playing he started to slide the fake snake all over his body. Then he began to undress, revealing his delicious oily chocolate abs and climbed off the stage making his way to you. He put the fake snake around your neck and pulled you towards him so your face was right in his abs.

“Lick,” he ordered in a low raspy voice, getting you all hot and bothered.

You obliged.

You licked him from the hem of his shorts up to his pecks, the crowd around you going wild. He tasted coconutty, and you were pretty sure he had spread coconut oil on his body before the show.

After making the rounds to a few more girls Black Magic went back on stage and that’s when he took his shorts off, standing in just his g-string and showing off the outline of the ‘Anaconda’ between his legs.

Soon, he started humping everything on stage, simulating sex in such an erotic way that had all the people in the audience in a complete trance.

He was good. You had to give him that, but he was not Rider. Rider could completely destroy you just with his eyes. Just those feral looks he gave were more than enough to make you hump the fucking chair.

You completely spaced out thinking about Rider and when you came back to it everyone was clapping, making you realize that Black Magic had finished his performance. When your eyes focused on the performer he was already leaving the stage, taking his money and clothes with him.

You called for the waiter and pointed to your empty glass, signalling him that you’d like another vodka cranberry - you needed to feel the buzz of the alcohol if you ever were planning on surviving Rider’s performance tonight.

The drink came and you immediately drank half of it, feeling the build-up of anticipation. You didn’t know why but you were starting to get nervous, your leg bouncing up and down. You decided you’d go check Instagram as you waited, but as soon as you opened the app the lights turned down and focused on one spot on the curtains.

“Ladies and gentleman, are you ready to have the ride of your life?” You chuckled at the announcer’s silly pun. The audience around you rilled up, already deciphering from his pun who was coming up next. Rider sure was a fan favourite.

“Then I want to hear you scream loud and clear for Rideeeeer!”

The crowd went wild, but not as wild as your beating heart. Something about this performance was telling you you were about to be in for a crazy ride and when the song “Trading Places” by Usher started playing you knew you were absolutely right.

When Rider opened up the curtain and came onto the stage your jaw dropped. He was wearing a loose leopard print shirt that had a ‘v-cut’ so low you could see part of his defined chest and abs. On top of that, he was wearing a loose flowy red robe with black details that matched the colour of his pants, the latter ones though, being so tight you could see every little detail of his meaty thighs. His hair was loosely sleeked back, a stray piece of hair dangling right in front of his killer eyes.

“Fuck,” you muttered as you took in the view.

Rider was handsome, there was never any doubt in that, but this fucking outfit? You were damn sure every single pussy in this place was wet just by staring at him.

Hey, I know what you’ used to We gon’ do something different tonight

Rider started walking to the centre of the stage as if he was a tiger ready to pounce. The lethal look on his eyes made you think of all the times he looked at you like that, like he was about to fucking devour you - which he did.

Now we gonna do this thing a lil' different tonight You gon' come over and pick me up in your ride

He spread his legs almost in a squat position, emphasizing his thick thighs, and ran his hand from his chest all the way down to his crotch. He grabbed his crotch and looked straight at the audience, making a ‘come here’ sign with his other hand - the crowd went wild.

After this, he gave a little twirl and slid half of his dark red robe off (letting it stay in the middle of his arms) and started body rolling. Your throat got dry, making you swallow your own saliva.

Nobody body rolled like him. He was so fluid and sharp at the same time. The combination of his sinful body movements and his facial expressions being the added bonus. You could swear he could make anyone want him - you sure did.

Then everything stopped for you. He looked you right in the eyes and, at that same instant, you felt a wave of arousal slid past your folds and straight to your panties.

He smirked.

He knew the power he had over you. He knew he had you wrapped around his finger and all he had to do was to say when and where.

Then, he started to seductively walk towards the stairs - he was coming down to the audience.

He kept looking straight at you as he made his way down the stairs and you felt your heartbeat rise - he was coming in your direction.

You started to smile like an idiot until he walked right past you and went to the table right next to yours. The group of five friends on a bachelorette party went ecstatic (as you would) while you on the other hand felt nothing but annoyance. He was toying with you. Teasing was Rider’s favourite game, a game which he would often play with you and it drove you absolutely mad.

He made his way to the bride and practically straddled her, taking in her hands and making her feel his defined abs as he body rolled.

I'm always on the top tonight I'm on the bottom Cause we trading places When I can’t take no more, tell me you ain't stopping 'Cause we trading places

You shouldn’t be jealous, this was his job and you two had by no means a serious relationship but you hated the way he was toying with you. You also hated that your jealousy was exactly what he wanted.

Fucking Jeon Jungkook.

The bride’s screams got even louder as Rider got off of her and spread her legs. He supported himself on the chair’s arms and started to simulate sex with her, thrusting his hips towards her crotch.

Gon' get it, get it get it, get it get it, Gon' get it, get it get it, get it get it, Gon' get it, get it get it, get it get it.

Then, Rider got off from her and turned around, looking straight at you. Your heart jumped once more. He made his way towards you and this time he stopped right in front of you with a devious smile on his face. He straddled you, just like he did the girl before you and grabbed your hand, only this time he pulled his leopard shirt from underneath his pants and placed your hand on his bare skin.

You had felt up his abs a million times before, but the action never failed to make you all hot and bothered. His abs were a perfect six-pack, like a chocolate bar ready to be eaten up. You remember all the times you played with his abs as he has your fingers running up through each of his individual muscles.

One, two, three, four, five and six.

He then runs your hand lower so you could palm his hard cock.

You knew the dancers would pump up their dicks backstage so it would look extra big on stage and cause a better reaction, but by the way he was looking at you and biting his lip you couldn’t help but feel like he was horny because of you, and not some pump.

Then, he let’s go of your hand and rips his shirt wide open, now exposing all of his glossy defined muscles.

“Fuck.”

He removed his red robe and gave it a little twirl so the garment would become like a long scarf. He then softly ran the robe from your belly, straight between your cleavage and up your neck. The tingling sensation was so soft and arousing that you instantly felt your nipples perk up and the ache between your legs grow bigger, making you rub yourself on the chair.

He threw the robe onto the stage and got even closer to you, his covered crotch just centimetres away. Then, out of nowhere, and as a contrast to the soft movement of the robe, he grabs you by your hair and sharply hip thrusts to the sound of the music towards your mouth, simulating oral sex.

Gon' get it, get it get it, get it get it, Gon' get it, get it get it, get it get it, Gon' get it, get it get it, get it get it,

When you feel like you are ready to risk it all and suck him right there in front of everyone he lets go of your hair and turns around to go back on the stage. You let go of the breath you now realized were holding. This man was truly testing all your limits.

He got to stage and discarded his ruined leopard print shirt, now only having the form-fitting red pants on. He turns to the audience and mouths the line from the song: “Where you want me?”

The guitar starts playing and Usher starts moaning, and that’s when it all goes to shit. Rider does his signature move where he does a handstand and slowly comes down in a wave and starts fucking the floor.

Oh oh Oh oh You baby Give it to me baby Oh oh Oh oh

You cross your legs and can’t help but squeeze tight to alleviate the ache in your dripping core. The crowd was going wild, the screams getting louder but to you, it felt like you couldn’t even hear them; it felt like only you and Rider were there, and that he was showing off just for you.

The way in which his thrusts become more powerful, the way his veins on his muscular arms pop out, the way he imitates the moans at the same time as the vocalist’s were driving you insane and you were one step closer to just sneak your hand between your legs and play with yourself, not even caring about where you were.

After presumably making the floor pregnant, Rider changes positions and lays on his back. This time, instead of fucking the floor, he places his hands on an imaginary person on top of him and fucks the air instead, just as the song says:

You get on top tonight I'm on the bottom Cause we trading places When I can’t take no more, you say you ain't stopping 'Cause we trading places

As the instruments in the song start to quite down (signalling the ending of the song), Rider gets up and faces the audience with the most sinful grin. He teasingly pops the button of his pants and slides down the zipper, his bulgy dick expanding immediately under his white underwear. Then, he slides his hand under his underwear and shamelessly palms himself. If he wasn’t a professional who had all his angles studied, there was no way he could conceal his cock from the audience with just one hand, but he knew exactly what he was doing and you cursed him for it.

The song was about to end and you were curious about the big finish. Whatever it was, you were damn sure it would leave you gasping for air.

Sure enough, you were right.

Just as the instrumental hits its last notes, Rider gives one last teasing smirk and as he takes his dick out of its confinement the lights go out leaving, quite literally, everyone in the dark.

“Fuck,” you cursed at the show you just witnessed and the erotic sensations it brought in you.

This was why he wanted you to come so badly? To fucking tease you? That motherfucker. There was no way you could just sit there and watch. There was no fucking way you could just sit there and go back to your normal life - and you wouldn’t.

Downing the last of your drink you grabbed your purse and made your way to the owner Maria who was currently behind the bar.

When you requested the back room with Rider to Maria you were surprised to find out it had already been booked in your name - the owner smugly telling you that Rider had booked it for you.

You were pissed. Not in a bad way, but still fucking pissed.

You couldn’t help but pace around as you waited for Rider in the back room - sipping on a glass of champagne that came with the package. Your mind was racing, thinking about how he had invited you here, teased you beyond belief and booked you the back room alone with him without telling you. He knew you were going to cave, he knew you’d want a taste and it drove you fucking mad that he could manipulate you like that.

The sound of the door opening made you snap your head in its direction.

The first thing you notice is his exposed torso, Rider only wearing the red pants and robe from the performance earlier. The second was the fucking smug look on his face.

“Hey baby, did you enjoy the show?” He asked in a velvety voice after he closed the door and made his way to you to give you a kiss - you dodged. If he kissed you now, it would be game over for you, and you needed to make him suffer just like he did you.

“What the fuck was that?” You poked his chest with an accusatory finger, but he was so strong that he didn’t move.

“Just my new routine.” He pretended that he didn’t know what you were talking about, but the look on his face told a whole different story.

“Just your new routine?” You scoffed before you continued. “You tell me to come and sit in the first row. Then, you come in dressing like that,” you look down at his outfit to show what you were talking about but immediately regret it once you notice the tent in his tight pants. “You tease me like there’s no tomorrow and then you book this fucking room for me?”

“Don’t be silly Y/N, I just wanted to show you, as one of my best clients, my brand new act.” He took a brief pause before he continued again, this time in a slightly different tone, “And if I recall correctly, you weren’t the only one I teased.”

He tried to sound breezy but you saw right through his act. If he wanted to play then that was what he was going to get.

“Is that so?” You asked in a knowing tone, him just humming in response. “Well then, if I recall correctly, you weren’t the only one who teased me. Maybe I should go book a room with Black Magic instead.”

His whole expression changed. The playfulness in him was now completely gone, only a dark jealous look remaining.

He took several steps forward cornering you into a wall, excitement pooling down between your legs. “Don’t you fucking dare talk about another man.”

Any other day and you’d completely sub for him, a look from him being enough to have you on your knees but today...today you were feeling like you wanted to put up a fight. “Or what?”

He moved in closer to your ear to whisper: “Or I’ll use your pretty little pussy like my personal cum dumpster and leave you here with a creamy cunt that didn’t get the chance to orgasm.”

You tried to remain calm but your erratic breathing gave you away, making him chuckle. “You’d like that?”

When his hand touched your knee you couldn’t help but feel startled, his touch at this point turning you on beyond belief.

“You would. My little slut.” You couldn’t see his smirk, because his face was now buried in your neck, but you could definitely hear it in his voice.

“I can just imagine you fingering your creamy pussy just to get off,” his hand starts travelling up your exposed thigh and starts playing with the hem of your skirt, making you go wild. “If I close my eyes I can already see my cum overflowing and running down your perfect little asshole.” His other hand grabbed your right breast and started massaging it over your shirt, making you release a tiny little moan.

What was happening to you? He was winning. You couldn’t let him win. You had to do something now.

With the inner strength you didn’t even know you had in yourself you took a deep breath and pushed him away, your senses immediately clearing as you no longer felt his intoxicating smell so close.

He was shocked, and his shock only gave you that more strength.

“I think you’ll find that it’s actually the opposite Jungkook.” Usually, while you were with him in the club you would never call him by his real name, but this time you felt like it gave the moment a more serious tone, and you definitely wanted him to take you seriously.

“You think you’re some big shot?” You scoffed and made your way towards him, this time you being the one who backs him up against the big red leather sofa with the big red neon sign that said “Sex” just above it. You gave him one little push and he fell back, you towering over him for a change.

“You are here for me to use. I pay you, so…” you lower yourself down and sit right on top of his bulge, your skirt hoisting up. “...I’m gonna fuck you until my pussy gets its fill and then I’m gonna leave you with a hard red leaky cock that’s aching to be milked dry.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t falter, but he didn’t say anything either, giving you the courage to continue.

You pressed your core even harder on his cock and started grinding, a tiny hiss leaving both your mouths. “I can just imagine your frustrated face, fisting your cock as you imagine it’s my cunt. Going at it so hard and fast that your lungs can barely keep up. Parting your pretty little lips to moan my name…”

Jungkook bucked his hips upwards to feel you even better, the sensation driving you absolutely mad.

You looked into each other’s eyes, tension building as you felt each other up. Your hands ran down his exposed chest as his squeezed your ass. You couldn’t help but look at his lips, those sinful lips that had made you feel extraordinary sensations so many times before - he chuckled.

“You’re cute when you try to be a dom.” He grabbed your chin and forced you to look straight into his dark lustful eyes, “are you going to fucking kiss me or do I have to beg for it?”

Feeling affected that he described your actions as “cute” you harshly slapped his hand away and grabbed him by his hair, pulling him forward so his lips could crash into yours.

The kiss was erratic. Hungry. Animalistic. Needy. Everything.

You slid his robe down his muscular biceps exposing his protruding veins and sexy tattoos and as soon as he was finished discarding the garment to the middle of the room he grabbed your white shirt by the cleavage and ripped it right open throwing the destroyed shirt to the place where his robe was.

“That shirt was expensive,” you say between breaths as he frees your mouth to kiss you down your neck.

“Fuck the shirt, I want you.” He bit a piece of skin on your chest and tugged on it with his teeth as he slid the straps of your bra down, your skin forming tiny little bumps from the sensation of his fingers running through it.

“Rider…” you moaned as his mouth got closer and closer to your breasts, your hips grinding on him harder.

“Call me Jungkook.”

“Jungkook…” you moaned as he moved your bra down, the rough seam bumping against your sensitive nipples. His lips immediately claimed one of your hardened peeks, the other one being left at the mercy of his tattooed fingers.

You picked up your pace and started dry humping like a madwoman, your orgasm getting closer and closer.

“I’m gonna cum.” Your announcement made Jungkook toy with your nipples harder, twisting and pulling until you were cumming undone, his name coming out of your mouth like a mantra.

Not having any time to breathe, Jungkook picked you up and threw you to the couch, the feeling of the leather on your bare hot skin making you slightly uncomfortable. Before you even had time to ask him what he was doing, he was pulling your panties down and diving in straight to your core, your legs closing in on his head due to the sensitivity.

“Jungkook, I wanna suck your cock…” you whined as he inserted one of his middle fingers inside of you.

“Sorry love, no sucking today. I just want to be buried inside of you.” He started to suck on your clit and after working his finger in for a little bit he added another. You could tell he was in a rush to fuck you and that turned you on even more.

He curled up his fingers inside you making you moan even louder and you thanked your lucky stars the room was soundproof. You were so wet that you could hear it perfectly clear, a sound so lewd that made your whole temperature rise.

Very soon you were feeling your orgasm building once more and, this time, you could tell it was stronger than the other. “Fuck baby, give me more…”

Like a soldier taking orders, he promptly added a third finger and at that moment you knew you weren’t gonna last much longer. In fact, all it took was 10 more seconds of him finger-fucking you while flicking your clit with his tongue and you were spiralling down in pleasure once more, this time on his mouth. “Jungkook...”

You lied there with your eyes closed for what felt like an eternity - the need to catch your breath and calm your heart way too big - but when you finally opened them, Jungkook was standing next to you all naked slowly pumping his cock.

“Sssss...Y/N, don’t fucking look at me like that or I’m gonna bust-”

Feeling your dom persona getting back into action, you got up and threw him down on the black fluffy rug - its fluffy texture being much more pleasant than the leather of the couch. You placed your legs on both sides of him and crouched down. His dick was so hard it was standing straight up, almost like it was waiting for you to sink down on it. So, not being able to resist it any longer, you simply grabbed it and sat right on top of him.

“Fuck, such a fucking tight cunt for me-” You shut him up by putting your hand on his mouth and started riding him like you were at a fucking rodeo.

You were feeling drunk on sex. His cock was hitting you on all the right places (like it always did), his hands were grabbing your hips so hard you were sure they were gonna leave a mark and the sight of his bulging muscles glistening with sweat was driving you into absolute madness.

You were fucking at a mad speed, even you didn’t know where all that strength had come from, but if someone saw you right now they’d probably think you had taken some drugs. Eventually, though, your body started to grow tired and Jungkook noticed that, so he let go of your hips and pulled you onto him. Your head nuzzled on his neck and he started to fucking drill you up.

“Oh shit, shit, shit…” You moaned into his neck, a mix of his cologne and sweat hitting your nostrils.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last long baby.”

Hearing his confession you snaked your arm between your bodies and frantically rubbed your clit so you could cum at the same time. The work on your abused clit didn’t last long though, making you cum on his deliciously hard cock, “oh Jungkook.”

“Fuck, Y/N.” The clenching of your pussy eventually tipped him over the edge, him spilling his warm seed inside of you.

After a while of you two panting on the rug, Jungkook got up to pick a couple of tissues so he could clean you up, leaving you alone on the floor.

“Fuck me…” you said in a surprising sense at what had just happened as he kneeled between your legs.

“Again?” He looked up at you with a teasing smirk and proceeded to collect his cum with the tissues.

“You know what I mean,” you laughed, the mood feeling light.

Once you got up to put your discarded clothes back on you remembered what Jungkook had done to your shirt and turned to him with your hands on your hips. “How am I supposed to get out of here with no shirt Mr Jeon Jungkook?”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologized as he put his tight pants back on. “I brought a shirt under my hoodie today, I can lend it to you. Might not go with your outfit though…” He teased as he looked at your pencil skirt.

“I’ll take it,” you smiled at him and waited as he went to his dressing room to pick his shirt up.

Once he returned not only did he bring you his shirt, but a stack of bills leaving you completely stunned. “Here you go,” he said as he handed you the shirt and completely ignored the money.

“Thank you,” you put on his shirt since you were starting to feel kind of cold and looked at him with a questioning look. “Are you paying me for my services or…?”

He looked confused for a second before he followed your gaze to the money on his hands and laughed. “Oh no, this is hum... for the back room.”

“Jungkook, you don’t have to. I’m the client and I used your services, I should pay.”

“Yeah but...don’t look at tonight like a service. I invited you, I teased you...it’s on me tonight,” he tried to place the money on your hands but you hesitated, eventually grabbing it and giving him a shy smile.

What this meant for the two of you you didn’t know, but you sure were excited to find out.

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Moon

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | four

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: All relationships are about give and take.

Word count: 7k~

Rating: Explicit (Mature until the last few paragraphs)

Warnings/tags: nightmares, trauma, drinking, fluff and pining, drugs/being drugged (medicinal), wound care, blood, shots/needles, mature themes/language, emo shit, masturbation (f)

Notes: Hi friends. This is broken up in two portions: the first, being in Nevarro, and the second taking place some time later (hopefully that becomes clear when you read it heh). I'm hoping I captured the varying, distinct tones in each of the sections. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) Enjoy x (gif credit: @skyshipper)

They come at night.

The visions.

Your legs are rock, crumbling - eroding - with each weighted step, trudging through the city you once knew, laid bare to waste all around you. The air is grey brown, chalked with dust—with ash. There are bodies lining the road like trimmed hedges, floating by their ankles—ugly, corporal zeppelins. They’re pale. Their eyes are burned to coal and their tongues hang dead and waxy from their mouths.

They begin the same, choreographed like this; you follow the paths your mind has carved out for you, time and time again.

You spot him, plated in silver at the end of the row. Your feet stop. You see him, and he sees you. You feel his eyes - hawkish, piercing - under the murk of his visor. A predator’s gaze. He’s got a man in his fist—you think you recognize him, you might not—held by the scruff of his neck.

Sometimes it’s X’elo, bending to break in his gloved grasp. Other times, a stranger—a half remembered photograph—a memory of a memory of another dream entirely.

And sometimes, it’s you.

You hear the howl of wind scream through your bones—through the bones of the ruins there—but you don’t feel it. There’s only heat—the kind that’s unavoidable and omnipresent, as heavy as guilt. The hunter brings his hands to frame the man’s temples—yours too, sometimes— pebbles and slate trembling off you as you move towards them. You’re running, you realize, immobile but running and you’re not sure how or why—you never get there in time to find out.

He snaps his neck. You hear the crunch in your own ear—inside your own head.

It becomes night—blood moons drip wet from the sky. They splash onto the dirt. It turns to mud, caking the underside of your boots, squelching as you walk. You round a corner and—

You don’t recognize this. This is new. This— no, this is wrong.

A door. Rutted, freestanding—a dark monolith.

You stutter in your sleep, a crease in your brow.

It’s just a door.

No, not here—

A door. Black wood, a brass handle. Just a door, and you’re sweating. Just a door, and you’re suffocating—you’re being smothered—like your outsides are clawing to get back in through your throat and it’s sucking you in—this door, it’s just a door, it’s just a—closer, nearer, looming taller overhead—

You gasp awake, clutching at the scratchy blanket drenched cold with your sweat. Your rasps echo against the hull, sharp pants scraping the hollow metal, and you bring a hand to your chest—steadying, steadying, the fear of your racing heart.

You sit up, throwing your legs over the edge of the cot, and rake a shaky hand through your hair—the damp of the strands sticking to the nape of your neck. Your breathing evens out, tampering, with your forearms braced on the plats of your thighs; the rise and fall of your breasts against your sleep shirt quiet until you’ve stilled.

You roll off the bed, the aluminum frame whining with the shift, and you knock a knee into one of the carbonite pods as you stumble out of the storage room—your bedroom, now.

You couldn’t handle much more of it. You bought a bedroll the first planet you stopped to refuel at after Bajic, hermitting yourself away into the bowels of his ship. It was the only smidgen of untapped real estate left in the Crest, and it was far be it from you to complain about location. You were just thankful to be out of that copilot’s chair—no amount of bacta could unwind the knots in your neck after sleeping there night after restless night.

So you bunked with the bounties Mando had brought in, like one big macabre slumber party—the chrome slabs slotted up - watchful - in their chambers.

You try not to spare it much thought.

Padding through the Crest, soft bare feet leaving crescents on the steel deck, you step into the fresher to splash water on your face, jolting you back into the present and out of the nightmare, out of—

Just a door.

No—

You towel off, patting yourself dry. Inhaling, your lungs expand with the massive rush of air, and you hold it there until it hurts, until it prickles the corners of your eyes, and finally - deliberately - you release.

You look into the mirror.

You blink. She blinks back.

///

You make breakfast now.

It’s not something you both agreed to, it’s just something you do. Funny, how quickly you adapt to new normals, to new routines. You have rituals now—you two. You make breakfast, and you leave a bowl for him out on the counter before you slip into the shower. When you get out, the bowl is empty and the dishes are washed clean, drying face down on a rag. You smile. You never speak of it. Like ivy crawling up cobbled walls towards the sun, it happens— without prompt or feed, it simply is.

///

Nevarro reminds you of Dallenor—the craggy blandness of it, the endless black sands—and you fight the urge to hate it solely based on this principal alone.

You stay on the ship with the little one while Mando goes into town, meeting with some Greef Karga character to sew up Guild business. You have no idea how he ever managed to get any hunting done with the kid always acting up, pulling hijinks and inciting anarchy. He’s nearly torn the whole place to shreds. How such a tiny body can produce such a massive wake of damage is a mystery you will never solve.

You make yourself watch.

You force your jaw, set and held, as Karga’s men haul the quarries out of the ship, hovering eerily down the ramp.

X’elo, the smuggler from Vohai, some two-bit thief, and a woman Mando caught before you met, all parading single file out of the Crest like a funeral procession. They’re criminals, each and every one—they’re violent and they’ve done terrible, irredeemable things—but they’re people, too.

And isn’t that what makes it all so cruel. So sad.

The least you can do is give them an ounce of dignity before they’re subjected to their fate— however harsh, however fair.

So, you watch.

Maybe they don’t deserve it—they’re here by their own hand, after all, a bed of their own making— and maybe they haven’t earned it back any. But perhaps it’s less about what you can offer them and more about what you refuse to let the galaxy take. Because don’t you deserve to stay unfragmented? Complete? Would you rather be robbed of this humanity, your sense of decency—have it stolen from you?

Doesn’t it cost you nothing to be kind?

You pray neither sound nor fury will strip you of this—this open-eyed tenderness. You beg that you remain, undistilled, despite despite despite.

///

You’re so much more relaxed now then when you first came on board. You were as quiet as a church mouse then, tip toeing around the ship like you were afraid you’d ruin her.

Din will never admit it, but you even managed to get the jump on him once or twice—appearing exactly when and where he least expected. And he didn’t - couldn’t have - he didn’t expect you.

This.

And he looks at you now: lit by lamplight—the kerosene filament flickering warm in the dark hull— slotted back and humming to yourself as you swipe a finger over a holopad, feet propped up on a crate by the table, and it all looks organic. Right.

The drink in your hand, sloshing against the amber jug, no doubt eases your mood. You’re drinking it right from the bottle. He thinks it’s fucking charming.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Maker above,” you hiss, startling a foot out of your seat. You shoot him an accusatory glare, but there’s no malice in it—there’s laughter ringing around your eyes.

Honestly, that man needs a bell on him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he comments dryly, stepping past.

You move your legs from their perch and sit a little straighter. “You- you could join me,” you chime, “if you want.”

His feet slow until he’s stopped completely and he pans over his shoulder to you. You can’t read his expression—it’s steel all the way through— but you think you feel the air around you both quiver - shudder - with something unspoken, something kinetic.

The scrape of the chair as he pulls it out from the table is deafening, the thunk of his metal body sinking into it even louder.

“What are you reading?” Mando asks.

You cast him a sheepish smile. “CoreWorld News.”

“Anything good?”

Your mouth twists, biting the inside of your cheek. “Never.”

He huffs a breathy chuckle.

There didn’t seem to be any good news anymore. You forage for it—scouring the net for just a whiff of it, of something pure. There is plenty of greatness left in the world, but you find that what it lacks most is goodness— humble and precious. More often than not, you come up empty and disappointed—but never so dissuaded that you do not search again the next day, and the day after that, and after that and after that again.

“How’d it go with Karga?” you ask, setting the holopad down and switching off the display.

“Fine. Good.”

“Good,” you smile. He’s terse—sparse. You think it’s endearing now—vexing too, without a doubt, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive anymore.

“Nothing close to Coruscant yet. More outer rim chaavla,” he grits out, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a tickle of bemusement in your voice and a quirk to your chin. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I know you want to get back.”

You hope the glow from the lantern in the galley is dim enough to camouflage the tinge sprung on your cheeks. The truth is becoming more and more clear to you, whether you like it or not: with each passing day, you want to go back to Coruscant less and less. You have to—you know you have to. You have your career, your whole life, waiting for you. But—

But.

“You told me it would take a while—longer than I’d like.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to be here— I-I’m grateful,” you catch yourself.

He clenches his fist under the table, beyond your line of sight, gnarled tight into a ball. It tethers him down, anchoring him in place—because if he weren’t, fuck, he’d fly out of his seat so fast—

“Alright,” he chokes out.

“Alright,” you smile, glassy.

There’s a kind of mist encircling you two, an incense of a sort, intoxicating and sinewy and lulling you into a hushed calm. It’s thick around you - lush - and you can feel it settle like lead behind your eyes.

“Can I pour you a drink—for later?”

It’s late into the evening, well beyond the hour where the lines of decorum blur. You’ve crossed into the Other—that tarred, limber undertow. Dangerously weightless and free. The liminality between here and there— that twilight place.

Shadows bounce along the walls. Your outline—his too.

“I’d like that.”

///

You’re not as tipsy as you could be, but you’re less sober than you’d like.

Subconsciously, buried somewhere deep, you’re aware that Mando is humoring you and that you should let him get on with his night—but you don’t.

You’ll be annoyed at yourself later for this.

“Okay okay, what are your hobbies?”

A deadpan tilt of his helmet. “I—I don’t understand the question.”

You gape at him, your bottom lip glossed as it parts, plush and wet, and you laugh. “Hobbies,” you reiterate. “You know, stuff you like to do? For fun?”

You see the gears under that helm wheel and spin. It shouldn’t take anyone this long. The question is basic and the answer should be relatively immediate—but Mando has to mull it over. In all of his cycles, as hardened as they’ve been, he hasn’t been gifted the luxury of leisure - fun - and he hasn’t been afforded the time to dwell on the lack of it.

Selfless, without a moment of ownership to himself. This is the way.

“I-,” he pauses, mouth clamping shut. “Skip.”

“Fine, fine,” you tut. “What is... your favorite planet?”

Din stretches back, his beskar groaning against the chair.

All the planets he’d visited were out of necessity—out of demand and credit, never because he wanted to be there and certainly never out of favor. They were tainted—made insipid and unremarkable by the quarries he chased to them.

But there is one in particular that stands out; he remembers a planet the kid seemed to like—how he babbled the whole time, slung in the satchel at his hip, entranced and enthralled. He was on his best behavior, too—the little womp rat didn’t even try to stuff his tiny, wrinkled face with anything. Not once.

“Adega.”

“Adega,” you repeat, testing the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

He draws in a long breath, his ribs yawning against the corset of his armor.

He should’ve gotten up by now—fuck, he shouldn’t have ever sat down in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t have anything to do; he needs to downshift the Crest’s power converters, switch off the shield projectors, chart a course to his next job, get some damn sleep if he’s lucky…

But you’re here before him. You’re here and he can’t deny you—not when you’re looking at him like that, like the sun shines out from his fucking face—far softer, far kinder than he deserves. Not when you’re here now, and you won’t be for much longer.

He’s racing against the clock—the swinging inevitability of it. Each moment he shares with you, is a moment that brings him closer to taking you back.

Din is a fool. He knows he’ll lose. He races anyways.

“It’s a water planet—mostly ocean,” he begins.

You allow your eyes to dip close, savoring the description, and you tuck your legs up to fold over themselves.

“But there are islands. Some are small, private—with red trees that go all the way to the sand. Others have whole cities on them.”

You remain quiet - patient - like marble, chiseled and sanded as thin as chiffon, veiling over your face in fine, cascading sheets. Transparent - ethereal - you listen to him blind, letting his words guide your sight.

“The kid-"

Your tongue darts out over your lip and he stutters. Din has to shift his hips, relieving the growing heat that’s tightening below his waist.

“T-The uh, the kid loved it. I’d never seen him like that. The bogwing didn’t want to leave,” he chuckles. He conjures the details he thinks you want—the details he thinks you might like most. “The people are honest—generous. The days are long, and the nights are warm.”

He’s no poet, but it doesn’t bother you.

“I can see it,” you say, before blinking your eyes open. "I'll have to go some time." There’s pink on your cheeks, seeping past your jaw and below the neckline of your shirt to the swallow of your breasts.

You look at him— he looks at you.

A noise hums from somewhere inside the ship.

“Are you scared of anything?” you murmur.

Mando lets a beat pass.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” You smile at that—small, wistful. You’re not even sure why. “You?” he asks.

Your chest rises with a deep inhale. “I used to be scared of dying. I thought I was gonna die young. I was convinced—I had dreams about it all the time as a kid.”

But maybe that’s not it entirely. Maybe it’s not the fear of dying itself, but the dread of living and dying alone. And isn’t that at the heart of it—at all of this?

I just don’t want to do this all on my own.

He’s never been privy to this version of you—this sloping tone, the liquor buzzing through your speech, churning your words to treacle. You sound nonchalant in way that’s jarring, as if you aren’t talking about death— the fear of your own tenuous mortality.

“But I bet everyone does,” you continue dismissively, “just one of those things.”

He’s almost cautious when he replies. “I’m not sure they do.”

Your expression contorts, knotting for an agonizing moment—until the tension all but disappears. “Huh,” you shrug flippantly, and take a swig. That heaviness, that fog, dissipates nearly as soon as it arrived. “Anyways, favorite color?”

He rolls his eyes; you can see it in the way he tilts his head to you. Really, he seems to say, how old are we?

“You’re right, you’re right— that’s low brow. I can do better…” You melodramatically tap your chin, eyeing him pensively.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” you nod to his pauldron, “that symbol on your shoulder.”

Tawny fingertips trace absentmindedly over the emblem. “It’s a Mudhorn. It’s-” Mando hesitates, before his hand returns to his lap. “It’s the sigil of my clan.”

You arch your brow. “I didn’t realize you had a clan— is it- is it like, big?” Stars, you sound dumb—and there’s no excuse. You’re not even that drunk. “How- what is a clan, exactly?”

“In Mandalorian culture, your clan is your family. Aliit. Mine, it’s—it’s a clan of two.”

Something in the pit of you stirs, a sickly warmth, pulling at your gut like a rope. You glance over to where the child sleeps, snuggled away in his pram and your lips curl into a smile, hidden behind the bottle you bring to them.

“You’re lucky to have each other,” you say gently, taking another sip.

“We almost didn’t—shouldn’t have.”

His hands tense into his legs—the creak of leather against his thigh plates is audible even from where you sit.

You narrow your eyes curiously. He heaves.

“He was a bounty and I did my job. I turned him in. I went back for him, but—the kid, he saved my life, and I could’ve left him there—I would’ve, before.”

It all comes out like tires grinding through gravel, bruised and roughened. It’s regret, you realize—this is the sound of guilt, frigid and rued, pushing through his modulator. It makes you want to reach out to him, put your hand on his, comfort him, reassure him—something. But you can’t. He’s too far away. He’s on his own sea—untouchable.

You decide it right then and there: you can’t bare that sound, the wracked timbre of it. You hate it. You think you’d do anything to rid the way in constricts his throat—makes him hoarse and clipped, even through the guise of his helmet. It pains you, a visceral stabbing, right to your core. You could go a lifetime without hearing it, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

“But you didn’t,” you offer.

“No,” he utters. “No, I didn’t.”

Mando gives you these tortuous, beautiful previews of himself. Like light passing through stained glass, you sneak brief glimpses of the paintings there, the stories and fables and the lessons they teach, until some great cloud drifts past, blotting out the sun, and all goes dark again.

You know this is rare. You know you’ll be home soon. You know to cherish it—to relish what he gives, when he gives it, if he gives it at all.

But—you want more. You’re a simple woman, at the end of all things: all you want is to hold him.

“I think you’re a better man than you let on, Mando.” There’s a knowing twinkle in your eye, a coy lilt to your loosened tongue. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were flirting.

“You don’t know that,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have my suspicions." You're smirking something awful - deadly - as it sears into him.

He grunts, flames licking up his chest. Din has to bite back his grin, making careful it doesn’t shape the sound of his vowels; grateful for the helmet that buffers him, the mask that seals him away into anonymity, into apathy.

If he can convince you, maybe he can convince himself too. Maybe.

“Next question, dala.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were flirting.

///

Your eyes are blown wide, gawking at him.

“I’m not a medic, Mando—I’m not a fucking surgeon!”

Mando crashes through the Razor Crest, red dollops trailing in pools behind him. He grunts, hand pressed to his side, blood pushing out of the gash that’s torn into him— a canyon down his unplated body, spewing angry and insistent with each spasm of his heart.

With a broad stroke, he sweeps the clutter off the table and onto the floor, spraying across the deck.

“Medkit,” he barks, hoisting himself up to lie, hulking and pained, out on the slab. You scamper to it, ripping it off the wall, and return to his lumbering body. His breathing is labored—he’s forcing it, seething it out.

Mando’s legs bend off the table at an uncomfortable angle and he rasps when you crane them up by his booted ankles – fuck, he’s heavy – to situate a small crate under his feet. They drop with a dulled thud— without muscle, without resistance. The languid weight of a dying man.

You’re stationed beside him, medkit spilled open. “W-What now, what do you need?”

“I need you,” you heard him say, deep and bassy, as he ascended the ramp. With a colossal drum of your heart, you spun around - I need you - a blush stippling your jaw. The pregnant expectation built behind weeks and weeks of stalemates and stolen glances - I need you - all rearing to a head here and now and finally, finally something—until you saw him, doubled over, bracing himself on the wall, a line of blood smearing behind his palm.

“Bacta-“ Mando wheezes, “bacta shot.”

You rifle through the supplies, littering them as you dig through the box.

Sure, you had gotten your first aid certification with the Movement—it was required, and you retook the courses every few cycles. But that was gauze wrappings and mouth-to-mouth and anti-inflammatory tablets—that was not this, and this is fucking surgery. You’re out of your depth—and Mando must be out of his damn mind.

“I nee-“ He inhales sharply, and his body spasms, gripping the ledge of the table like a vice. “My chest plate—take it off.”

He’s told you bits and parcels of the Mandalorian way—of his Creed— and you aren’t under the impression that this would be strictly sanctioned.

“M-Mando, I thought— are you sure?”

“Yes I’m kriffing sure—do it. Just do it,” he snaps. He hates this—he fucking hates this. Soft. Weak—weak weak weak, he’s so fucking weak. Laandur.

You fumble over the armor, uncoordinated as you unclasp it from his cuirass and Mando strangles out a sigh as soon as it leaves him. At last, you fish the shot from the medkit and hold it up to the light, the medicine like venom as it whirls in the tube. It’s uncomfortably large—simply holding it makes you squirm.

“W-What is that?”

Your eyes flit over the needle and then back to the bounty hunter. “What do you mean ‘what is that’? It’s a shot.”

“That’s a lance,” he growls.

“It’s ebacta-”

“It’s green!” he hisses out incredulously.

“It’s all they had!” you bite back, panic skipping through your veins.

You’re practically yelling at each other, the tension winding and coiling tighter and higher as the seconds tick by. You feel each one, tapping along your vertebra like a metronome, keeping time, keeping time, wasting time—all this back and forth is a waste of time and—

You’re nervous—you’re fucking terrified—and Mando doesn’t frequent this position either—this vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where he belongs in it. I need you, he said. He hadn’t needed anyone before and now look at him, bare breasted before you, wounded and mewling like roadkill.

You rap the needle with a knuckle, banishing the air pocket, and test the plunger. Droplets of liquid spurt from the tip, and he begins to rile.

“Dala,” he warns.

“Mando,” you mimic.

“Nu draar-”

“Do you want my help or not?” you spit out, and he shrinks, visor trained on the jab, that unnatural chartreuse swirling inside the glass vial. “Okay. Okay, on three.”

“Wait, wait-"

“One..." You try to sound firm - competent - but you’re a fucking mess. Your breathing is erratic, tunic soiled with sweat, and you’re trembling.

“You don’t-“

“Two...”

Mando huffs exasperatedly, “Ah, fuck it-”

“Three.”

You drive the syringe down, stabbing into him. His body seizes—flexing rigid—as soon as the viscous gel is injected, oozing oozing oozing until it’s pumped empty and spent.

And then— nothing.

All that whirlwinded frenzy, that raging tempest, and now silence— dead silence. He lays there motionless, fidgeting ceased, that ungodly needle pitched like a flag pole from his chest.

… Shit.

“Hey,” you touch a hand to his shoulder.

The smug bastard could be having a laugh under that helmet and you’d have no idea. That’s what you tell yourself—that’s what you’d prefer to believe anyways; it’s better than the alternative, better than—than than than fuck—

“Hey, this isn’t funny...” A little rougher now, you jostle him. He doesn’t react.

“… Mando?”

His head lolls to the side.

With a whistle, the room goes mute. Sound and oxygen alike, it all gets vacuumed out, and your senses invert. You can hear every tick of your body: the bone of your jaw as your teeth mash together, the pulse at your wrist, your stammering heart beating beating beating in your inner ear, the bob of your trachea as it grates against your neck.

Kriff. You killed him—you killed the Mandalorian.

Oh Maker, oh shit-

You press down around the puncture site with a wide palm before yanking the syringe out, flinging it away. You’re shaking him now, wrestling with his limp body, and you’re shouting—croaked with worry, with fear.

“Fuck, Mando—Mando!"

The sound is like glass shattering.

He gasps wildly, gulping down air as if he’d been drowned, writhing like the undead from your operating table. You buckle over him, fatigued and slumped, and cry out in blessed relief.

Your instincts, those poor frail nerves, tell you to smack him—but given that he’s bleeding out, you refrain.

“Don’t do that to me!” you exclaim, breathy and strained.

“Don’t do that to you?” Mando retorts, panting. You let out a weak crackle of laughter and he moans. It’s like he’s been hit by a speeder - twice - forward and then reversed over again.

“Maker, what did you give to me?”

“I got it on Vohai. They uhm- they said it was good quality-“

“And you believed them?”

Your mouth twists shyly. “I-I wanted to believe them,” you correct him.

It’s his turn to laugh now, tired and raw. Oh, you sweet little thing.

You swallow, saliva coating your ragged windpipe. “I’m sorry—Maker, I’m so sorry, a-are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, gargled, “but remind me never to have you save my life again.”

That earns him a light slap to his arm. If he’s well enough to dole cheap shots, you figure he’s fit enough to take yours too. He’s spliced open, whole chunks of him missing, and he still has the wherewithal to be an ass.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods just yet.”

///

Regrettably, Mando might have been spot on about the bacta—in fact, you’re starting to question whether it’s really bacta at all.

A delirious grunt ripples through the bounty hunter’s modulator as you cut open his ripped flight suit, careful not to slice him with the vibroblade. His black undershirt is matted to his gaping wound, the blood bubbled over and through the rough material, and you have to peel the fibers out of his coagulating flesh to get to it. You toss the fabric into the bucket next to you with a sloppy, wet plop.

It didn’t even occur to you. You were so swept away by the state of him—by the dizzying carnival of it all as soon as Mando breached the Crest—you didn’t consider the fact that you’d be seeing him. Touching him.

You have to mask your expression when you meet his skin for the first time. He’s golden—he’s golden everywhere—like desert sand dunes sizzling under ripe, afternoon suns—dappled with memories of violence, branded into him.

You’ve never heard him like this. He keeps noising these feverish little nothings— gasping, moaning in a language you don’t recognize—and you do your best to distract him. It’s one of the tenets you recall from your aid training: keep them talking, keep them sharp—engaged.

“Do each of these have a story?” you ask, eyeing the marks that riddle and pucker him.

“Some of them.”

“What about this one here?” You touch a faded ribbon of scarring. It’s older than the others—paler. Your fingertips are cool and he blazes beneath them.

He tries not to twitch. You try not to notice.

“Fell out of a tree when I was a kid—haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mando pants. “B-Broke my wrist, got scraped to shit— my buir, m-my mother, she chewed my ear off.”

“Mm, I bet she did,” you smirk—you can relate to the feeling.

“I-I remember the lines around her eyes. H-Her eyes— they were green, bright green— jade.”

He lets out a wince as you swipe a disinfectant soaked rag over him. You cringe and flash him an apologetic look.

“Sounds beautiful,” you muse, a quiet smile pulling at you as your deft fingers work. “Did you get her pretty eyes too, Mando?”

Something is caught in his throat— a chuckle, or a cough more likely. “No, they’re brown. Just brown.”

Your whole body locks.

Just brown.

Two words - just brown - and suddenly you’re rich— full to the brim with him.

And fuck, if it doesn't feels like a gift. Like he gathered something precious and laid it in your arms and said here, you can have this now. We can share. Sometimes you forget that there’s a man under all those layers; a man— a warm blooded, tanned skin, brown eyed man. You hadn’t often wondered what the Mandalorian was hiding under his armor—he was so finite, so unmovable, the mask he wore became him. He was beskar - indistinguishably - through and through.

But that was before. And now you’re blinded with him— with all the details you cannot unsee.

“S-She was the last person to take care of me—like this.”

It comes over you so suddenly, you’re taken aback by it: that knee-jerking gut wrench. And not because there’s heartbreak in his voice, but because there isn’t. Because he’s had to be so invulnerable—so unyielding and invincible for so long—that he doesn’t even realize what he’s without.

And you, if only for a silly, naïve moment, wish you could give it back to him. Every little ounce of goodness that he’s been deprived of—to dip into his time stream, and rewrite.

To plant but a seed of it there, even if you don’t stay long enough to see it’s harvest.

“Tell me more about her,” you say.

And beyond expectation, beyond reason, he does.

///|||///

This—this is wrong.

He feels pulpy - soggy - wrong. He’s more liquid than he should be—there’s nothing solid about him now. He’s swept away in the tide of it—this green current charging through him and he let’s go - what is there to hold onto anyways? - floating belly up on his back.

Din spills—like the aperture split into his side, he gushes. Whatever dam he’s forged around himself, the beskar and duracrete there, cracks.

The stream trickles until he floods and like any good story, he starts from the beginning.

He tells you of home—his first home. Aq Vetina.

You’re plucking spikes and nettle from his side, and he barely feels it—all he has is this sinking, unending wet—and they hit the tray with dull plunks, punctuated and staccatoed.

He tells you of the adobe dwellings and the domes and columns. Marketplace canopies and caravan bazaars.

plunk

The oak trees, the willow bark, the spires he’d climb until the sun set.

plunk

The tall mountains and the dry, rubbled earth. Of the nameless neighbor children he played with, kicking a ball through the dirt. Red robes trailing, fraying.

plunk

His mother. The shawl she wore. The copper of his father’s ring. The herbs she grew by the light from their kitchen window. How he held her hand while they sat by the fire.

plunk

His tongue doesn’t belong to him—it wags numb and supple. He’s lost his sense of direction, unbound by north or south, and these words are simply happening to him. They keep happening and happening and escaping and—

It’s not just the off-bacta speaking for him, making him pliant. He wants this. He wants to bend—he wants to bend for you.

And now there’s no stopping it—there’s no breaking this, no halting it's downhill momentum. Din describes the attack, the heat of the fire as his town - his world - burned down, of his parents concealing him—a child, abandoned and bunkered away in a cellar to live or die with or without them— being rescued by the Death Watch and raised as a Mandalorian himself.

Your bandaging has long since finished, but you remain, hovering over him as you listen—listen as the jigsawed shards of his life stitch themselves together. Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn in and in and in, until you’re butted against the wick of it. Inseparable.

When the well of his words runs dry, neither of you go to move. Pin-drop silence envelops you. Your hands still on his chest, palms like a weighted quilt—warming him, securing him. He feels-

He feels safe.

“Mando,” you murmur, and the epithet has never sounded so fucking sacred, whispered from you like a prayer. You cripple him; the web of concern along your brow, the sheen in your eyes, the breathy part of your lips.

His throat has gone dry and he shakes his head left right, beskar grating against the makeshift gurney. Mando. No. No, that’s not right—that’s not who he is, that’s not who he wants you to know.

He draws his hand up—it’s so fucking heavy, he can barely lift it—but he tries, he tries, he wants to. You’re right here, you’re touching his chest and you’re healing his body—his mind too, if he’d only let you—and if he could just get to you. If he could just lace his fingers with yours—would you let him? Should you?

“M-My name-"

A warbled wail from the kid’s alcove rips through the cradling hush, and you both react immediately, lurching up to tend to the child. Din forgets—he hears his foundling and his reason leaves him—and he flinches with a grimace. You urge him down, steadying him with a pointed look.

“Rest.”

It’s a command, there’s no question to it, and it’s teeming with all of these unrecognizable concepts— care and assurance, worry and compassion. So impossible to disobey in the way that gentle things are—too soft and too right to say no to. He relents - gives - helmet thudding when it connects back with the table.

Din, he pleads, desperate for you to read his mind. Like a mantra, his subconscious rambles it on a drug addled figure-eight, coming around only to repeat itself again, infinite and wanting. Din Din Din-

Only when the child’s cries muffle into hiccups and his hiccups slur into coos does he let his exhaustion get the better of him. There was too much—it was an assault from all fronts. The blood loss, the drugs, his life like a monsoon as it crushed him open. And all it took was a wound, a brush with his mortality, for him to surrender it to you.

He turns his head, searching for you through the blur of his vision. You’re there in the doorway, rocking his boy in your arms, haloed with light.

I need you, he said. I need you I need you I need you I need-

Din’s eyes shut.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps like the dead, blissful and undisturbed.

///

You spend hours scrubbing the deck on all fours, spine hunched and aching, cleaning scarlet off silver steel. It got everywhere, the splatter of it—even on the surfaces Mando didn’t come in contact with. The smell of blood, that nickel musk, it lingers long after its welcome—long after the stain of it, the stain of him, has vanished from the Crest. From your skin.

At some point during the night you nod off next to him, curled over a crate, and when you wake Mando is gone—presumably back to his quarters but gone all the same. All traces of him gone - expunged - and the ship feels hollow and gaping— a sterile Mando shaped hole in his absence. You follow his lead, retreating to your bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning doesn’t go as you’d like.

You weren’t sure if he would remember any of it—of what he confided, of what he almost confessed— but by the way the tension ferments between you, you can only assume he does.

They go through their routines, stilted as they are.

He’s up early— unnecessarily early. Mando goes to the cockpit to rouse the ship, plugging in the coordinates from his tracking fob to chase after the escaped bounty. Thrusters set. Repulorlifts and auxiliary engines engaged. Deflector shield generator on. Weapons check. Atmospheric pressure regulator switched.

He’s slower, you note— his movements are crawled—with only half the feline agility he typically possesses and you want to tell him to sit, to take a break—to get off his damn feet and to let you help him—that it’s okay if he rests. That he can take time for himself. That it doesn’t make him any less of a Mandalorian—any less of a man.

But, you can’t.

And so the day is pulled taut like this—a bowed string ready to snap, chalked full of false starts and tinny stoicism. A sharp, intentional air of avoidance with every action. They were out of step, out of sync, and it reminds you of the first days you’d spent on the Razor Crest, orbiting each other—planets apart.

Because he’s shared too much. You knocked, Din answered. He opened the door and he let you past and now he has nowhere left to go but inwards. He’s cornered with no exit strategy - no option - but to close back up again and furl in on himself like a fern in the dark. Curling - evaporating - until he’s nothing but armor—nothing but mirrored edges and metal plates.

But—

you still made his breakfast and he still washed your dishes—and maybe that is enough.

///

You pass each other in the corridor, as you have done before.

You smile gently—soft as sin— and it breaks him, like it always does.

You have a hand on the rung of the ladder when he calls your name, and you turn to him, bright eyed.

“Thank you,” he rasps, “I never thanked you.”

He’s so strikingly sincere— standing there, arms dangling stiff by his sides. He looks different now, somehow— different, but the same. Fuller, bigger—smaller, too.

Human, you realize.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “Of course, Mando-“

“Din.”

You forget to breath. Time forgets to move.

“My name is Din.”

///

Din. Din Djarin.

It takes you almost a week to say it—to even utter the syllable aloud—and you only ever risk it when he’s gone on a hunt and you know you’re alone.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” you hear him say, the fabricated echo of his voice in your skull. He’s got two fingers in you—you can envision them now, clear and potent, the golden hide of them—and he moves slow as he takes you right to the edge, dancing dastardly along that cliff side before retracting himself and backing off. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking; you can feel it in his fingertips, how they mock you—how they scorch into you and leer.

Even in your fantasy, he’s a prick.

“You like it when I make you cum on this filthy fucking cot?”

You keen into your hand, whimpering into your bitten raw lips. The scene is playing on without you now, writing itself. All you can do is lay here and take it, succumb to it, starved and desperate and vile as you thrash on your bedroll.

You rove your palm over your chest—

He snakes up your shirt, twisting your nipple until it’s peaked and perked under him, until you yelp with that muddled jolt of pleasure and pain. He’s lazy and fitfully unhurried, each movement sauntered and proud. He’s coaxing it out of you, this orgasm, as he kneels over you, your vision flooded with the cold menace of his beskar. Finally, tortuously, he traces his thumb over your clit, toying with you in small circles until you’re shaking—vibrating, every molecule of you—like you’re going to burst, incinerate there in your bed. He’s urgent now, demanding, and thrusting into your swollen cunt and the pressure mounting in your heat swells until, until, oh my st-

You fuck your fingers until they prune, drenched with the thought of him teasing you, stuffing you full with anything he’ll give you; his hands, his cock—Maker, his tongue. You let it roll around your mouth when you touch yourself like this in the dark belly of the ship—heels digging into your thin mattress, knees steepled together—and you’re panting, wanton and velvet, before a fist shoots up to muffle the moaned name wafting from your lips like smoke.

“Din”

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #mando x female oc #mando x you #mando x reader #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x female oc #din djarin x female oc #din djarin smut #King of Cups #pedro pascal #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #slow burn #smut

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nvrrmiind · 3 years

Text

Not In The Same Way ; Calum Hood

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: smut & swearing -- like always

Summary: the one where y/n doesn't love Calum the way she used to.

(Read more of my work here)

***

It started like most relationships did, with fiery passion and unrealistic standards of happiness. In the beginning there was an overwhelming feeling of love and trust, like they’d known each other in a different life and had somehow found each other again in this one. They’d joked about being soulmates, but as their relationship progressed it would become evident that that wasn’t the case. Not because they didn’t love each other enough, but because they loved each other too much. In fact, they loved each other so much that it prevented them from being happy.

Calum had met her through a friend of a friend, who couldn’t stop talking about the beautiful girl with the killer smile and vibrant personality. Eventually one thing led to another and they met for drinks on a terrace overlooking the city. They seemed perfect for each other, both adventurous, yet laid back, and both aspiring to make a name for themselves. Perfect, however, as the years progressed, was the last thing outsiders would dare to call the pair.

It’s like what everyone says, what is good, must eventually come to an end.

***

“I love you. You know that, right?” He whispered, fingers trailing up and down her naked back.

“Yea, I know that.” She sighed, trying to muster up the strength to give him a smile.

Their bodies were covered in a light layer of sweat, yet she was cold to the touch. Her face lay on the back of her hands as she turned away from him, her chest feeling heavy. She couldn’t muster up the courage to tell him that she loved him anymore, much like how she couldn’t muster up the courage to give him cheesy smiles or squinting eyes that were filled with happiness.

She’d given up responding to his ‘I love yous’. It’s not that she didn’t love him anymore, because she did, but not in the same way she used to. She used to love him with the entirety of her heart and soul; she used to admire everything he did and couldn’t find a single thing wrong about him. But as her infatuation dwindled and real life began to kick her ass, it was getting harder for her to remember all of the things she used to love about him.

“I’m going out.”

“Okay.” She felt him leave a lingering kiss on her shoulder before their bed dipped and he was leaving to the bar yet again.

Two and a half years, she’d sigh. Have I wasted two and a half years of my life on a relationship that is going to amount to nothing? And am I going to continue to allow myself to feel this miserable, and if so, for how long? These questions swirled through her mind constantly for the past couple of months; and to be frank, she wasn’t sure how to answer any of them. She felt stuck between her past and present self, because she didn’t want to leave the man who she lived with and built a life with, but she also wanted to branch off and do different things. She was still so young and full of life, why should she spend it with a man she was no longer in love with.

That was it, she decided. She still loved him, but she wasn’t in love with him.

By the time she’d managed to get out of bed and showered off the lingering smell of him, he was stumbling up the stairs, drunk off his ass; a normal routine of his for the past few weeks. Because while she was ignoring and avoiding her relationship issues, he was feeling all of the blow-back from it. Calum was feeling the space that she was putting between the two of them and how she hadn’t told him she loved him. He could tell that she wasn’t happy and he knew that he was the reason for it, but he wasn’t sure why.

She avoided her problems by shutting down and he avoided his problems by drinking. Maybe they still were a match made in heaven, he thought sarcastically.

“You’re home early.” She remarked, meeting his drunken gaze. He was standing in the doorway, slowly swaying on his feet. It was hard not to notice his puffy lip and the cut above his eyebrow. While she continued to trail her eyes down his frame, she stopped at his busted knuckles.

“They kicked me out.”

“I can see that.” Her eyebrows were furrowed as she approached him, loosely linking her hands with his. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

“I’m sorry.” He hissed as she brushed the alcohol pad over his cut. His hands were bruised, and hurt when he gripped them into fists, but he still gripped her close to him.

“What happened?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“I always want you to be honest with me.” She nodded, her free hand cupping the side of his face, her thumb running across the underside of his eye, his eye-bags evident from the lack of sleep he’d been getting.

“I wanted to fight.” He was sitting on the side of the tub, his body melting into hers.

“You’re a psycho sometimes.”

“Only for you babe.” He winked, flashing a quick smile, something she had missed seeing.

Times like this, when he held her close, and they had their comforting witty banter, she felt like everything was okay again. But nothing would really ever be the same again, not with the two of them. The damage was already done, but neither of them wanted to admit it -- to admit defeat. They stayed like that for what could have been hours, but in reality it was only minutes, until she pulled away to throw away the bloodied tissues.

She could feel his stare, but refused to meet his gaze in the mirror. She could see Calum’s eyebrows furrowed in sadness and confusion, like they had been for the last few dreary months.

“I love you.” He spoke quietly.

“Me too.” She whispered, feeling her chest tightening each time she refused to acknowledge both his love and the love she had for him.

So, she did the only thing that she could think of to ease the tightening in her chest and the hopelessness in his; she made her way to him and cupped his face gingerly and brought his lips to hers. It was sloppy and laced with desire, everything they both needed at the moment. While they both knew that sex wouldn’t solve anything, they couldn’t help themselves.

Calum’s hands gripped the hem of her t-shirt, or rather his, and pushed it quickly up her body, before he tossed it across the bathroom. He left wet kisses up her stomach and between the valley of her breasts, his hands grabbing at her perfect ass. She hastily worked at his jeans, pulling him up by his belt loops, before she yanked them down his legs.

It didn’t take long before her knees and forearms were pressed against the cool tile floor and he was filling her up like he’d done hundreds of times before. She felt so warm and snug wrapped around him, like he was meant to be inside of her, pounding in and out of her with pure lust. He loved looking at her from this angle, with her ass in the air and back arching in pleasure. Small pants left her mouth as her eyes rolled back with every rough thrust he gave her. The sound of skin snapping against skin filled the room and her sweet whimpers mixed with his breathless moans.

“Harder,” She gasped, her body shaking with pleasure. “Please, Cal, give it to me harder.”

His hips slammed into hers with fervor, sliding in and out of her slick folds with ease. She could feel her orgasm in the pit of her stomach, waiting desperately to be taken to the edge, so she could release around him.

“Come for me, baby.” He whispered into her ear, nipping at her neck. “Come all over my cock.” He continued, suckling on her neck, making sure to leave a mark. He needed to, to remind her that she was still his, despite all the recent flaws of their relationship.

“Fuck, Cal, I’m gonna--” She whimpered, hot pants lingering past her dry lips.

“That’s it.” He groaned, feeling her clench around him, her legs spasming as her orgasm flooding her senses. He fucked her through her high, before he was a garbling mess behind her. Spurts of his hot white come filling her up.

He stayed inside of her, holding his come inside of her in desperation. Desperate, that if he pulled out of her that she would walk out of the door at the very next moment. As much as he tried to drink away his problems, nothing could fix the pain he was going through. Calum felt like there was a hole in his chest, like part of him was missing. He felt empty and sad and angry; and all of this was because of the fucked out girl in front of him, who was still coming down from her high. But she couldn’t have been the only problem, he knew that he played a part as well, but he didn’t know where he went wrong or how he could fix it.

When he finally pulled out of her, his come dripped from her weeping hole and down her thighs. He marveled at the sight, but it didn’t last long, before he was in his head again, thinking about how the only time he felt close to her now was when they were having sex. Inevitably, he knew, that they would end up fighting sooner or later since nothing seemed to be going right for them.

He wondered if they’d reach the point of no return.

***

Tears slipped down her cheeks with ease and stained her tear-ridden hands. She was tired, so tired. Tired of having to deal with this tightening feeling in her chest from her mixed and muddled emotions. She couldn’t keep living like this -- feeling like she was confined and trapped inside of her own mind and body. She paced around their kitchen in nothing but an old t-shirt, her sock clad feet scuffing against the smooth hardwood. There was a glass of whiskey that she’d slowly been drinking, set on the island, it was her second glass -- maybe third -- not that it mattered.

Calum was passed out upstairs, having come home after he helped close out the bar. The clock above the stove brightly shined 3:12am, and she couldn’t quite figure out why she was awake or why she decided that drinking whiskey would fix her. She was turning into him, she thought dryly. Her mascara was making her lashes clump together and was drastically smeared below her eyes like she was going through a life crisis in some generic movie. Tissues were littered across the counter, full of her sorrows; she’d gone through half a box of tissue already and wondered how much more she’d go through before she’d be able to stop pouring her heart out over a glass, or rather bottle, of whiskey.

She scrolled through her phone for the past twenty-five minutes, looking at pictures of the two of them together. Seeing how the both of them looked so happy, so in love. Pictures from years ago flooded her screen, of them at some lousy bar -- his arm hanging lazily over her shoulder, holding her tight. Pictures at the beach, of her holding him in the water with cheesy smiles on their faces. Pictures of them cuddled up next to each other by the fire, photos that their friends had taken of him. There were pictures of them after one of his shows, where you could see the light sheen of sweat layered across his body, where she still held him close even though she secretly hated his sticky post-concert skin.

There were the more intimate photos of them, and silly ones, and romantic ones -- and paparazzi photos that she’d saved to her phone from Twitter. The longer she stared at the photos the tighter her chest felt yet she still couldn’t look away from them. Her eyes continued to fill to the brim with tears that spilled from her eyes and continued to leave streaks down her cheeks. Why couldn’t she look away? She nearly let out a sob, reaching for her tissue box once again. Her phone hit the counter with a soft thud and she threw back the last of her whiskey before refilling it for the third -- maybe fourth -- time.

Sniffle, sigh, sip. That was her new mantra and as she looked at the clock above the stove the numbers shined brightly at her, 3:54am.

“What are you still doing up?” Calum’s groggy voice shook her from her thoughts.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She murmured, downing the last of her whiskey.

“Why don’t you come back to bed.” He spoke softly, matching her tone.

Her back was to him as she leaned over the counter, her glass discarded to her side and large piles of tissues were scattered around her. She wondered if he could feel her sorrow from across the room but he often decided to play the oblivious card whenever he could. Part of her wished that he would sweep her off of her feet and take her upstairs where he’d whisper sweet nothings into her ear until she fell asleep. Another part of her wished that he’d yell at her for being so distant and moody lately or yell at her for not loving him the same way that he loved her.

“Why haven’t you left me yet?” She questioned, turning around to face him, sniffling in the process.

“What do you mean?” His brows furrowed, and although he wanted to act dumb he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I’ve been a complete and utter asshole to you. I’ve been the shittiest girlfriend imaginable for at least the past month and you’ve stayed by my side like a sad fucking puppy.” She was angry, irrational, sad, and broken -- and she’d take it out on him if she had to.

“Because I know you’re just going through it. You’ll get over it, I know you will.”

“It’s not that simple.” She all but sobbed. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me understand.” He came to her with soft eyes and open arms. “Help me understand what you’ve been going through so you don’t have to go through it alone.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you.” She fell into his arms, clinging to his shirt, fearing that he might slip through her fingers.

“I’d rather be hurt by knowing what’s going on in that brain of yours than be hurt by you not telling me anything.”

She breathed in his scent with nostalgia, thinking about all the memories they’d made together. She thought about their first date and their first kiss. She thought about the first time they said they loved each other and the last time she actually meant it. She also thought about moving in with him and getting their first dog together. Her memories came flooding back to her in waves, making her clutch onto him tighter. She didn’t want to leave him, but how could she stay with him if she didn’t love him?

“I - I don’t think I love you anymore. Not in the same way I used to, at least.” She cried into his shoulder, mascara staining a shirt he should have thrown away a long time ago. “I want to love you so bad, Calum; I swear! I just, I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure this out, y/n, I promise.”

#Calum Hood #calum #hood #5sos #calum hood one shot #calum hood imagine #calum hood x reader #calum hood smut #calum hood fanfic

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therealvalkyrie · 3 years

Text

Painter’s Hands and Guatemalan Coffee: Part 2

insomniac

Pairing/setting: Levi Ackerman x Female!Reader, modern!college!AU

Summary: When you catch your idiot boyfriend cheating, your grumpy roommate is there to pick up the pieces and watch your back as you toe a carefully drawn line in the metaphorical sand.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: insomnia, nightmares, (remembering) death, panic attack, cuddling, fluff

AN: Here she is!! I’ve decided to give oc a little ~tragic backstory~ and I really hope it comes across like I’ve intended. I wouldn’t go so far as to call in angst, necessarily, but there’ll definitely be some in the future. Also, I know I’ve painted Annie and Reiner in a really bad light so far in this particular fic, but please know that’s not how I view them in canon at all - it’s simply because someone had to be the bad guy:( Anyways, I hope y’all enjoy and as always don’t hesitate to reach out via reblog/ask with any suggestions/feedback/questions!! ~valkyrie

(read Part 1.5 here)

Bodies jostle against you in the darkness to the beat of music you can’t hear. The buzzing gets louder, drowning out even your own screams for them to stop.

Stop. Stop. STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!

“STOP IT!” You can hear yourself this time, your voice embarrassingly loud in the cramped room. You slap hands over your mouth but everyone’s already turned to look at you, disgusted at the display of emotion. Even they peel their faces apart to sneer down their noses.

“Why should we?” Annie’s voice rings with superiority, swirling around the space and nestling in the crook of your neck. You shudder away, but the faceless bodies shove you back.

“Don’t you know this is your fault, anyway? You weren’t enough for me.” Reiner jeers with a satisfied smirk. The whole room laughs, cackling and giggling spitefully. You can’t move, muscles frozen, as they turn back to each other and continue making out. His hand in her hair, her thigh hooked over his hip, obscenely wet noises from their joined mouths.

You scream and scream and scream, jaw wide and aching, and all of a sudden the scene shifts and you’re at your mother’s bedside. Your breath hitches and you’re screaming in a child’s voice this time.

“Mommy, Mommy, no, please, no, MOMMY, PLEASE--”

Your hand twitches towards her and its movement against soft sheets brings you back to consciousness.

You’re spread-eagled in bed, comforter kicked almost completely off, chest heaving.

“One. Two. Three. Four…” you count in a hoarse whisper to yourself, staring out the window at gently falling snow illuminated in yellow streetlights. It takes you to one hundred and twenty-seven before you’re calm enough to do anything productive.

You reach out a blind hand to find your phone on the nightstand and raise it up to check the time. 4:47 am. Nearly three hours of sleep.

Eh, good enough for jazz.

You heave a sigh, then push up to sit on the edge of your bed and flick on the lamp. The sudden bright light makes you squint against sharp pain behind your eyes and turn away in search of a sweatshirt. Some sifting through the ever-growing pile of laundry later, you settle on a green university hoodie and pull it on over your ratty tank top. Your toes and fingers always feel like icicles after waking up from a nightmare, so you find faux fur-lined slippers as well.

As you push past your bedroom door and into the living room, a figure in the comfy armchair catches the corner of your eye.

You nearly jump out of your skin before recognizing who it is. “Christ on a cracker, Levi! Nearly scared me half to death.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry as he marks the page in his book and sets it on the coffee table.

“What are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“Well that’s not ominous or anything,” you mutter with an eye roll as you cross to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil for coffee.

Levi sighs and pinches the bridge of his elegant nose.

“Sorry. That’s not what I meant. It’s just… I noticed you haven’t been sleeping much lately and I’m worried.” He crosses to sit at the kitchen table and speaks to your back as you shuffle around the kitchen.

“What do you mean? Of course I’ve been sleeping. Whaddaya think I was just doing?”

“It’s five am, and you were still up when I went to sleep at twelve. Optimistically, that’s four hours of sleep. And yesterday you went to bed after one, but Hange said you were texting her at five-thirty, and--”

“Jeez, what, have you been stalking me or something?” you ask with an incredulous glance over your shoulder.

“We live together. It’s kind of hard not to notice.” Levi’s tone is the usual dry you’ve come to expect, but there’s an undercurrent that you’re too exhausted to pinpoint. “And Hange also told me she’s been worried.”

“What is this, an intervention? Just because I break up with someone I’m suddenly incapable of functioning?” Your voice (and headache) rises with each phrase, cracking on the morning dryness in the air, and you spin to face him.

“I didn’t say that, I--”

“Am I just supposed to wallow in misery for the rest of my life? No. I’m not doing that, Levi, I’m moving on. I-- I’m a busy woman, I’ve got finals and, and internship applications, and I happen to enjoy waking up early. I like watching the sunrise.” Though your words are rushed and you’re gesturing animatedly, uncertainty seeps through the stuttered phrases in your argument.

Levi lets you finish, then returns in a measured voice: “Why are you so defensive about this? I know you’re busy. So am I. But I manage to get more than four hours of sleep at night. I just want to help.”

His statement hangs in the air like dust mites, swirling around you and clinging to the sticky after-effects of the nightmare in your mind. You frown and drop your eyes to the linoleum, guilt settling into the stickiness.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Your voice is much softer. “I just--” A deep sigh. “I can’t sleep.”

“Why?”

The simple question makes your breath stutter and you scrub a hand down your face in an effort to ground your skin into reality.

“It’s so stupid.” It’s practically a whisper. “I have these nightmares. About my mom. I got them when I was younger, too, but eventually they just sort of… stopped. But now they’re back. And I can’t ever get back to sleep after, so I just stopped bothering to try.”

“You know, sometimes I get nightmares, too.”

The admission catches you off guard, your eyes widening. Levi always seems so… steady and sure, you wouldn’t have expected it.

“Really?”

He nods. “About my mom and the foster homes.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you…” Your heart sinks, and you don’t know how to say you’re sorry for the heartbreak he must’ve lived through with any semblance of tact.

“Yeah. It’s not something I talk about much.”

“Right.” You pause and chew on your tongue thoughtfully for a moment. “Do you have...strategies for when you can’t sleep because of them?”

“I have sleeping pills from my psychiatrist and some meditation practices that work for me. I can send you some resources, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’d really appreciate that if it’s not a bother.” You feel kind of sheepish now, for raising your voice, and so try to sound extra thankful for his help.

“It’s not.” He stands up and stretches both arms over his head, tipping his face up to the sky, lean body arching and twisting with the effort of it. “I’ll send them to you later today. I’m gonna go back to bed.”

“Okay. Thank you, Levi.”

He nods and yawns, nose scrunching adorably. “Night, kid.”

“Good night.”

As his bedroom door clicks shut, you sigh yet again and turn off the stove. The first thing to avoid is probably coffee.

Your fingers flick off last rivulets of water as you step out of the shower. A shiver rattles its way up your spine before you can grab a towel to dry off. Bless Levi, he had done laundry today and the towel is still dryer-warm, smelling of his favorite fabric softener.

As you go through your evening routine (tooth brushing, face washing, hair drying), you can feel a quiet tension set into your shoulders despite the humidity of the bathroom.

The day had gone okay. You managed to resist coffee until 8 am and cut yourself off at 3. A lecture and a studio in the morning left the afternoon for library studying and a trip to the grocery store.

You had actually seen Bertholdt there, in the cereal aisle. You hadn’t been too keen on having that particular conversation, but luckily he hadn’t seemed to be either. The pair of you exchanged sympathetically awkward smiles before turning back to the Cheerios.

The evening consisted of ordering chinese takeout while obsessing over your latest architecture design project, followed by convincing Hange over the phone not to sleep in the mouse lab for extra credit.

“But Bean will be lonely!” she insisted hysterically. “And Sonny wasn’t looking too hot in lab today, what if he needs his mommy and I’m not there?”

“You’re not their mommy,” you reminded her. “They have each other to keep them company, and if Sonny dies, won’t it support your hypothesis anyway?”

She had eventually acquiesced when you promised to help her plan a memorial should they pass in the night.

So now here you are, skin slowly drying, as you psych yourself up in the mirror to go to sleep.

“It won’t be bad. Just use the meditations Levi sent you.” You try to inject confidence into your voice, but you only end up grimacing at yourself in the mirror. “Ah, fuck it.”

You tuck your towel in firmly around your chest and double check to see your things are put away before going back to your room.

As you pass, you hesitate by Levi’s door for a moment. His normal studying music, Chopin, is on and light creeps out from underneath. Another moment of uncertainty, then you gently knock and poke your head in.

“Levi?” He raises his head from where he’s hunched over an easel, paint brush in hand. Brow furrowed and body tensed like a strung bow, he doesn’t look happy to be interrupted.

Fuck.

“I, uhm, just wanted to say good night.”

He grunts and turns back to the painting.

You take that as your cue to leave.

Back in the sanctuary of your own room, you curse again and kick your desk chair, sending it rolling a couple inches.

Why had you bothered him? To say good night?

“Stupid, stupid, UGH.” Your dramatic outburst ends in flopping face-first into bed. Just because he felt concerned enough to stage a fucking intervention doesn’t mean he’s your fucking nanny. Idiot.

Eventually, you roll over and get up to change into pajamas.

Settling into bed, you open your newly downloaded meditation app and start an audio.

“As you prepare for your meditation practice today, find a comfortable position sitting or lying down where you can fully relax….”

The cool female voice wraps your mind in a hazy blanket of fog and eventually coaxes your body into an achingly needed sleep.

This time the dream wakes you up whimpering into your pillow, arms flung above your head as though you’re skydiving. With a sucking breath, you lift your head to prevent imminent suffocation and instead settle on your side, staring unblinkingly into the darkness. Breath ragged in your chest, your mind can’t seem to move past the last image of your nightmare.

It’s burned into your retinas when you close your eyes and etched onto the moonlight-pale wall when they’re open: your mom’s pallid face staring up at the ceiling, hands resting on top of her blue embroidered duvet cover, chest still.

A sob escapes your unwilling throat and you’re scrambling to sit up and reach for the lamp. The lamplight suddenly reminds you of your own existence in the physical plane, thrusting all your senses into sharp contrast.

Her greying, thinning hair, the frailty in her fingers, the cracks in her lips, the cloying scent of death.

“Nonononononononono,” you moan, hunched over your knees, fingers tangled in your hair. Your stomach is hollow, chest tight, tears now flowing in earnest. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time, not since 7th grade at least.

Do something, do something, you stupid bitch, your mind is yelling at you, and so you force your body to move. Somewhere, anywhere other than here.

You practically fall out of bed and then lean heavily on your desk to compensate for shaking knees as you move to the door. Feet shuffle in the darkness and all of a sudden you’re sniffling outside Levi’s door, fingers in a deathgrip on your shirt. One, two breaths and you knock three hesitant raps.

Fuck. Shit. Instant regret bubbles up in your throat and you pivot away. Before you can get far, the door opens and you hear Levi’s sleep-ragged voice utter your name like a question. Damn.

You turn back sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve woken you up. Go back to bed.” Your voice is unnaturally breathy as Levi tries to make you out in the dim light of the moon filtering in through the living room window.

He reaches for your shoulder to gently pull you out of the shadows, and realization crosses his face as he registers the tear tracks and haunting terror in your eyes.

“It happened again,” he states.

You nod hesitantly and wipe at your cheeks with the back of one hand. You try again to tell him that no, really, you’re fine and he should go back to bed, but the words get lost in the tangle of truths between your brain and mouth.

Instead, what comes out is: “Can… can I sleep with you?” Your eyes finally flick to his before you quickly follow up. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, I just- it helps to have someone close….”

Levi watches you for a moment before sliding his hand from your shoulder to your hand and tugging gently.

“Come on.”

You follow him inside and fidget awkwardly at the side of his bed as he climbs in. His room is impeccably neat, not that you would expect anything different from the man who once gave you a five minute lecture about leaving dishes in the sink to soak. It was the most words you’d heard him string together at the time, and he only stopped when he realized you were laughing.

“You sound like my Great Aunt Cheryl,” you said between hiccups of mirth. “Insufferable woman.”

He had looked at you scathingly, then made you promise never to leave the dishes for later again on pain of changing the wifi password.

Once he’s settled, Levi turns back the covers on your side and looks at you expectantly. You falter a split second before climbing in next to him, the familiar smell of his laundry detergent clouding around you as you fall back into soft pillows. He throws the comforter over you, then settles down and opens his arms.

“C’mere, kid,” he says with a tenderness that makes a sniffle catch in the back of your throat.

You roll into his arms, resting your head in the curve of his shoulder and breathe the first easy breath since you woke up. An arm flung around his middle means your whole body is against his, warming you up like a midafternoon nap in August.

Levi settles his arm around your back after tucking in the blankets and holds you like you’ve always belonged there. He gradually, gradually feels you relax into him as your breathing begins to match his own.

After a while, your eyes droop closed and Levi allows himself the indulgence of tucking his nose into your hair. A bouquet of lavender shampoo and you accompanies him softly into his dreams.

(read part 3 here)

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #hange zoe #swearing #insomnia #nightmares #panic attack #painter's hands and guatemalan coffee #valkyrie writes

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solitairesins · 3 years

Text

inspired by

[10:46pm] — tokyo prefectural jujutsu high school. nobara's bathroom.

the first years aren't sure when it started or how it started, but their days start and end cramming either into fushiguro's or nobara's bathroom elbowing each other for space and clamoring over toothpaste. maybe it started with yuuji's insistence of shoving first aid kits on their respective attached bathrooms in the dorms, clanking and pushing bandages into any space he could find. as if they didn't have ieiri-san, or as if they had injuries that could be fixed with just convenience store cartoon bandaids and betadine. maybe it started with nobara pounding on the boys' doors, pillow and blankets in arm, demanding they let her sleep with them because it was a heavy storm and a long night. maybe it was megumi's face looking funny whenever he kicked them out of his room — "you're uninvited," he insists — but whatever the case was, the first and last things they see are each other.

"ow!" nobara scowls at yuuji through the mirror, and yuuji winces, pulling back the hair dryer from nobara's scalp and elbowing megumi in the act, making his toothbrush push further into his mouth.

"sorry, sorry!" yuuji cries out, a general apology to the room as two thirds of the occupants scowl at him.

"not too close to my head," nobara grumpily reminds yuuji as he tries to comb through her hair again, the hair blower whizzing mechanically.

for a moment that's the only activity inside the room, megumi and nobara watching closely as yuuji has his tongue poked out, knees bent and back hunched in a position not possibly comfortable, as he carefully and diligently tries to blow dry nobara's hair.

megumi slowly resumes brushing his teeth when he decides yuuji is doing an acceptable enough job of not tugging and a general good job of combing through nobara's hair. he glances at the other half of nobara's head, still wet and limp, making a dark wet patch on the shoulder of her sleep shirt; he makes a note to volunteer for the hair blowing task the next time. he's had enough practice with his sister, he thinks, which is maybe enough to pass nobara's standards. for now though, he fetches the towel around yuuji's shoulder and pats it onto nobara's, gently drying as much as he could with one hand brushing his teeth and yuuji's elbow pointing at his face.

nobara's gaze meets his through the mirror as he finishes the task, and she pushes the glass of tap water on the sink closer to him as he twists to rinse his mouth. she scoots on her seat and out of the way, letting megumi wiggle his way in front of the sink. she sees and feels yuuji dutifully lean back with her; he's a quarter done now, and by the pace he's going the other half of her hair will be dry before he could get to it. she lets him continue, though. he'll get better with practice, she thinks.

megumi finishes rinsing and plops the toothbrush in the holder, clattering beside the other two brushes inside. he lets nobara scoot back into place, before gently nudging yuuji and muttering, "let me."

yuuji relinquishes the dryer and squeezes past megumi, watching how fushiguro combs through nobara's hair and deftly maneuvers the clunkily big and awkward dryer as he blindly reaches for his toothbrush. he watches megumi finish the sections in nobara's hair faster than he learned how to aim the machine properly, and sticks close to the wall as megumi maneuvers to the other side of nobara's head. he likes moments like these, yuuji does. it's quiet and normal, and most times he could pretend things are okay and that there aren't heavy things he needs to think about. he likes watching his friends work through their routines, likes volunteering to help them; likes being around them. wishes he could have more of this.

the dying whirr of the dryer is deafening after so many continuous minutes of it going and echoing inside the bathroom, and yuuji feels like he could still feel the vibrations inside his head as he sticks the toothbrush in his mouth.

the three of them maneuver again so that megumi could put the blower under the counter. yuuji doesn't really know why one or two of them just scooch past outside the bathroom so there's more space for everyone, but it's not like he wants to, so he doesn't.

nobara is settled in front of the sink with yuuji beside her, when nobara's horrified gaze meets yuuji through the mirror. "yuuji, that's my toothbrush!"

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fluff #itadori yuuji #kugisaki nobara #fushiguro megumi #i love itafushikugi if yall didnt know :)#🃏.salvation

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bentforkent · 3 years

Text

glittery

penelope garcia x emily prentiss

a/n: whipped something up for valentines dayyyy, i hope u enjoy! happy vday from me to u. also shoutout to cj @hotchseyebrows for helping me with this i am A Mess and u are the best.

content warning: fluff, SMUT (18+), alcohol mentions, oral sex, first time, begging, sexy-ass emily prentiss

word count: 2028

in which emily and penelope are crafting for valentine’s day, and some feelings come up

- - - - “You’re more glittery than normal,” Emily remarks, pushing Penelope’s front door open and surveying the scene in front of her.

“You’re here!” Penelope scrambles to get out of her chair, pushing away from the kitchen table that’s covered in shimmery pinks, reds, purples, and rushing to wrap her arms around Emily’s waist. To free her arms and return Penelope’s hug, Emily sets her plastic grocery bag onto the counter. The cheap bottles of wine inside clink against each other musically, making Penelope’s ears perk up and gesture towards the bag.

Emily launches into a retelling of her time at the grocery store: There was a weird woman there who Emily was exactly 73 percent sure was following her. As she tells the story, she flits around Penelope’s kitchen with ease, finding the bottle opener and two stemmed glasses. Penelope watches her intently, entranced by her black-cat movements. It’s not lost on her how easily Emily makes use of her space. Penelope’s space, that is. Emily is here, in her kitchen, popping a cork---two corks, she’d bought pink wine specifically for Penelope--and washing her hands and drying said hands on her tea towels and lounging against her countertops, mindful of her cluttered space and figurines. It’s domestic. It’s domestic and overwhelming and Penelope just might burst.

“Anyways,” Emily says, concluding her story and turning back to Penelope, glass looped languidly between her fingers. “Why are you covered in craft glitter?”

“We, my friend, are making Valentine’s Day cards,” Penelope says.

“Alright,” Emily hums, taking a seat at the end of the table. “I’m not very crafty.”

“I am! I’ll teach you.”

- - - -

“Pass me the scissors, please,” Penelope requests. Careful of the blade, Emily reaches across the table to hand Penelope the glue-sticky scissors. After Penelope’s careful tutorial on how to cut a perfect heart and administer the perfect amount of campy shimmer, the room fell silent save for the jazzy music playing in the background--Amy Winehouse, at Emily’s request--and the soft sounds of crafting--snip, paste, glitter, repeat. Snip, paste, glitter, repeat. Snip. Paste. Glitter. Repeat.

Emily pauses her routine of gluing a piece of red cardstock to a pink one. She’d been considering her next question carefully, debating whether she wants to ask it at all. “Who are you making these valentines for, anyways?” Attempting nonchalance, she takes a sip of her wine.

Penelope can read Emily like a book. Not even looking up from her homemade card, maintaining Emily’s same nonchalance, Penelope replies, “Why does it matter? You have a crush on me or something?”

Obviously Emily has a crush on her.

Penelope knows.

She’s known since a few months ago, on a random Thursday, when Emily had shyly brought a cup of coffee into her office. Penelope had never seen Emily at a loss for words before, but she was just so anxious about if she’d gotten the right coffee order. Penelope’s definitely not a profiler, but it really didn’t take much to figure out the strange blush on Emily’s cheeks. Thank god she did, too, because Penelope was just about making herself sick pining after Emily. She’s had a thing for her for as long as she could remember; since Emily had settled herself into the BAU all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And then Penelope had discovered reciprocation of those feelings and her heart soared and she just wanted to wrap her arms around Emily and fucking kiss her.

But they’re still doing the “best friends” thing. God, does Penelope just want to stop this whole stupid back and forth act where they both pretend like they’re just best friends. But she’s playing hard-to-get. Too often had she given herself away too soon just to be let down later. So she’s keeping the upper hand on this one, because it matters. Emily matters.

And on an entirely separate note, watching Emily flounder and figure out Penelope’s feelings for herself is quite entertaining. Penelope only feels a tiny bit bad about that.

“No, I’m just curious,” Emily says carefully, teetering into defensiveness. She continues gluing her cardstock, letting the sound of her dragging the paste across the paper serve as an ending to the conversation.

“No?” There’s a playful lilt to Penelope’s voice, but Emily is embarrassed she asked and quite frankly, done talking about it. The air thickens, and Penelope doesn’t feel much like joking anymore.

“No.”

There’s a few moments of silence. Amy Winehouse croons, Penelope presses a marker across her Valentine, scrawling a message onto it. Emily’s scowl radiates through the room.

“You’re a big baby, Emily Prentiss,” Penelope says bluntly.

Emily sets her glue stick onto the table, crossing her arms around her chest and leaning back in her chair. “How am I a baby?” Her words are calm, careful.

With a dramatic sigh, Penelope holds up the Valentine she’d been working on for the greater part of an hour. She could hear Emily building her walls up and she’s tired of all of that. The card is beautiful, obviously, having been carefully crafted under Penelope’s skillful hand. “Emily” is written in shimmery purple bubble letters, surrounded by little hand drawn hearts. There’s a lengthy message attached, heartfelt and sincere.

“The valentines are for you, you beautiful, oblivious disaster,” Penelope says. “Everything is for you.”

Emily purses her lips to avoid the smile from creeping onto her face.

It doesn’t work.

“Oh.” She pauses to think, replaying every interaction she shared with Penelope for the past few months and reframing them. Penelope likes her back. She feels a touch stupid for not figuring it out, but excitement prevails over that emotion. “Yeah?”

Penelope huffs. “Just kiss me, please.” Emily didn’t really need it spelled out for her, because that was her next move, but she appreciates the proactivity from Penelope.

With renewed gusto and pull, Emily leans back in her chair, patting her lap. “C’mere, then.” With a squeal, Penelope gets up out of her chair and skips--literally skips--the short distance to Emily’s side of the table. Emily is looking at her like she hung the stars as Penelope swings her leg over her lap.

“Hi,” Penelope says, holding Emily’s shoulders tightly to steady herself. She’s suddenly nervous, despite all of the frustration and excitement she’d been channeling into this conversation just a second ago. Tentatively, she trails the pad of her thumb down Emily’s nose, letting it fall to her bottom lip.

Emily just wants to look at her, for a second, her rosy cheeks and gentle gaze. But one more second without kissing Penelope is far too long and before Emily’s brain can catch up with her chin, she’s leaning in to press her lips against Penelope’s.

They’ve both clearly been anticipating this, as they move in sync like they were made to kiss each other, as if their lips were crafted specifically to be against each other in this exact moment. It feels like hours that they’re kissing, that Emily is tugging on the roots of Penelope’s hair, that Penelope is leaving careful bruises against Emily’s jaw.

Once Emily is sufficiently out of breath, she pulls away and rests her forehead against Penelope’s. “Let me eat you out, please,” she requests quietly, trying to catch a bit of air.

Penelope nods, rapidly. “Oh my god, yes, yes,” she says, giggling softly. “You don’t even have to ask, seriously. Okay, yes you do. You do have to ask, but I will always say yes.”

Emily cuts off Penelope’s rambling with a hot “shhh,” and a suggestive tug on the hem of her skirt.

Penelope blushes, unzipping the pink dress on her side and lifting it over her head.

“You’re matching,” Emily notes lamely. It would be quite literally impossible for her to come up with a sufficient compliment for the way Penelope looks in her lacy, red set. So she gapes, feeling utterly grateful for the chance to even be in the presence of this sun of a woman.

“I had plans,” Penelope says through a grin, standing from Emily’s lap. Wordlessly, with Emily still staring indecently at Penelope’s tits in that bra, they switch spots, Penelope now sitting in the kitchen chair with her legs spread. Emily lowers herself onto her knees in front of Penelope, rubbing soft circles into her skin. She runs her finger along Penelope’s heat, sighing gently at the wetness seeping through the fabric. “You’re so wet for me,” Emily says, peering up at Penelope, who has already settled in and closed her eyes.

“Mhm,” Penelope replies, shifting her hips up in order to shimmy her underwear down her legs.

Emily kisses across the expanse of Penelope’s stomach, taking a moment to rest her chin on the soft skin and look up at the woman in front of her. “You’re so pretty,” she murmurs. “Look at this pretty pussy.”

Penelope lets out an embarrassed whine, nudging Emily’s cheek with her knuckles.

“Keep going, okay, I get it,” Emily chuckles, half to herself. Penelope’s eyelids flutter closed, her fingers tangle in Emily’s hair. It’s soft and for half of a second Penelope wonders what shampoo does she use?, but then Emily is licking and kissing and biting and Penelope’s brain has been reduced to that damned purple glitter and she feels like it might be pouring out of her ears.

When Penelope’s usually getting head, once every few months, Penelope is acutely aware of where her thighs rest, careful to keep them open and away from her suitors’ ears, but Emily is clutching the outside of them like a castaway holds a buoy, tugging her closer. It makes Penelope impossibly more wet. There’s a gasp that could have come from either of them as Emily drags her tongue flat across Penelope’s slit.

Penelope squirms under Emily’s mouth as she continues her careful, skillful tongue work. “‘S good, Emmy, so good,” she moans. Egged on by the praise, Emily wraps her lips around Penelope’s clit, making Penelope emit a high-pitched noise. Emily chuckles against her skin, pulling away to pepper gentle kisses along her thigh.

“Hey,” Penelope pouts at the lack of contact. “C’mon, Em, you’re so mean,”

“I’m mean?” Emily asks with a raised eyebrow, looking up at Penelope through her lashes. “If I’m so mean I’ll leave you here high and dry begging to cum, then.”

This time the gasp is definitely Penelope, scandalized and not used to being told no. Her hips buck forward on their own accord, aching for Emily’s touch. “That’s not fair,” she whines.

Emily taps Penelope’s knees, signaling for her to close them. “Life isn’t fair, sweet girl.”

Penelope weighs her options in her head. It’s clear what Emily wants to hear--begging. But god, if it’s not in Penelope’s nature to put up a fight. She’s contemplating, trying to ignore her lower half twitching in desperation. The moment seems longer than it is--after about 10 seconds and Emily wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she begins grovelling.

“Please Emmy, please,” she says, “I’ll do anything, just...please.” When Emily doesn’t react immediately, Penelope tacks on an extra, “Pretty please.”

Emily grins, leaning back in and pressing a delicate kiss just to the left of where Penelope needs her. “You’re a good girl, baby,” she mumbles under her breath.

“Mhm,” Penelope agrees quietly, letting her hands settle back onto the crown of Emily’s head. The pair devolve into a rhythmic sound of Emily’s mouth and tiny subsequent moans from Penelope. As Emily speeds up, so do Penelope’s whines, so does the rise and fall of Penelope’s chest.

There’s not much build up before Penelope’s snapping, she finds. One second she’s reveling in the feeling of Emily’s warm mouth working her up, and the next her legs are tensing and she’s shaking through an intense wave of orgasm, pushing Emily’s head from where she’s most sensitive.

Emily grins, pressing a sweet kiss to Penelope’s knee, waiting for her to calm and recover. “You’re like, really good at that,” Penelope says with a wide smile, her glassy eyes filled with satiation. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Emmy.”

Emily rises to kiss Penelope softly, swiping her tongue over her bottom lip. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

#penemily #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #emily prentiss smut #emily prentiss fanfic #penelope garcia fanfiction #emily x penelope #prentiss x garcia #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfiction

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malfoymanortings · 4 years

Text

somebody else PT 2

SUMMARY: Mae has been in love with Draco Malfoy since her first year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy fell in love with Mae in their fourth year, and then promptly fell into Pansy’s bed instead. All the while, Mae clings to the hope that Draco will change. That is, until, Ron Weasley takes his chance.

PAIRINGS: toxic!Draco x OC, Ron x OC, Ginny x Luna

im not sure that I like how this turned out, but hopefully you all enjoy it! I was very surprised I got so much positive feedback on that little one shot i posted. thank you all for the love!

also, let me know if you want to be on the taglist for the next part.

Perhaps it was her conversation with Ginny the previous night, or perhaps it was because she felt so hollow inside, but Mae resolved herself on confronting Draco. Of course, he didn’t make things easy for her. He never did.

“Pansy and Draco are sitting awfully close, aren’t they?” Blaise said conversationally, taking a sip of his morning coffee. Full of cream, three sugars. As always.

Mae eyed Draco and Pansy warily, noting the way Pansy laughed into Draco, her hand seeming to move onto his leg although it was hidden from the table. “They’re just friends.”

“Rubbish,” scoffed Blaise harshly, stabbing an egg. “You’re much smarter than that, love.”

Pansy took that moment to brush Draco’s hair out of his face, and something broke inside Mae as Draco caught her hand in his own, bringing her knuckles to his lips and ghosting a kiss across them.

“It’s none of your business though, innit?” snapped Mae, slamming her glass of pumpkin juice down so harshly it brought the attention of the entire half of their table, including Draco and Pansy. “If Draco wants to fuck a slut, let him.”

Blaise choked on his eggs, slamming a fist into his chest as he attempted to swallow. Draco tilted his head, a sneer on his face, while Pansy began hurling insults at Mae.

“Perhaps if you weren’t a filthy half-blood, Draco would be more interested. He wants a real woman.” Pansy declared wickedly, her lips lifted up in a snarl.

“A real woman with real STDs, hm?” retorted Mae, standing up from the table. “Everyone knows you fucked Theodore Nott last week, and he had to go to Madam Pomfrey from whatever you gave him!”

The part about Pansy fucking Theodore Nott was true, although the STD part was not. But Mae was so angry, so fed up with how the both of them were treating her, that she couldn’t contain it anymore. At this point, most of the Great Hall had caught sight of what was happening, although the teachers at least pretended to be oblivious. She caught sight of Ginny grinning at her encouragingly.

“I’m going to be honest with you, because no one else will,” Draco said the words slowly, casually, as though he were speaking of the weather. “Anyone who says they’re interested in you, beyond just fucking you, is a liar.”

Mae felt her cheeks burn, as the Slytherin table began laughing and oohing under their breath, and she rushed out of the Great Hall. She heard footsteps behind her, but she ignored them, until someone tugged harshly on her arm, the rings on his fingers alerting her to who it was.

“Why?” demanded Mae, turning around with unshed tears. An amused Draco stood in front of her, looming over her. “Why do you do this to me?”

Perhaps the question caught him off guard, because Draco replied with “I don’t know.”

Mae let out a strangled sob, wiping her hands harshly down her face. “I just want to be the one you love.”

“Oh darling,” Draco said the words softly, reaching out to caress her cheek. Mae closed her eyes for a moment, and she could pretend everything was fine. “I’ll never love you.”

With those words, Draco shoved her jaw harshly, causing a loud popping noise to sound as pain reverberated through the lower half of her face.

“I’m breaking up with you.” Mae said the words first, opening her eyes to see Draco actually looking.. Hurt, by her words.

“Took you long enough.”

Mae looked to see Ginny heading her way, her hand intertwined with Luna’s, with the Golden trio, Pansy, and Blaise following close behind.

“We would have never made it anyways.” Draco responded quietly, and Mae felt a bit vindicated to see that he appeared to feel at least partially upset.

“That’s your fault.” her voice shook, but Mae said the words passionately.

“How?” he had the nerve to sound incredulous, and Mae balled up her fists as tears of anger came to her eyes.

“You always cheated on me with Pansy! You treated me like I was your pet, like you could keep fucking around without any care for my feelings!” the words she had been keeping in for so long burst out, and she felt a rush of vindication that she finally got to say them aloud.

Draco scoffed, and any hope of him apologizing or fighting for her went out the window. “You really think I give a shit about you? It’s your loss, Callisto.” he sneered her last name, looking over his shoulder to see the others approaching them.

Mae’s eyes hardened, hatred growing as Pansy ran pathetically over to Draco. “Your whore’s here.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Sorry you don’t know how to keep a man.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be Callisto,” Draco drawled out, slinging an arm over Pansy. “Nobody likes a slut that doesn’t understand when her time is up.”

“What did you just say?” Ron Weasley was the last person Mae expected to speak to Draco after he said those words.

Draco scoffed. “You heard me, Weas-”

Before Draco could get the full word out, Ron’s fist collided with Draco’s delicate features. Mae’s eyes widened as Ron wound his fist back once more, knocking Draco flat on his back. Pansy started screaming, and Blaise started laughing.

“Blaise, help him!” Pansy shrieked, slapping a hand to her mouth in horror.

Blaise sighed, rolling his eyes. He gave Mae a quick look, (perhaps in an apology?) before he gave Ron a swift kick to his stomach. Ron stumbled backwards, falling on his bottom, and Draco lay on the ground clutching his bruised and bloody face.

Pansy promptly threw herself down onto Draco, and Blaise stood there with his arms crossed as though he were just waiting for the show to be over. Mae, on the other hand, had nothing left to say to Draco, and turned her attention to Ron, who had just gotten off the floor with the help of Harry.

“Thank you,” the words were quiet, but sincere. Ron nodded to her, his eyes not wavering from hers.

“He’s not worth it, yeah?” said Ron, shaking his bruised knuckles. “He never deserved you.’

Mae, suddenly flooded with emotion, just shook her head, and with tears burning in her eyes, she left the scene behind her.

--=--

The hardest thing was seeing Draco be so openly affectionate with Pansy. It broke her, each time she entered the common room to see her sitting on his lap. Getting a kiss on the cheek. A hug. A tender embrace. It burned like hell.

So, she began spending less time in the common room. She began joining Luna and Ginny on their outings, normally in the astronomy tower, and at some point, the Golden Trio started joining them. It became a routine, the six of them hanging out in either the tower or the library, if Hermione got her way.

On the bright side, her grades had never been better.

A month after the incident with Draco, Mae found herself feeling the wound particularly harshly. She paced outside the Gryffindor common room, hoping to find Ginny coming out of the portrait hole. Instead, she got Ron Weasley, who didn’t seem all too surprised to find her out there.

“You alright?” Ron asked awkwardly, halfway in the doorframe and halfway out.

Mae shook her head silently, her chest aching. “Not really.”

“How ‘bout we take a way, yeah?” suggested Ron, stepping out of the portrait hole. It swung shut loudly behind him.

Mae shrugged her shoulders, and together they walked in silence. They had no clear destination in mind, and Mae found she felt slightly better having his company around her. Ron, she had found, had a fairly dry sense of humor and it was ever so easy to laugh around him. Sometimes, the others didn’t quite understand the joke, but Mae always did. His humor was similar to hers, if she could just find it again.

“I always wondered,” Ron broke their silence, stopping to sit on a ledge overlooking the black lake. “If the squid really existed.”

“Oh, it does,” Mae assured Ron, hopping up on the opposite side of the stone ledge, wrapping her robe tightly around herself. “Sometimes in the common room, we get to see it swim by.”

Ron’s eyes flashed with admiration. “Wicked.”

“I suppose it might be a bit more exciting than overlooking the grounds,” Mae said the words pretentiously, sniffing as she hid a grin from Ron. “We get to see the inside of the black lake, while you boring Gryffindors just get landscape.”

“At least during winter we haven’t got to sleep under ten blankets just to get by,” protested Ron, bringing a hand up to brush his hair out of his face. “Then again, you might just have an iron deficiency.”

Mae’s eyes widened. “That’s a big word for Ronald Weasley.”

“Hermione mentioned it!” defended Ron, moving his hands as he spoke. “She’s the one who suggested you go to Madam Pomfrey for it! You’re always freezing!”

“It’s a perk of being damaged goods, I suppose.” Mae said the words without much thought, as she had gotten distracted by Ron’s rather large hands moving around.

Ron went still, and he gave Mae a confused look. “Damaged goods?”

Mae’s feelings of inadequacy came back, and she felt the stinging of tears hit her eyes. She tried to play it off, giving a weak laugh. “Well, yeah, what else would you call me?”

“Beautiful,” the word rolled off Ron’s tongue rather quickly, as though he hadn't had to think about it at all.

Tears slipped out of her eyes as Mae processed his words. How could anyone think she was beautiful? Couldn’t he see how damaged she was? Draco had used her up and thrown her out, and no one else would ever want his seconds. He had told her that many times.

“Don’t,” the words came out wet and wobbly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Ron was rarely serious, but he completely focused on her as he reached out to grab her hand in his large one. “Mae, why would I lie about that?”

The tears came freely now, and she could feel a sob building up in her chest. “Ronald Weasley, don’t you dare sit there and lie to me! Don’t fucking sit there, and tell me I’m beautiful, because I’m not. I’m used up and I’m damaged, I will never be anything beyond that!”

Before she could protest, Ron had pulled her into a hug, engulfing her small frame in his large one. Mae had forgotten what it was like to be embraced like this, and she buried her head into Ron’s wide chest as she cried. In the back of her mind, she understood that was likely having a panic attack.

“Calm down Mae,” Ron held her close, caressing her hair. “You’ll be alright.”

They sat like that, until Mae’s cries subsided and she took a shaky breath, pulling out of Ron’s embrace. She was suddenly embarrassed that she had overreacted as she did, and a blush stained her wet cheeks.

“‘M sorry about that,” mumbled Mae, wiping her cheeks roughly. “I didn’t mean to make you all soggy.”

Ron laughed at that. “Why would I complain, a beautiful girl cried on me today. Sounds like a win to me!”

Mae hit Ron on his arm for that, a small laugh coming out of her as well. If anything, Ron Weasley knew how to switch the mood. “Don’t be a prat, Weasley.”

Ron’s eyes crinkled in the corners as he tossed his head back in a loud bout of laughter, and Mae found herself staring at his full lips. Really, how had she not noticed how perfectly shaped Ron’s lips were before? And Merlin, how were his teeth so straight and white?

As quickly as she began admiring Ron Weasley, images of silver hair and grey eyes flashed through her mind, and she shut her eyes and swallowed hard. There would never be Draco and Mae, that much was clear. It did not do to dwell on things that would never change.

“Imagine leaving me for a Weasley.”

Mae’s stomach dropped as she saw Draco swaggering towards her and Ron, Blaise close behind him. She hated how she still got butterflies as he eyed her appraisingly, before sneering at Ron.

“Shut it, Malfoy.” snapped Ron, his ears growing pink as he dug in his robes for his wand.

“Oh,” whistled Draco, drawing out the vowel. “Weaselbee is going to show off how big of a man he is. Trust me, Weasel, been there, done that. I’m the best she’ll ever have had.”

“Tell me Malfoy, you ever been hexed so hard you had to fight for your life?” snarled Ron, standing before the silver haired boy and brandishing his wand.

Mae quickly got down from the stone ledge, standing in between Draco and Ron, placing a hand on both of their chests. “Both of you, stop it!”

Ron’s jaw clenched, and he didn’t lower his wand. Draco smirked at the sight of her hand on his chest, his eyes flicking down at it before backup to look her in the eyes.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Mae said the words firmly, glaring at Draco. “We aren’t together anymore. Stop acting like this.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t fight little Weaselbee.” drawled Draco, flexing his fingers on his wand. “I still had you first.”

“And I fucking left you!” shouted Mae, shoving Draco back from her and Ron. “Get that through your thick skull, and go back to Pansy. The bitch you always cheated on me with!”

“You said you loved me.” Draco said the words softly, bitterly, so quickly that Mae almost didn't catch it.

For a moment, it felt as though it were just the two of them, Draco and Mae, just as it should have been.

Mae stepped back, away from Draco, away from Ron. Her mouth twitched, her eyes grew wet, and she was at a loss for words. She turned then, and hurried out of the courtyard.

How dare he do this to her.

taglist: @xoxohollands @phantomsmalfoystyles @lidiyabest @justmimithings

Part one

Part three

#draco imagine #draco x y/n #draco malfoy #draco x oc #ron weasley #ronald weasley #ron weasley x oc #ron weasley x reader #toxic draco #harry potter #hp #ron x y/n #ron x mae #draco x mae

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cptsdstudyblr · 3 years

Text

simple curly hair routine for people with bad mental health

I have thin 2c-3a (& sometimes a little bit of 3b) hair. This is what works for me, but it might not work for you (especially if your hair texture is significantly different from mine).

Routine:

Wash routine (10 mins):

I wash every 2-3 days (and I'm working on moving it further apart, but I'm not quite there yet).

Wash in the morning (or at least early enough you won't sleep on it wet). I always shower twice on wash days since I feel the need to wash my body every night before bed. At first, I felt like that was really excessive, but I realized that if I was going to take care of my hair, I had to let myself do that. It's important to make adjustments to your routine so that it fits you and your needs.

Shampoo and condition thoroughly. My hair gets fairly oily, so I usually shampoo twice. I also let my conditioner soak for several minutes to make sure it's the most effective it can be.

Sometimes, I use coconut oil after I condition. It's very oily, so use it sparingly.

Put your hair in a hair wrap for a couple of minutes. I usually leave it long enough to put on clothes. This helps get any excess moisture out of your hair and makes it easier to dry later on.

The first half of both after-wash routines are the same.

After-wash routine - air dry (5 mins):

Sometimes, I put in a leave-in conditioner at this point. My hair does not appreciate being super full of products, but I sometimes find this step necessary.

I part and lightly comb my hair using a wide-tooth comb.

I spray sea salt spray all throughout my hair, especially on my roots and the parts that tend to lean more wavy than curly. This spray helps define my curls a lot.

I squish a curl-defining cream throughout my hair. I find it important to squish my hair up while doing this, as that helps create more volume and define the curls. This cream really helps my hair stay more defined throughout the day and adds some more moisture.

Sometimes, I spray gel very lightly throughout my hair.

I gently flip my hair upside down. Yes, you will need to hang upside down. It helps so much with getting volume.

I take a microfiber towel and squish my hair upwards towards my head to get any excess moisture out. I'm very thorough when I do this, so I do it for about a minute and a half and make sure that I get every part of my hair several times.

Flip back upright, fix anything you need to, and go about your day.

After-wash routine - hairdryer (20-30 mins):

Sometimes, I put in a leave-in conditioner at this point. My hair does not appreciate being super full of products, but I sometimes find this step necessary.

I part and lightly comb my hair using a wide-tooth comb.

I spray sea salt spray all throughout my hair, especially on my roots and the parts that tend to lean more wavy than curly. This spray helps define my curls a lot.

Sometimes, I spray gel very lightly throughout my hair.

I gently flip my hair upside down. Yes, you will need to hang upside down. It helps so much with getting volume.

Dry your hair about 80% of the way with a diffuser. I'm genuinely not good enough at using a diffuser to explain how to do this in detail, so I'd recommend watching the videos I've linked at the bottom and potentially also looking up a diffuser tutorial.

Gently flip back upright and fix any hair that is not where it is supposed to be.

Add more product (usually sea salt spray) where you feel it's necessary.

Diffuse some more while upright, focusing on the areas that seem to be struggling more. You should not diffuse until your hair is 100% dry. It will still need to air dry for a bit. I usually stop around 85% dryness.

Non-wash day refresh routine (<5 mins):

Lightly spritz your hair all over with water until it's slightly damp.

Lightly spritz your hair with sea salt spray, focusing especially on the areas where the curls seem to be struggling.

Once again, flip upside down and squish the product upwards with a microfiber towel.

For sleep:

Put your hair up above your head if possible to avoid messing up your curls while sleeping. You can do this with a scrunchie, a bonnet, or just by putting it above your head before you fall asleep (which is what I do).

A lot of people recommend using silk or satin pillowcases and sleeping with your hair in a silk or satin bonnet. I don't do that as I find it uncomfortable, but it may be something that works for you.

For non-wash showers:

Put your hair in a low, loose ponytail with a scrunchie. Then, put it all up in a shower cap. Shower as normal.

How to get started:

Start simple. Ask yourself questions. What works for you currently? What doesn't work for you currently? What parts of your routine are you and aren't you willing to change? What's most important to you? What's your goal? What products do you have? What do you need? And so on.

Don't go crazy right away. Focus on a couple of things at a time. For example, you might first focus on moving your hair wash time to the morning. Then, you might add products to the mix. Then, you might start diffusing your hair.

If a part of your routine distresses you, change it. Your hair routine should not cause you problems. It's your routine, not someone else's. Change whatever you need to make it work for your needs, and don't feel bad about it.

Realize that your hair will not be perfect right away. Unfortunately, curly hair is a process, especially if you're going into it for the first time. Be patient with it and don't be afraid to try things.

Products I recommend:

Styling Products:

NYM Beach Babe Sea Salt Spray

NYM Kinky Moves Curl-Defining Cream

Garnier Fructis Leave-In Conditioner

Garnier Fructis Spray Gel

Shampoos:

NYM Shampoo

Renpure Shampoo

Conditioners:

NYM Conditioner

Renpure Conditioner

Other:

Spray bottle filled with water

Coconut oil

Shower cap

Scrunchie

Wide-tooth comb or hair pick

Hairdryer with diffuser

Microfiber hair wrap

Microfiber towel

Some of the videos that REALLY helped me:

These are in the order I recommend watching them. They're all from the same person because I find her videos helpful and engaging (plus, she has a similar hair type to me). I recommend figuring out your hair type and finding someone who has similar hair to you.

How to start your curly hair journey

After-wash routine

Refreshing your curls

Week in the life of my hair

#mental health #mental illness #cptsd #ptsd #anxiety #depression #adhd #curly #curly hair #curlycommunity #hair #hair care #hair routine

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shinobimagpie · 3 years

Note

Hello!!! Am i late for bingo 😬? Can I ask for a Shikatematayu with the prompt "nuclear diffense mode" please? I was thinking it would be fun a Shikamaru and Temari jealous about Tayuya spending a lot of time with someone else or maybe Orochimaru wanting Tayuya back to the sound village. (Sorry if i keep asking for the same OT3 but its your fault i ship them)

I wish for every fan-creator I know to have a follower like @anaaaaaa0120 a who requests their fave ships and tropes from them and makes their whole week!

Thank you SO much for this request, I literally gasped when this hit my inbox. Like, if there was a trope I really hoped someone would request it was this one, and then you attached it to my faves and kajdjldskfj! Thank you! Let’s suppose that Orochimaru dug up Kimmimaro, Edo Tensei’d his ass and sent him to either collect or eliminate his errant sound ninjas, because who doesn’t love a guy with swords in his arms? (Tayuya doesn’t, that’s who.) Also given that Tayuya seemed to be mildly terrified of Kimmimaro when he showed up in canon, one of the only people she ever seemed intimidated by, he struck me as a good challenging/scary opponent for the three of them. :)

I hope you enjoy reading this even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. 💜 Defender for the 25 Follower Bingo Event (requests still open until I get a bingo or hit 50) Characters: Tayuya/Temari/Shikamaru Prompts: Nuclear Defense Mode Warnings: Canon-typical violence and Tayuya-typical language The world tips and tilts in front of her as Tayuya struggles to pull herself up from the dirt at the base of the tree she’s just hit. Her lungs burn and her limbs feel like lead, the world around her a dull roar. What kind of attack she was aiming for before she hit the ground is lost on her, brain thoroughly rattled by being slapped halfway across the clearing. She’s lost her flute on the trip, sure from the wet streak she feels down the side of her face and neck that she’s blown out one of her goddamn eardrums, and no matter which way she tilts her head there is a high-pitched ringing fuzzed over everything. By the time her eyes focus, her opponent has vanished...

Fuck fuck fuck, which way is he coming from?

She senses the blow from above her a second before it connects; she doesn’t even truly see it, just feels the motion of the air barely soon enough to react and launch herself to one side.

She avoids a deadly strike in favor of an excruciating one.

Being slashed or stabbed is routine in this work, something Tayuya can normally endure and push past; her own chakra can heal a minor wound if she focuses enough. Having a bone blade wedged with force into an already twice-broken joint that hurts her even on some good days is entirely another matter.

Tayuya screams, recoiling around her wounded leg, slashing blindly at her attacker through watering eyes. He spares a hand to block her blow but it’s evident from the casual way he proceeds to twist her wrist back, his cold expression barely changing, that she doesn’t truly concern him as a threat now.

That he hasn't just killed her already means she probably never did.

Shit; he's been dead all this time but with her mark sealed even years of training hasn’t let her match him...

Tayuya feels panic wash over her with a fresh wave of pain, trying to center herself enough to pull together a scream with some good concussive force behind it. If she can just catch her breath, get some distance…

And then she hears it.

“GET OFF OF HER!!"

Temari’s voice, thundering over them, shrill with utter rage.

"Wind Style! Concussive Gale!"

What feels and sounds like a miniature hurricane slams through the clearing, ripping the startled Kimmimaro off his feet and half the trees off their roots. Tayuya feels the breath practically sucked from her lungs with the force of it, although somehow she stays anchored to the ground as it rushes over her.

Temari comes tearing past her a second later with a furious scream, excess chakra pouring off of her with the next swing of the war fan. A narrowly focused blow of air slams her regrouping opponent right back to the ground with a deafening crack that shakes the earth.

Tayuya lies stunned and breathless in the dust, transfixed by Temari for several moments before she registers Shikamaru’s presence, melting out of the remaining forest’s darkness at her side. The tendrils of shadow he’s held her down with fall loose around her as she pulls herself up to sitting and his hand finds her cheek, sliding back along her jaw to thread his fingers securely in her hair. Tayuya feels more than a little like collapsing into his arms for a moment, and not just because her knee is definitely broken for a third time.

“Are you alright?” Shikamaru’s voice is tight with anger and worry despite her immediate nod, his dark brows knitting as his eyes flicker between her and Temari, assessing which of them needs his assistance more. He quickly settles on Tayuya; Temari seems to have Kimmimaro on his back foot for the moment, keeping him pinned with relentless attacks that roll into one another.

“I lost my flute,” Tayuya says dumbly, heartbeat rushing in her ears. Her cheek still feels hot where he’s touched as Shikamaru shifts back to wrap his hands around her bleeding knee, putting painful but necessary pressure on the wound. She curses, but doesn’t waste time pulling bandaging from her belt and starting to wrap the joint up tightly. She can’t just lay here, can’t keep him distracted. Temari is keeping Kimmimaro down for now but it took a bowl-cut on steroids and a fucking jinchuriki to take him out before...

“We’ll find the flute,” Shikamaru tells her firmly, eyes fixing reassuringly on hers as he helps wrap her kneecap. “And we’ll bury this asshole again while we’re at it.”

Tayuya swallows hard at the rumble in his voice, the way his eyes take on a vicious gleam as they settle beyond her shoulder on Kimmimaro. He doesn't seem nearly as worried as Tayuya feels he ought to be...

She looks back to see Temari whipping aside a volley of bone projectiles with her fan, still incandescent with anger, chakra steaming from her skin in almost-visible ribbons. She shouts as she winds her weapon back for another strike and Tayuya finds herself sharply reminded - with dry mouth and pounding heart - that Temari was nearly a jinchuriki herself. Shikamaru tugs her bandaging tight and gets back to his feet, offering Tayuya an arm up, an impressed smirk stealing across his face as they both pause to take in Temari’s ferocity for a moment more. "Think she needs a hand?" Tayuya suggests, pulling a summoning scroll from her waist; time for a different approach. Shikamaru tugs a flash bomb from his vest pocket and smiles in a positively vicious way that makes Tayuya want to kiss him more than a little. "Come on, let's not let her have all the fun."

#tayuya #temari #shikamaru #shikatematayu #zippy answers #zippy's 25 bingo #zippy writes prompts #seriously though this was so fun to write #thank you!!!

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trashficdumpster · 3 years

Text

Ch. 2.1, 2.2

Byleth woke with a start.

She'd been dreaming. The same dream she used to have before Sothis awakened in her. A vicious war, a lonely girl on a giant throne. Her thundering heartbeat slowed with each breath she took. It was only after the excitement subsided that she felt how sore her body was.

The empty space beside her was a reminder. As empress, she had obligations just as her wife did. With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and got dressed, each movement reminding her of how fragile she was without her Crest. The generous tray of bread, cheese, and sausage did not go unnoticed, though Byleth found that her stomach was not as enthusiastic as usual.

By the time she stepped into the halls, Hubert was waiting for her.

"I take it you slept well."

"Too well." They fell into lockstep, heading to the gardens to treat with Church officials on Edelgard's behalf.

"Her Majesty has noticed your sleeping habits. Should she be concerned?"

"No." There was a beat of silence. "What were those reports you wanted to brief me on? More disappearances?"

Hubert nodded. "As you know, people have been abductions across the country, primarily near churches. Additionally, there has been an influx of demonic beast encounters."

"So this this the work of Those Who Slither." Byleth said.

"Presumably. Especially given that Thales has access to the Kingdom's supply of Crest Stones. I have no doubt that Cornelia was responsible for giving Dimitri's lapdog that brilliant idea on the Tailtean Plains."

They rounded a corner. Something wasn't right. Byleth wasn't sure if it was her general uneasiness from her newfound vulnerability, or if it was the situation at hand. The hustle and bustle of the palace was comforting, though. It reminded Byleth of the monastery. The ghost of a memory -- one of a foreign-looking city in the height of prosperity -- came to mind.

"Seiros is dead. The goddess is gone. What's their goal?"

"To subjugate humankind, obviously." Hubert replied drily. "If you haven't already noticed, Thales and his ilk see us as inferior lifeforms." He slowed to a stop and turned to face her. "Our more pressing issue at this moment is that the Church is blaming Her Majesty for these incidences."

"I'll meet you at the pavilion in ten minutes."

"I don't see why you feel the need to prepare the refreshments yourself, but if you insist..."

Byleth smiled. "You know, Hubert, you can tell me that you like it when I make tea."

----------------------------------

The kitchens were strangely empty, save for a few palace cats lazing about. The bakers had left a tray of tantalizing pastries out for Byleth to take, and the boiling water left over the fire and the tea set laid out on the counters were obviously for her use. Normally, Byleth was greeted warmly whenever she came down to fetch tea or extra food.

Preparing tea was a routine Byleth found solace in. Measuring the leaves out before rinsing them with hot water, polishing each cup, and arranging the dessert plates was a process she had memorized just as well as weapon maintenance. Once everything was ready, she carried the tray carefully, backing out of the double doors.

Just as she did so, someone rammed into her, hard.

The tray and its contents clattered to floor and the sound echoed down the hall. Byleth stumbled back until her back hit the wall behind her. A woman in servant's clothing rushed her, knife in hand. Byleth instinctively went for her dagger. The woman may have caught her off-guard, but she was no fighter. Dodging her assailant's jab was nothing, and in the blink of an eye, her dagger found its mark, up and under the woman's sternum. Hot blood dribbled down the weapon's hilt, wetting her hand. The would-be assassin went limp, and Byleth let go, letting the body drop amidst the mess of spilled tea, pastries, and shattered porcelain.

She knelt down and retrieved her weapon. The blade caught, and the sound of steel scraping bone rattled in her head.

With how loud her pulse was in her ears, Byleth barely registered the footsteps approaching from behind. In front of her, Shamir darted out from around the corner. There was a blur of motion and the whoosh of a knife being thrown an arm's breadth away followed by the crunch of a body hitting the stone floor. A man, dressed like a gardener.

More guards flooded the area. Shamir walked up to her, calm even after killing a man.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," Byleth couldn't stop thinking about the blood drying on her skin.

"Are you sure?" Shamir held up the first attacker's knife, steel stained with red. Her gaze was trained on Byleth's side.

Sure enough, there was a slice just above her hip. It was shallow, maybe half an inch deep. It was hard to say exactly with the blood continuing to well up and trickling out, staining her clothes.

"Here." Shamir wadded up one of the fine napkins from the floor and thrust it at her. Byleth took it and held it to her side, flinching as she finally felt the ripping pain of the wound. "It's not like you to freeze like that."

"I...I don't know what happened."

"Let's get you to a healer." Shamir took hold of her wrist and led her away. Byleth followed, feeling sick to her stomach.

#byleth #fireemblemthreehouses #cw violence #cw blood #blood #death cw #edeleth #shamir nevrand #fire emblem #post-canon #idfk will i ever finish this project

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thedefenderoftheearth · 3 years

Text

slide

summary: Rose and TenToo start their journey together and it isn't always perfect but they're good together.

rating: T

word count: 2200

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30290310

On Day One, he knows the TARDIS is leaving before Rose does. She’s entirely captivated by this kiss, and he wants to be too (and is…mostly), but it’s his TARDIS, and his mind is big enough to think of both things at once–the love of his life re-entering it and the companion he’s not sure he can live without fading from it. He hates the thought but knows it’s true. He’s lived without Rose, knows he can do it…but he’s not sure if he can live without his ship.

When Rose breaks the kiss with a gasp and bolts toward his disappearing girl, he’s certain that he can’t. He takes the few strides to Rose, interlaces his fingers with hers because it’s the only thing he’s sure it’s okay to do. When they turn to look at each other, he wonders what he’ll be sure of tomorrow.

On Day Two, he wakes to a soft whirring sound--an electric toothbrush, he realizes. Rose is awake and coming out of the en suite. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he flings the covers aside and hops out of the bed to meet her.

"Oh," she says, and she won't meet his eyes. "Um. Hi. You're awake."

"Yes," he confirms. "And you have a bit of toothpaste just...there." Without thinking and before she can stop him, he licks the pad of his thumb and swipes the corner of her mouth.

"Um. Thanks," she says, and she still won't look at him properly. "Um...I thought...I thought I'd pick up your suit from dry-cleaning. And then we could go shopping, get you some things. I won't be long." She hurries from the room with her head down, not even pausing to wait for an answer.

He's puzzled, but when he's certain she's gone, he sucks his thumb. He can't taste every component of the toothpaste, can't determine the exact structure of the methylcellulose like he used to. What he can taste is Rose, and that, he thinks, could merit a full day's worth of analysis.

It isn't until he goes into the bathroom to relieve himself that he realizes why Rose did her best not to see him.

He wonders if this is a problem human males have every morning.

If so, he wonders how he could possibly bear this every morning--this heat that's spreading across his face, down his neck, and to his shoulders that makes him feel like he could disintegrate on the spot and like he wouldn't mind if he did, because at least he wouldn't have to face Rose again.

On Day Three, she catches him in the kitchen with two fingers in a jar of raspberry jam. He freezes, smiles sheepishly, grows nervous when she doesn't say anything.

"You know," she finally says, taking the jar from him and replacing his fingers with her own, "this is an awful habit to get yourself into." Her tongue darts out to clean the messy glob on her fingers.

"Dreadful," he agrees, when he can finally speak. "Terribly rude." He takes the jar back to help himself to more jam.

They pass the jar between them a few times before she stops and places it on the counter.

Sticky fingers weave through his perfectly tousled hair as she pulls his mouth to her and he wants to whine about it, but his brain shorts out as she swipes her tongue along his bottom lip and oh--all right then.

On Day Nine, they're okay. They've fallen into a safe routine: she cooks breakfast and he cleans the dishes; they share the bathroom (and it's not long before they decide it isn't big enough for the two of them); they reach together for two Torchwood IDs hanging near the door; she drives and he changes the radio fifteen times before they arrive.

Neither of them takes any risks with the other, but it's good. They're good together.

On Day Twenty-Eight, he cooks breakfast and doesn't burn the toast. It earns him a proud hug from Rose. He thinks back to a day when a shop girl from the Powell Estate pronounces a word correctly and elicits the same response from him. He wonders what happened to that girl and marvels at the woman before him who has all of herself pressed up against all of him.

On Day Forty-One, he goes on his third date with Rose. He's not sure why she keeps referring to it that way but she does and has more than once--to her mum on the phone and even to Jake at Torchwood.

He doesn't understand why she emerges from the en suite in a dress he's never seen before and strappy heels that couldn't possibly be designed for comfort (and definitely not for running) or why she smells flowery and certainly good but not quite like herself.

When they return to the flat, he doesn't understand her frustrated sounds when he kisses her, when he tries to slow their snogging back down to just that, just like always, just like normal. She finally relents and succumbs to his pace. When they're both breathless, she snuggles close to him...until she can't anymore.

He's utterly baffled when he's suddenly asked to sleep on the couch, but for the first time since he came to live with Rose--the first time in his existence--he does.

On Day Fifty, he understands why they call it "getting lucky." His brain is shrouded in a blissful haze, yet singularly focused on one thing: he has just had sex with Rose Tyler. He's done the deed, gotten busy, mattress mamboed, knocked boots--he doesn't have boots; maybe he should get some--and he feels a little bit like whooping...but his bones are liquid and he's melting into the soft down of the bed. His hair is in a state of permanent shock, his eyelids droop half-mast, and his mouth is set in a goofy sort of half-grin that doesn't seem to want to fade, but he doesn't mind. He fights to keep his eyes open just to keep looking down at an equally happy Rose falling asleep with one arm across his chest, her hand above his single heart, and her legs tangled with his.

On Day Seventy-Seven, they spend the entire day in bed. He moans loudly.

She tells him through a stuffed-up nose to "shu' ub."

"'Shut up'? Really? These could be my last words, Rose Tyler. I'm going to die!"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"It's just a cold."

"Is not. It's swine flu, bird flu, SARS--No." He gasps. "The Plague!"

"It's not the Plague. They didn't even have that here."He whines and moans and groans and "But Roooooose"s, and even though she's miserable herself, she brings him soup, blows on it when it's too hot, and patiently cleans him up when he sneezes in her face and half the bowl goes down his front.

On Day One-Hundred Twelve, they're not okay. Neither of them knows how they got to this point, but hurtful things are being flung carelessly to the air between them. Things like maybe if he came back, she'd leave with him--back to her own universe, back home. Things like maybe if the wanker did come back, he'd just steal his TARDIS, and he could be the one stuck on this stupid planet in this stupid world.

He pulls at the doorknob, tries to flee with some dignity, but the jamb sticks. He twists and pulls and jiggles the lock and finally it breaks free. Tears prickle in his eyes, and he wants to know why this stupid body has his tear ducts hardwired to his frustration. It's a dumb design; he doesn't feel like crying, he feels like running.

He winces when he hears the door slam behind him--he didn't really mean that--but it's done. He can't take it back. He runs.

On Day One-Hundred Fourteen, he runs home. She's ready for him when he walks in, and he isn't expecting that. He's expecting to at least be able to change out of the clothes he left in, the ones that are soaked through and clinging to his cold skin. Maybe even a shave and a steaming cup of tea. He doesn't get those things; they're going to have it out right now.

She unfurls herself from the blankets, rises from the couch with an un-drunk, already-cold mug of tea in her hand and strides toward him. They're toe-to-toe before he can find his voice.

"Still mad?"

She leans in close and he's nervous. "Yes," she says against his temple. "Definitely," against his jaw.

He shivers, swallows thickly, and thinks--knows--they should solve this with words, but when she pulls back to look at him like that, he thinks the words can wait.

They're both sorry, and that's enough for now.

They're a mess of tangled limbs and warm breath as they fall to the bed. His wet clothes are left on the carpet and oh, she's not going to like that later. He wonders how he has room for that thought when he's got a half-naked Rose Tyler in his arms, then he knows: he never wants to make her mad at him again.

Right now, he decides, he's going to make her very, very happy with him.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty, he thinks Rose might be pregnant. He wants to believe it's his superior Time Lord brain counting thirty days to the millisecond. He knows it's his human brain and his human something else.

He's not sure if she thinks that--that there might soon be three heartbeats between them again--but he thinks he's scared, delighted, anxious, proud, reckless, loving, loved, amazed.

He wonders if it's a human trick, to feel all these things at once and not explode into light. If so, it's better than any trick any Time Lord ever had.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty-Two, he finds out he's wrong when she throws a pillow at him and demands toffee and a backrub.

He's not sure why he isn't relieved, or of the reasons he should be.

On Day Two-Hundred Two, he drops a ring--the ring--down the garbage disposal and panics. He stares down the dark void of the drain in horror.

Neither of them are ready for the question to be asked, but that ring....It's The Ring, and he's not going to find a replacement. When his own hand fails him (as does chewing-gum-on-a-wire and the vacuum hose with a bit of nylon over the top) he admits defeat and calls a plumber.

When Rose asks what happened, he has to tell her he finally finished that sonic prototype, and it was rather less successful than one might have hoped--wellll, by that he means it was a complete failure.

She rolls her eyes and asks him what's for supper.

On Day Three-Hundred Ninety-Eight, he thinks they are ready, but she comes home with two zeppelin tickets.

"Fancy a trip?"

"Yes!" he exclaims too loudly. He's done so well so far. He's only had a few freak-outs--no, they weren't freak-outs. Slips, lapses, tiny episodes, he thinks. But oh, would he love to travel. He doesn't have the universe at his fingertips anymore, but this world is still different, still has a lot to offer. Maybe the Sphinx still has a nose because he wasn't there to meddle, and maybe the sand feels different under his feet there because the silicon dioxide content isn't the same in this universe. Maybe the Great Wall of China wasn't built, but there's one in Mexico, and maybe the view is still spectacular. Maybe the best chips on the planet aren't at their old haunt at the hole-in-the-wall on Baker and Twenty-Fourth. Maybe they're across the globe in Sydney, and maybe they can find them.

"Yes," he says quieter, and then, "Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Okay."

And they go.

On Day Four-Hundred Twelve, they're running for their lives from a hunter-gatherer group in the Amazon that he's managed to insult.

They run, and the humidity gives them an endless supply of sweat. Huge droplets pool from every pore making their hair stick close to their scalps and their clothes stick to their skin as though they'd just emerged from a swimming hole fully-clothed and a muddy one at that, with the way the forest wants to cling to them and never let go.

He knows it's just something in the way this adrenal-cortical system works that makes him think that maybe they're really going to die this time, something about these rubbish--wonderful--human hormones, but he says the words anyway.

"Will you marry me?"

"What?" she says between tight gasps for air.

"Marry me.”

"Her answer doesn't come immediately. He doesn't know if she's thinking or trying to find the air for the words or both, but he's dying every second.

"Okay," she says, then looks over her shoulder to the group gaining on them. "Can it wait?"

"Yes!" he exclaims. He hollers an indecipherable word, grabs her hand, and they run faster.

#ficandchips #yeah this is just me rebuilding my blog shhhh #i like never reread things i've written past a certain point #for fear of the cringe #but there is not much cringe here #and some phrases i still like #so #boop doop

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