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flowerchild28 · 4 months ago

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Backstage part 2

Louis Tomlinson imagine

Warnings: none, fluff

900 words

Part 1

The small neon sign of the diner flickers overhead as you and Louis approach, the quiet hum of the city at this late hour making the night feel intimate. As you open the door, the warm glow inside spills out onto the street, welcoming you both with the comforting scent of coffee and sizzling pancakes. The diner’s nearly empty, save for a couple of people scattered at booths, and a soft 80s rock song plays from a jukebox in the corner.

You slide into a booth near the back, tucked away from the main window. Louis sits across from you, kicking off his shoes under the table with a contented sigh. “God, I missed this,” he says, leaning back and running a hand through his tousled hair. “Nothing beats a post-show snack.”

“You say that every time,” you tease, picking up the laminated menu. “What’s it going to be this time? The usual?”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning forward with that cheeky grin you’ve come to know so well. “Obviously. Pancakes, fries, and a milkshake—chocolate this time.” He winks, folding his arms on the table. “And what about you? You gonna steal my fries again?”

“Absolutely,” you say with a laugh, glancing over the menu even though you already know what you want. “Sharing is caring.”

Just as you’re about to flag down the waitress, you hear a small, excited gasp from the other side of the diner. You glance over, spotting a group of young girls huddled at a booth near the window, whispering excitedly while stealing glances your way. One of them looks like she’s trying to work up the courage to stand, her friends giggling nervously beside her.

Louis follows your gaze and smirks, leaning closer to you as he says in a low voice, “I think we’ve been spotted.”

You smile. “Do you think they’ll come over?”

“Maybe,” he says, turning back to the menu casually, but you can tell by the way his eyes are twinkling that he doesn’t mind at all. “They look like nice though. It’s always the sweet ones at places like this.”

Sure enough, one of the girls finally stands, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her oversized hoodie as she walks hesitantly over to your table. “Um, excuse me?” she says in a soft, nervous voice. “Sorry to bother you, but… are you Louis Tomlinson?”

Louis looks up, flashing his warmest smile. “I am. And don’t worry, you’re not bothering us at all. What’s your name?”

Her face lights up, and she introduces herself, her friends now watching eagerly from their table. “We were just at your show,” she explains, her voice shaking slightly with excitement. “It was amazing.”

“Thank you so much,” Louis says sincerely, his voice soft and friendly. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

The girl’s eyes flicker to you, and she smiles shyly. “Um, is it okay if we ask for a picture? Only if you’re alright with it. We don’t want to intrude.”

You smile warmly, appreciating her politeness. “Of course, go ahead.”

With that, the rest of her friends come over, their nerves slowly melting away as Louis chats with them easily, asking about their favorite songs from the concert, and even joking about some of the signs he saw in the crowd. You snap a few photos for them, and they ask you to join one too, which makes Louis grin and pull you into the frame, his arm wrapped around your shoulders.

The girls thank you both profusely, gushing about how kind Louis is and how much his music means to them. One of them even slips a small note into his hand, saying, “This is for you. It’s not much, but we wanted you to have it.”

Louis reads it over quickly, his expression softening. “This means a lot, really. Thank you, love.”

With one last round of thanks, the girls head back to their table, still buzzing with excitement as they review the photos they just took. You watch Louis for a moment, admiring how effortlessly he connects with his fans, always making time for them even during moments like this. It’s one of the things you love most about him—how grounded and genuine he remains, no matter how big his world has gotten.

As the waitress finally comes over to take your order, you lean back in your seat, feeling the comfortable warmth of the moment settle around you. Louis, still smiling from the interaction with the fans, looks across the table at you, his eyes soft in the low diner light. “You okay?” he asks, his tone light, but his gaze full of meaning.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling back. “I’m perfectly fine”

The two of you spend the next hour enjoying your late-night feast. Louis eagerly digging into his pancakes while you steal his fries, sharing sips of his milkshake. Between bites, he tells you funny stories from the tour, mimicking the crew’s antics and making you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink.

As the night wears on and the diner starts to quiet down even more, Louis stretches, yawning as he glances out the window. “Alright,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “As much as I love this place, I think it’s time to head back to the bus before I fall asleep right here.”

You nod, feeling the weight of exhaustion starting to creep in as well. The adrenaline from the show and the excitement of the night has finally worn off, leaving you both pleasantly tired. Louis pays the bill, leaving a generous tip for the waitress, and you slip out of the diner together, hand in hand, back into the cool night air.

The short walk to the tour bus feels peaceful, the city streets quiet at this late hour. When you reach the bus, you’re greeted by the familiar coziness of the space—a home away from home, filled with the soft hum of the bus’s engine and the gentle sway of it parked on the quiet street.

Inside, Louis kicks off his shoes and stretches out with a groan. “Finally,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “The bed’s calling my name.”

You laugh softly, slipping off your jacket and following him toward the small row of bunk beds tucked away at the back of the bus. You’ve both been sleeping in the same bunk every night for the past few weeks—something that started out of convenience but quickly turned into a habit you both secretly love.

As Louis climbs into the lower bunk, he reaches out, grabbing your hand to pull you in with him. “C’mon,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy now. “There’s room for both of us.”

You smile and slide in next to him, the bed just big enough for the two of you to lie comfortably, your bodies pressed close. Louis wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into him as you rest your head on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of his body next to yours makes you feel safe,

“Thanks for tonight,” he whispers, his voice soft in the quiet. “I love having you here with me.”

You tilt your head up slightly to look at him, your face lit only by the soft glow of the small light near the bunks. “I love being here,” you reply, your voice just as soft.

He smiles sleepily, his eyes already half-closed. “Goodnight, love,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“Goodnight, Louis,” you whisper back, closing your eyes as you settle against him, feeling his arms tighten around you protectively.

I hope you like it! Let me know if you'd like a third part, and what you'd like me to write about. Coming up with good ideas to write down is surprisingly the hardest part for me.

#louis tomlinson #louis tomlinson fluff #louis tomlinson imagine #louis tomlinson imagines #louis tomlinson x you #louis tomlinson x reader #one direction

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lou-struck · 5 months ago

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A Demonic Plus One

Mammon x reader

~At long last, your mail arrives in the Devildom. Along with it, some exciting news from an old friend that brings you and a date to the human world.

W.C. 1.9k

You have just made yourself a cup of tea in the kitchen of the House of Lamination when a weak tapping on the front door catches your attention.

A visitor?

You think that a house guest is unlikely since everyone is home, and no one mentioned any last-minute dinner guests in your group chat. Not to mention, Mammon is cooking dinner tonight, so it's not like random demons are beating down the door to taste the Avatar of Greeds cooking.

You set your still steaming cup on the tabletop and approach the front door with caution; you are in the Devildom, after all.

You twist the massive door knob and pull to see an exhausted-looking Little D Number 2 hunched over on your porch. He leans against a large cloth bag that he must've hauled all the way up the large stone steps. Your eyes widen in shock as you feel impressed with the little dude; the bag is nearly double its size.

When his bright, shadowy gaze meets yours, his pointed teeth take the form of a large smile. "Mc," it pants, struggling to catch its breath. "I have some mail for you from the human world," it says with a shadowy smile.

"Mail?" you ask, your brows shooting upward. Come to think of it, you rarely get mail. You thought that the postal system was limited to just the human world. "I still get that?"

"You sure do," it beams. Apparently, Papa was supposed to give you the code to your enchanted P.O. box but never got around to it. So it's been slowly filling up with mail for the last year or so without anyone realizing it."

"Oh dear," you murmur, wondering briefly if you paid off your last credit card bill before you were unexpectedly whisked away to the Devildom.

"Yeah, Barbatos was really mad when he found out about it. Don't tell him I told you this, but he was sulking all morning, mumbling to himself about how he should've never trusted Papa with such an important job."

"He puts far too much pressure on himself," you say softly; guilty thoughts begin to plague your mind as you imagine Barbatos, the perfectionist, burdening himself with the weight of this minor inconvenience. "Thank you for bringing me this; please tell Barbatos not to worry so much."

"Will do; I'm sure that if it's coming from you, he will listen," he says, shucking the cloth bag off his little shoulder.

"Would you like to come inside for some tea before you go?" you ask gently, thinking of your own cup alone in the other room.

"Thank you for the offer, but I have to get back to the palace." he declines your offer hesitantly and scampers away, his little golden horns glittering under the light of the street lamps until he disappears into the darkness, leaving you with so much freaking mail.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and head off to your room, passing Mammon in the kitchen, who is on cooking duty. He eyes your bag with curiosity and turns away from the vegetables he had been cutting.

"What ya got there, Mc?" he asks.

"Lots of mail," you laugh, shooting him a teasing grin. "I guess someone forgot to tell me about a P.O. box or something when I first moved here."

He pales and casts his eyes to the ground. "I dunno who would do that to' ya, but whoever did it probably forgot and didn't mean anythin by it."

"Well then, I guess all is forgiven." you laugh, walking across the threshold of your bedroom doorway and over to your bed, where you dump the contents of your bag onto the comforter. Paper hits fabric with a thwack and you dig through the pile as Mammon curiously peeks just beyond your doorframe. Apparently, junk mail can still find its way to hell. So can the magazine subscriptions you forgot about. The pile, although initially intimidating, turns out to be fairly easy to sort through.

Nearing the end of the pile, a bright purple envelope catches your eye. There are no other envelopes that size or color, so you find yourself drawn to it. You tear it open and see that it is a wedding invitation for one of your closest friends in the human world.

Back when you last saw her, she was head over heels for her new boyfriend, who seemed to absolutely adore her.

Apparently their relationship has only gotten stronger than that day because now it looks like they are getting married.

Your heart drops to your stomach as you scan the invite for the wedding date.

Did you miss it?

Finally, you will find it in tiny golden font on the back of the invite. The wedding is in a few months, and there is still plenty of time for you to send in an RSVP. Additionally, you have the opportunity to bring a date with you as a plus one.

"That letter is different lookin'," Mammon says, peeking over your shoulder. You have no idea how long he has been standing there.

"It's an invitation. One of my friends is getting married." You smile, showing him the invitation with a smile. "And it looks like I will be able to make it.

"And what's that thing right there?" His tan fingers touch the golden font of the box you can fill out for your plus one.

"That just means I can bring a guest as a date," you explain, watching in fascination as the Demon's eyes brighten at the mention of you needing a date.

"Well, since ya seem to need one, how about ya take The Great Mammon to the weddin. After all, I am yer first. I should be the first to go with you."

"That is some logic you have there Mammon," you smile. "I guess you should clear your calendar for three months from now."

"R-really?" he asks, his cheeks turning bright pink. "Y-ya mean it?"

You nod, "I would love it if you came with me."

He laughs. "Well then, if ya want me to go so badly, I guess I'll go with ya." his tsundere mannerisms bring a smile to your face until a thin wisp of smoke wafts under your nose.

Someone forgot about the dinner they were cooking.

After months of anticipation, today is the day. Your stomach still feels uneasy from the portal Diavolo conjured up for you, but you made it to the wedding venue. Looking around, you see at least one hundred guests, and you know exactly zero of them.

This is actually kinda nice because if you kept running into people you knew, you would have to awkwardly explain the details about your mysterious disappearance.

Mammon, looking rather snazzy in his suit, is very interested in the large table of presents for the Bride and Groom.

"Mc, check out all those gifts," he smiles, taking a sip of one of the signature cocktails from the open bar, "maybe we should get married. We'd make a killin'."

"Is that a proposal?" you humm, gently placing your hand on his arm and toying playfully with the golden rings that adorn his fingers.

He shudders under your tender touch, and you see his cheeks turn a deep crimson. "I was just sayin' that I wouldn't be the worst idea I ever had."

The soft chime of a bell prevents you from teasing your Demon anymore. You look up and see a very stressed man holding a clipboard like it's his lifeline. He must be the coordinator.

"All guests are now invited to take their seats; the ceremony will begin shortly," he says before scurrying away.

"I guess we should find our seats," you say to the Demon, pulling him away from the gifts before he gets a bit too curious about their contents and tries to dig around.

You walk through the venue's vibrant grounds to the pristine rows of white chairs. A few people are already sitting and talking amongst themselves as classical piano music sails through the air.

"Dang, is there gonna be a sacrifice or something up there?" Mammon asks, gesturing over to the elegant wooden archway at the end of the aisle. As you take your seats just behind the rows reserved for family. As the rest of the guests follow behind you.

"No Mammon," you say in a hushed whisper, worried that his strange questions with garner some unwanted attention from the other wedding guests. "that's where the wedding ceremony will be taking place."

"Ohh, that makes sense," he nods just as the music begins to play.

An elderly officiant hobbles down the aisle, escorted by someone who looks vaguely familiar. You recognize him from the wedding invite as the groom. The poor guy looks absolutely nervous but there is an eagerness in his disposition that makes you smile.

Although you have been a bit preoccupied this last year or so, you still care greatly for your friends and want them to live a life full of happiness. You can tell just by looking at him that your friend has found their person.

"Mc, are they getting married?" Mammon whispers, leaning in close to you. "The lady looks like his granny."

"Because she is his Grandmother, Mammon." you whisper back. "She is just conducting the ceremony."

"Ohhh, I see," he says, although you reckon he doesn't really know what's going on at all, but he is having a good time all the same.

"Oi, mc?" he whispers as a little boy who looks to be no older than three years old walks up the aisle with little legs. "How old is that kid? Are ya sure he is old enough to be getting married?"

His question makes you dangerously close to bursting out laughing in the middle of the ceremony. And you have to cover your mouth to contain the outburst. "No Mammon, that's the ring bearer." you explain softly, "their job is to carry the rings down the aisle and give them to the groom for the ceremony."

He sighs in relief, "Good, I thought I was gonna have ta step in there for a second."

You shush him quietly as the music changes and the bride, your childhood friend, takes her first step down the aisle.

You never thought you would be that person who cries at weddings, but when you see your friend looking absolutely stunning in her wedding dress, it brings a tear to your eye.

Mammon doesn't really get why everyone is making such a big deal about the girl in white walking down the aisle, but he assumes that she must be the bride everyone is talking about.

She just seems like a normal human.

All of a sudden, he hears the faint sound of a sniffle coming from your seat.

Are you upset about something?

His eyes widen in concern, and his head snaps to look at you worriedly and see that your eyes are brimming with tears. He has no idea why you are crying, but he is overcome by an almost primal urge to comfort you. He reaches across your lap to grab your hand. You take his hand almost immediately and give it a squeeze.

He knows that you're okay, but he refuses to let go of your hand.

How can he when there is so much love in the air?

Tagging: @sleepyyshroom, @i-need-to-go-like-mangogo, @starbby, @sarah22447, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf , @ourfinalisation, @anjodedesgostoeerros, @isaacdaknight @qardasngan

#obey me nightbringer #obey me #obey me x reader #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x reader #mammon x reader #Mammon fluff #obey me fluff #the great mammon #x reader

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courtingchaos · 1 year ago

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Bad Man

Steve Harrington x Fem Reader

Summary: Steve is always asking you the same question. Do you think you’ll ever give him a different answer?

A/N: hm. This one got away from me. Went in too many directions and I had a hard time settling with it. Hope you guys enjoy it all the same ❤️

Warnings: Cheating (reader has a bf), Sex, Mentions of driving drunk, Two drunk people having sex, Fingering, Unprotected Sex

NSFW 18+ No Minors

Oh and I won’t ask a single question

A question about who you’re supposed to be

I already know the answer

And the answer

Is you’re right here with me - Bad Man; Fightmaster

“When are you gonna let me take you out?” He asks, leaned over the partition of his register to smile at you. He props his chin on a folded up arm and lets the other one dangle free, his watch clacking against the wood.

“Take me out? Like on a date?”

“No.” He scoffs. “Like a hitman. Of course on a date.” He rolls his eyes, warm hazel full of mirth at his own joke. “C’mon. I know this cute little place over near Marion. Cozy, dim.” He tilts his head and watches you from under his lashes. “Perfect for a date.”

You sigh. You laugh too but the sigh is the precedent you need to set. “I’m sure it is.”

“I mean I know we’re playing this whole game of hard to get, but just admit it.” A customer comes up to his register with a baby on her hip and a handful of formula. “You’ve been got.” He winks at you before turning around to turn on his customer voice. An octave higher and a bigger grin, the lascivious one he’d been giving you gone while he coos at the infant. You bite your tongue though, holding your retort back for later. You know he’s going to corner you in the break room after you both clock out, his shoulder pressed into the row of lockers to ask you again.

“When are you gonna let me take you out?”

It’s his weekly question for you always asked with a grin and short laugh like he knows the answer is going to be different than last week. You tidy up your register and flip aimlessly through your stack of laminated grocery codes and pretend to not look up at the back of his head. He’s been out in the sun recently, lighter brown streaks shot through the darker. His fingers that run through the shaggy locks have a golden hue to them, the moles that pepper his skin dark in contrast to the glow. Broad shoulders flex under his polo and that laugh, as fake as it is, makes you smile to yourself.

So no you aren’t staring and no he isn’t taking you anywhere. A glance down at your watch tells you there’s approximately 47 minutes before you’re off. 47 minutes before you have to let him down again like he doesn’t already know.

The locker door swings shut and you laugh, something from the back of your throat. His smile is bright in the corner of your vision, teeth white and straight behind pink lips.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, I just think I’m getting my psychic visions under control finally.”

“Hm.” His brow furrows before he pushes himself off the lockers. “I’ve got a friend who’s good at that, I can give you her number.”

You can’t be mad at him but you are tired. “What do you want Steve?”

“You know what I’m gonna ask.”

“And you know what I’m gonna say.”

That smile drops off his face. Shoulders relaxed while he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and he scuffs a shoe against the linoleum floor. “Can you tell me something?” He scratches at his eyebrow and squints past you.

“What?” You wonder what else he needs to know about your uneventful life.

“What does he do for you?”

“What?” You ask again and aggressively blink at him while you clutch your bag to your hip.

“What does he do for you? Like, ever.” He asks it so plainly like it isn’t some direct invasion into your life. You want to snap at him and tell him to mind his own business but you stop. It isn’t his fault that he doesn’t think this is out of line, who else do you tell first thing every work day when your boyfriend has fucked up again?

“He…he’s my boyfriend, Steve. He does a lot for me.” You yank on your bag to finalize your lame reason. “I don’t have to tell you everything he does for me.”

“No, but I don’t think you’ve ever said one positive thing about him.”

“He has so many-” You cut yourself off because you can’t even lie about that. He doesn’t have so many positives. He might have two and it’s that he’s never raised his voice at you and he doesn’t get on to you when you forget to pay the water bill on time again. Steve looks at you expectantly but you just huff at him.

“I’m not going on a date with you.” You’ve never said it like that before, so plainly. To his credit Steve doesn’t flinch, just nods his head deeply and swings his keys around his finger while avoiding your gaze.

“Understood.”

The routine of every closing shift with Steve goes the same. He shows up five minutes before he has to clock in to find you reading your last chapter in your book. He’ll compare lunches with you and you’ll talk about your leftovers and he’ll ask.

“Oh, did you make dinner again?”

Steve won’t put any feeling into that question. A simple tilt of his head, a comment about how it sounds delicious. A joke about how you should invite him and Robin to dinner some night because neither of them can cook more than mac and cheese without fear of burning something.

You’ll both head up to the front office to find your night manager and Steve will bump elbows with you on every other step. He’ll talk about the game that was on the night before and you’ll nod along. Rich, your boyfriend, also watched the game but it wasn’t as interesting as when Steve tells you. You’ll tamp that thought down though before it grows legs and runs away with your better judgement. He’ll ask about your night and when you don’t have anything to say?

“What’d you and Rich get up to then?”

The usual. He watched TV and yelled at the Packers for loosing again and you made dinner after being on your feet all day, unlike him and his office job.

“You know,” you’ll say “he’s home a full four hours before me and still didn’t take the chicken out of the freezer.”

Steve will nod and frown while he counts his till before turning on his light for the customers.

“Every night?”

“Every night! And he didn’t wash my sweater again. I swear I’m speaking friggin’ Greek some nights.”

Steve will sigh and huff along with you. He’ll bitch about his date the previous weekend, how she wasn’t interested in hearing about his hiking trip with Robin. How it seemed that it was more a pity date than anything.

“You and Rich got any plans this weekend?”

Of course not. You can’t remember the last time he took you out on a date, much less even went with you to the grocery store. Another slip up in your tales to Steve when you derail and tell him this. Barely a date night in the past year and every time you’ve brought it up it’s met with a sigh. With a hand wave and a promise for next month, when things calm down at work. When he isn’t so tired.

“What’s he working so hard for?”

You wouldn’t know if you even cared to ask. It’s in these conversations where you realize a few things. Every day gives you a new insight and Steve more fodder for his never ending question.

You like working Saturday’s with Steve because Robin usually shows up at closing and he’ll invite you out for a drink. She’s funny and he plays off of her well and by the end of the night you’ve usually forgotten that you’re probably showing up to an empty apartment.

“I’m not leaving until I see you walk in.” Robin chirps, her seat pulled too far up into the steering wheel. She’s the soberest out of the three of you and you roll your eyes at her with a giggle. “I know Rich is there but-”

“No he’s not.” Steve cuts in from the backseat. You see him shake his head in the rear view and Robin gives you an open look.

“Oh don’t get all weird with me, he’s just out with his own friends.”

“He doesn’t invite you out too?” Steve mumbles from the dark.

“Steve.” Robin warns over her shoulder.

“No, it’s okay. They get together earlier than I get off work.” You play with the zipper of your jacket and don’t make eye contact. “I don’t really like his friends anyways.”

“He should get new friends then.”

“Steve.” Robin turns her head sharply to stare into the dark backseat where her roommate sits in the shadows. There’s a silent game of chicken happening between them, something tense and unsaid and you unlock your door to try and cut the rising emotions.

“Thanks for the ride, I appreciate it.”

“Let me walk you-”

“I’m okay, thank you though.” You smile through the headrests at Steve and his insistence, his eyes glassy in the light from the street lamps. You stumble only a little on your way out of the car and once you make it to your door, darkened window greeting you like normal, you can hear the muffled volume of Steve and Robin arguing before she drives them both home.

Steve hasn’t asked you for a date in over a month. He still keeps close to you during working hours but he doesn’t hang in the break room. On Saturday he doesn’t ask you out with him and Robin and he doesn’t ask if you have any plans that weekend.

“Is Robin picking you up?” You ask timidly from inside your locker where you have your head buried, pretending to look for your wallet.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. We’re going to a friends house for a game night.” He waits for you by the door, still intent on walking you to your car. You’re waiting for him to do the courteous thing and ask if you have plans but when he stays silent you bring them up anyways.

“I actually have plans this weekend.”

“No shit?” He sounds surprised but you think you weren’t supposed to see the eye roll.

“Yeah, Rich is taking me to that little place in Marion.” You give him a big grin. “He said he heard good things, wanted to take me somewhere nice.” Deep down you want him to be jealous. You want Steve to feel a little bad for shit talking your boyfriend, even if you agreed with him. You know you shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, none of his fuck ups or passive attitude, but maybe this could make up for it. Maybe you could show Steve you didn’t have that poor of taste.

Steve nods and bites his bottom lip. You wait for him to open his mouth to say something snippy but he lets the conversation die. He waits for you still, to walk you to your car, but when he gets you to your door he tells you to try the vodka sauce at this little restaurant and leaves you with a small wave while he hunches into the car.

Dinner is…fine.

It’s fine! Rich definitely took you to dinner and he did hold the door open for you and yeah the sauce was amazing and so what you had a brief ten minute interlude of quite between you and your boyfriend where you thought, briefly, about Steve sitting across from you and explaining the different types of pasta that his friend Eddie was learning in his culinary classes.

Then later during the quiet drive home when Rich had turned the radio over to some game he’d missed for your date you’d maybe had let your mind wander again, a wide palm that would rest on your knee and squeeze. Fingers that drift inwards with a promise for a continuation, conversation that makes you fawn and giggle and-

Steve pops up behind you while you shove your purse into your locker. “So, how was dinner?”

“It was fine!” Maybe a bit too snappy with the way he pulls his head back but you flash him a smile.

“Fine?”

“Yeah.”

He leans a shoulder on the lockers beside you, a curious look on his face. “Just fine?”

You swallow when the hand that scratches at his chin brushes your arm on the way down. “Yes Steve. It was…nice.”

“Oh now it’s nice.”

Your sigh is loud and full of exasperation. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to know how your dinner went.” He’s picking on you. That easy grin tells you everything.

“No, you want to know if he messed up somehow.”

“Maybe.”

“He was fine.”

“Oh then I could definitely do it better.”

That makes you pause. Your eyes flick between his trying to decipher his angle while you try to ignore how you can feel the heat coming off of him standing this close. “Excuse me?” It comes out quieter than you meant.

“If I take you out it isn’t gonna just be ‘fine’.” He scoffs.

“If?”

“It’s just a matter of time now.” He slides forward along the locker doors, face closer to yours, enough to feel the edge of his breath he huffs through his nose. “How many more ‘just fine’ dates do you want?” There’s a shift in his demeanor. A squaring of shoulders when he crosses his arms, his gaze softer as he looks down his nose at you.

“Steve, I-” You jump when the break room door opens and he just stands up straight to tug his shirt down before he raises an eyebrow and walks around you to head to work.

“You free tonight?” He asks you during lunch, half his sandwich shoved in his mouth.

“For what?”

“Drinks.”

“You don’t have another game night?” You try to ask it playfully but it comes off a little snooty. All throughout your date you’d caught yourself drifting and wishing you were at that stupid little hole in the wall with Robin and Steve. Once you’d realized how the night was gonna go all you could think about was Steve buying you another round, another cheep beer or the nickel shot of the night. How he’d circle his arm around to place the drink in front of you, careful to wrap himself around your back for a moment.

“Nope.” He pops the word for emphasis and gives you a dopey grin. “All free for you.”

It makes you bashful but what does he do that doesn’t? When you’re finished with your food he wordlessly grabs his trash and yours, even your empty tupperware to rinse it out.

“You don’t have to do that Steve, I have hands.”

“I’m being nice.” He hands you back the dried container. “It’s just a dish.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It isn’t just a dish. His arm brushes yours on your walk back to your registers and you barely keep up with his story about the art gallery with Robin from a few days ago. Lost in the little moments of things he does for you just at work, like walking you to your car. Rinsing your dish out for you and grabbing extra stacks of bags when he’s grabbing his own. Small, minute little things that he just does without you having to ask. It’s a strange concept to you, not having to ask for the small things.

“You aren’t listening are you?” He smiles at you again without irritation or an eye roll. Another thing you haven’t had the privilege of in a long time with Rich.

“I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold you hostage later and explain what Robin told me about the Haitian art.” He hooks an arm around your shoulders to pull you in. “All it’ll cost you is a single round.”

“Deal.”

Robin is nowhere to be found after work. The parking lot holds just a handful of cars, yours included, and no maroon beemer in sight.

“Are we meeting her there?”

“Uh, no.”

You pause with your key in the driver door. Turned away from him so you don’t have to look at him when you ask. “So just us then?”

“Mhm.”

What you should do is tell him no. Give him a ride home and then head back to your place where you can make a single serving of something and then fade away in front of the TV until your boyfriend calls you from his trip entirely too late and wakes you up.

Instead, “This isn’t a date, okay?” You get in your car and unlock the passenger side for him.

“Sure.”

“I mean it Steve.”

“That’s why you’re buying the first round.” He’s all wide grins and quiet giggles that turn infectious while you navigate to the bar. He finally has your attention so he finishes his art gallery spiel and you have to ask, it’s something that’s been burning in your back pocket forever.

“So when you go on all these dates, is Robin upset or…”

“We’re not together.” Steve sighs and shakes his head. “It really isn’t like that, we’re just friends.”

“Yeah but you two get along so well.”

“It’s…complicated.” He isn’t cutting you off but it’s the answer he’s giving you right now. “Not between us though, we really are just friends.” He points out the street you’re supposed to turn on and you have to make a quick right. “You got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried.” You shoot him a glare as you park, the sudden silence when you turn off the car deafening. “First round on me, right?”

You open a tab when you get there, hellbent on paying your own way to prove to yourself that you aren’t trying to turn this into a date. It’s two friends hanging out, that’s it, and Rich wouldn’t care anyways because you’re allowed to have friends.

You buy your friend Steve a beer and he tells you about his parents retiring to Florida and you talk about your mom’s new boyfriend. Your empty barely hits the table and Steve has a cold can waiting, sliding it across the table at you.

He talks about his friends Nancy and Johnathan getting married and you vaguely mention that Rich is out of town for his brother’s bachelor party. Two shots get set down in front of you and the conversation gets louder with the music and the crowd.

You forget the lines you drew for yourself and reach a hand over to tap Steve’s leg while you’re trying to remember the next part of your story. His nose is red from the cheap whiskey but his cheeks flush when you have to use him for support when you stand, hot palm pressed into the thick of his thigh.

Steve listens to you talk about the drawing class your taking and when you think your starting to bore him he waves you off with a laugh.

“What would give you that idea?”

“I don’t know, Rich kind of drifts if it isn’t about him.” You’ve got enough liquor in your system to start bypassing your filter and you tell it like it is. “He doesn’t give a shit about my ‘stupid little class’.”

“His words or yours?” Steve asks over the rim of his beer. You just shoot him a look and take your shot with a grimace. “Well, keep going. I want to hear more about it.”

The night goes by quicker than expected and suddenly you’re drunk. You realize this while standing in the single stall bathroom while you hold yourself up over the sink to stare at your reflection.

“Get it together.” You make yourself chuckle. “Seriously, what’s going on with your mascara?” You swipe your still wet hands under your lashes to wipe away the black fallout. A moment of embarrassment when you think about Steve seeing you like that but he’d been laughing too, and the bar was dark.

“It doesn’t matter.” You point at your reflection. “He laughed at your jokes.” Your smile is florescent in this dingy bathroom for only a moment when you remember those lines you laid so carefully and then so quickly crossed. The corners of your mouth fall and you sway when you stand up too fast. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be drunk. You shouldn’t be here and drunk with only Steve.

Almost as if he’s heard your thoughts he’s knocking at the door rapid fire while a muffled voice tells him that’s the ladies room. “I know, I’m looking for my lady.” He laughs and the girl laughs and you start laughing and god you can’t keep a thought in your head now after what, 6 shots? 3 beers? You open the door and Steve greets you with a surprised face and an arm around your middle.

“See, I found her!”

“Steve,” you giggle against his shoulder while he walks you to the bar so he can pay the tab you were supposed to be picking up, “I shouldn’t drive.”

“Then I’ll drive.” He looks down his shoulder at you with hazy eyes.

“I don’t think you should drive either.” You’re slurring makes him laugh and under his right arm he reaches his left hand through to grab your fingers pulling at his coat.

“A cab then.”

“You’re so smart, you know that?” You stare at him in awe before laughing again, your fingers flexing in his grip and staying put.

Steve blushes doubly so with the alcohol and your words going to one of his heads. He whips his head to the bartender waiting for her pen back and he smiles brightly at her. “One cab please.”

You both fall into the bar top giggling while this poor bartender rolls her eyes and drops the phone in front of Steve so he can call for his own chariot.

He follows you right into the back seat and falls directly onto your side when your shoe catches on the rubber mat that lines the floorboards. The driver looks back at the two of you caught in laughter and sighs, waiting for one of you to give him an address. When you try to give Steve’s first he tuts and gives the driver yours instead, “That way I know you got back safe.” His breath tinged with cheap beer brushes your cheek, his nose almost pressing in if only you’d turn your head a little more.

“Yeah okay.” Instead you just look at him from the corner of your eye while your heart beats a hundred miles an hour. Steve adjusts as best he can, his limbs heavy with liquor so he just huffs into his corner of the bench seat, halfassed clipping his seat belt on.

“I mean it. Rich isn’t there.” Air quotes around your boyfriend’s name and a deep mocking frown accompany it.

“Steve.”

“What? You said he was gone.” He rolls his eyes but closes his mouth when he sees you getting that little notch between your brows. He drops his hand off his lap and inches it over the seat till he’s reaching out to poke your leg once. Twice when you don’t react and then hesitantly he hooks his pinky out for yours draped over your thigh.

God his hand is warm. You can feel it through your jeans where the side of it rests against you. He hooks his pinky and you don’t move a single digit on your hand for fear of turning this into something it shouldn’t be. You feel sober suddenly when it hits you where you are and with who.

“Hey.” He tugs your hand till it falls onto the seat and he can grab it. You don’t fight it, not when his voice has that gravel to it from speaking all day. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Steve starts to let your hand go but he’s taking that warmth with him and you finally latch on to him, holding his hand down against your leg. You lean over to lay your head on his shoulder and stare out the windshield. It’s foggy out, the mist collecting on the glass to starburst the streetlights and you stay pressed against him.

The cab comes to a stop in front of your building and before anyone can say anything you finally look up at Steve. A tug on his hand and a quiet question only for him. “You wanna come up?”

The stairs try to trip you but Steve is there with a balancing hand at your hip. When you fumble with your keys he holds out his palm for them and you hope he can’t see the nerves rolling off of you. Your apartment is dark just like you expected but for the first time ever it seems to hold a promise in it, something in the shadows that doesn’t feel so sad. Behind you Steve closes the door and cuts off the light streaming in from the hallway and a switch is flicked inside you.

He’s right there when you turn around to grab the front of his coat and press your lips to his. No startled noise just his hands coming up to cradle your head. You cling to the front of him and he tries to sooth you with thumbs rubbing gently across your cheekbones.

None of this matters in the dark and you need him, need him to understand that. You turn into a flurry of movement trying to get him out of his layers. He laughs and breaks the kiss while you push at the lapels of his coat and tear at the buttons on his polo. You’ve spent months staring at the back of him, his broad shoulders and sun kissed skin. The moles that dot his neck and the chestnut hair that he’s always futzing with.

He’s running those big hands down your neck and over your shoulders.

“We don’t have to rush.” His voice cuts through the quiet hum of the appliances and runs down your spine with its deep timber. “No one else is here.”

He dips his head to kiss you again but the fervor is gone, replaced instead by a slow build of want. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth to gently bite and you melt into his chest. Hands lay limp against him while he begins your undoing with his kisses. They trail off to your cheek and to your ear and when he’s at your jaw his jacket falls from his shoulders.

He works at your clothes methodically the same way his mouth works at your neck and when you try to tug him towards your bedroom he pauses.

“We don’t have to go in there.” He gives you a soft look, almost pitying. “The couch is just as good.” A small smile against your small frown.

“I want to.” You pull and he steps with you. “It’s my bed anyways.”

Your back hits the bed and he follows you down with laughter and roaming hands. They pull at his own clothes and yours till you finally can touch all that warm skin of his, fingertips tracing between moles on his chest inbetween sloppy kisses.

You can’t remember the last time you felt want like this. Everywhere his fingers drag feels like live wires under your skin. They dance along your collar bones and behind your knees, sensitive skin graced with featherlight touch.

“Please.” You pant while he kisses along your jaw.

“Please what?” He drags his touch up the inside of your thigh and grazes your mound, dancing around where you want him most.

“Please touch me.” Your voice wobbles with emotion, unshed tears stuck behind your lashes. The nerves of the night settle deep into your bones, deep enough you think you might shake apart with them. Long fingers split you open, a slow drag upwards till he hits that ache that you’ve been ignoring all night. Uneven circles drawn while he pants against the side of your neck, open mouthed kiss pressed into your pulse.

Deft fingers pull your pleasure forward quick, a practiced hand between your legs that rivals your own. He hasn’t come up for air since he planted his face against you, tongue and teeth working in tandem against the sensitive spot under your ear while those long fingers dip lower. You can feel his smile like a tattoo on the front of your throat when he sinks one finger in, and then two, his moan singing along with your gasp. Quickly the pads of his fingers find that spot and your knees snap together around his wrist.

“Right there?” It’s all breath in his ask, your nod vigorous. “Come on.” He grits and keeps his pace up while you spiral when he presses the heel of his palm down. “Come on baby, let go.” Teeth scrape against your neck and help to send you over the edge while you grind down on his hand firmly to chase the tails of your pleasure.

Aimless kisses help bring you back to focus along with Steve’s hands gripping you to slide you down the bed. Hooked in the bend of your hips he jerks you to him, thighs hitting his and his cock is there against you suddenly. Hot and heavy between your thighs when he leans down over you to catch your lips in a deep kiss. Short rolls of his hips make him catch on your overly sensitive clit to make your legs shake just a little more.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about this?” He says against your mouth, sloppy and desperate as he ruts against your heat. “I think about you all the time.”

“Yeah?” You sound just as desperate, rolling hips meeting his own so he can keep nudging your clit. The tip of his cock edges lower but too slow, especially now with him staring wide eyed at you and panting.

“When you went to Marion I-fuck” He looses his composure when you sneak a hand between your bodies to help guide him, fingers wrapped around the thick length. “-I thought about crashing your date.”

You choke on your ‘what?’ when he finally sinks in and the size of him makes you gasp. He pauses for a moment when his eyes slip shut and you hold him between your thighs. When he doesn’t move you shift to get his attention and those blown out eyes find yours in the dark. Hands planted beside your head to cage you in and all you want to look at is his open expression. The grin he wears so well flashed at you while he rocks himself deeper.

“I know it’s crazy.” He half laughs as he starts a deliberate pace. “You make me feel crazy.” Every thrust is a punch of pleasure against that spot he’d found earlier. Precise and slow he drags this out so he can watch your face fall slack.

“I’m sorry.” You sob when he drives in deep and makes your eyes roll.

“No, no it’s me. You’re just-“ he hisses at your nails dragging behind his neck and up into his hair to grab fistfuls, pulling him down closer.

He takes the opportunity to kiss along your collar and mumble against your chest, slurred words only for your ears. Small bites along the swell of your breast and his long fingers rolling a nipple between his knuckles to make your breath hitch. He calls you beautiful and perfect and if you weren’t heading fast into your second orgasm you might cry from the attention.

Everything is big and hot in here. Louder and quieter at the same time. Steve holds onto you while he fucks you, hands gripping and lips searching. No marks but he lets his teeth nip at bared skin before he moves on, letting his fingers press into soft fat at the backs of your thighs and chest. You haven’t felt this kind of passion in a long time, the never ending want for more. You need him deeper, you need him to cover you completely. You want him to suck marks into your skin so you can see them in the morning and know this wasn’t you letting your fantasies get out of control again.

A faltering in his movement before he speeds up, hot breath fanning over your cheek where he kisses wetly up and down and to your ear, his quiet moans making your toes curl. It’s the deep, halting groan that pours out of him when he comes that has you clenching. He grips at you to hold you in place while you shake under him and he talks you down off your precipice. Mumbled praise and reminders of your beauty while sweat begins to cool. He doesn’t let his full weight fall on you but he does lay over your chest, skin sticking and sliding as his hand searches for yours to hook fingers together.

Beside your head you can hear him taking breath, readying to say something and you have a moment of doubt suddenly. He’s told you too much and not enough and maybe your brain is staring to catch up to your actions.

“I’m not drunk enough to say something stupid, but I need you to know something.” He uses his free hand to prop himself to hover over you, his grin skewed over his flushed cheeks. “I really like you.” A stray hair gets pushed out of your rapidly narrowing vision. His look is too soft and his wandering hand too light. It makes you shed a few tears that he seems to catch in the dim light.

“Steve…don’t…” You try to bury your face in the pillows but he’s quick to turn you back to face him.

“Don’t what? Tell you?” His grip on your chin is firm but his fingers don’t press in. He holds you still while his bloodshot eyes flick back and forth over your own. “I don’t…if you want me to leave I can do that.” It’s not a threat but it makes your heart seize regardless. “I’m just not gonna come in here and pretend like this is a one off or something.”

Knees still pressed to his hips holding him close, legs locked behind his knees where he kneels, you slide your hands up his sides for more points of contact. He’s real under your palms. Breathing and hot and sweating and telling you how he feels. The two orgasms barely hold a candle to the blossoming feeling in your stomach when he stares down at you with care.

“Steve-“

“Do you want me to stay?”

“I don’t think-“

“Yes or no.” He sits back with his arms spread wide. “I can go right now and we can pretend this didn’t happen.” He looks hurt when he says that but he holds your teary gaze. “I’ll get my shifts moved so you don’t even have to see me at work.”

You reach for him again, need him under your hands to ground you in the moment. “Don’t do that.” Face pushed into his shoulder sloppily when you rush up to meet him in the middle of your bed.

“If it makes it easier-“

“I don’t want it easier.” You hush. “I want you to stay.” A gentle tug at him to follow you back to the pillows. “Please.”

He falls easily with you, gets his arms around your shoulders to roll you into his embrace. “Okay.” Fingers over your scalp and down your neck to sooth your heavy breathing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smells like the bar and his soap and the remnants of cologne that cling to his jacket. Scruff from a full day rubs against your forehead while you get comfortable against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your bedroom is quieter than normal with his heartbeat under your ear and his breathing above you, a steady hum that calms you down. You begin drifting off when the liquor catches up to your satiated brain and your fingers loose some of their grip on his sides.

You think he’s still asleep with how quiet the room is but his voice is a deep rumble in the morning after. “Robin is going to kill me.”

You can hear the rub of his palms over his face and through his hair, that deep groan when he rolls either away or towards you, you’re not sure.

You find your own voice then, creaky and worn from yelling laughter at him all night through cheap whiskey shots. “I thought it wasn’t like that.”

“It isn’t.” His long fingers creep over your shoulder to pull gently. “She told me to leave you alone.” When you don’t unwind from yourself he uses you for leverage and rolls into your back, arm snaking around your waist. “And I told her I would.” A chaste kiss pressed to the back of your neck that makes you shiver, nothing chaste in the way it makes your chest flutter. “Obviously I lied, and she’s not fond of me lying to her.”

You turn your head slowly to look at him over your shoulder, mainly trying to prevent a wave of nausea but also to hold off the inevitable guilt hanging over you from dropping like a guillotine. In the late morning rainy light he’s even more handsome, bed-warm and rumpled. His hair sticks up on one side where it was pressed into your pillow, same pillow leaving lines on his cheek. He looks soft and out of focus and warm.

You expect that guilt to bubble up and spill out of your mouth in a wail but it doesn’t exist; there is no guillotine here.

You shuffle onto your back so you can look at him more intently, so you can stare at the green flecks in his brown eyes that roam over your face. “If anyone is gonna be in trouble, I think it’s me.” Barely a wobble to your words. He slides his hand up your stomach, fingers coming to rest in the valley between your breast. No rabbit heart under his palm. No gasping breaths to steady yourself under his gaze. You’ve made your bed and you would really like to lie in it, consequences be damned.

“It was fun.”

“It was.” You blink at him slowly. Rain patters against the glass and the clock in the kitchen ticks down the rest of your day. He tucks his other arm up under his head to look at you better before he sighs.

“I can go. If it’s easier.” Repeats himself from last night but your answer hasn’t changed. You frown lightly but don’t answer and he seems to take that as his sign to get up.

“No.” You reach out for his arm before he can set his feet on the floor. “I don’t want you to go.”

He laughs through his nose before settling in an upright position. “You don’t seem convinced.” A thumb to his nose twice while he stares at a spot at the foot of your bed.

“I’m thinking.” You sit up next to him and lean into his back facing you. Cheek resting on the back of his shoulder you stare at the moles that dot his skin and run a finger between them.

“About?”

“Breakfast.”

His laugh is louder than you expect but it’s nice to hear. “Hungover?”

A dry kiss where your cheek was resting before you scoot to your side of the bed in search of your underwear. “Something like that.”

Quiet shuffling while you two get dressed, Steve wincing at the smell of the bar stuck in his shirt that he shoves over his head. When he passes you to go look for his wallet he stops to lean down for a kiss. Unhurried and soft it leaves you with that same deep want from last night, especially when he hides a grin as he turns away. Bashful like you two weren’t just drunkenly fooling around until the early morning hours.

“There’s a place just do-“

Shrill ringing cuts you off on your way to the front door and you both stop to stare at the phone hanging in the kitchen. Steve looks suddenly adrift in your apartment, unsure while probably Rich tries to call you at too early a time. You let it go until it stops and the silence sits between you until Steve clears his throat.

“You still wanna get breakfast?” Quiet now that reality has stuck its nose back in. He shifts his weight from one hip to the other and you reach over for him, hands sliding under his jacket for a loose hug.

Your smile might be sad and the turn of his chin down at you shows the shadow of doubt on his mind but you wanted this. He did too and the aftermath of your shared night sits around you. The chair out of place from running into it, your shoes kicked in front of the tv and your bed just out of sight with its sheets melting onto the floor.

Guilt doesn’t exist here. Not when Steve told you all his secrets last night. Not now with the memory of gentle kisses and burning touch still searing your skin. You’ll face the consequences tomorrow when your normal comes back into town but for now, “Yeah, I do.”

#Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington Fic #Steve Harrington Fluff #Steve Harrington Smut #Steve Harrington x Reader #My Work #My Fic

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indokuwaitindustries · 1 month ago

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topzsun · 3 months ago

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I HAVE LOST IT ALL (HELP ME BREATHE)

── ♡ QIU LIN & TAMARACK BAUMANN

qiu contemplates the present. tamarack thinks about the past and what was lost along the way. you believe your future will be bright.

If Tamarack could be compared to a tornado, you would be a hurricane.

It’s an odd thought Qiu Lin ponders at age fourteen. It’s been four years since they had gained two new neighbours. In those early days, riddled with misadventures and emotions, they felt a connection to the pair of you that was hard to put into words. They reminisce over an old myth their mother liked to tell them during rainy evenings inside, her crocheting and them absentmindedly tossing a handball at laminated floors, watching it come back into their waiting hand listlessly.

The red thread of fate. An invisible string around the finger of those destined to meet. Perhaps that felt like an accurate way to describe it. Something about their neighbours did feel pre-destined. An inevitable that couldn’t be fought against. Yet, the myth was about lovers. Did they love you and Tamarack? It was cruel to speak it into the world, but they weren’t sure of the answer.

After all, things have changed since the three of you were ten years old.

They had adopted a mask of apathy. It was a slow change, carefully planned and executed, as it was in their nature. Even with their burnout, they still took precautions for their image, and this instinct only displeased them more. It was an ironic cycle of dissatisfaction. Tamarack had lost her cheek, her usual assertiveness now disguised behind carefully thought-out words and cautious eyes. People walked on a tightrope around her and she merely returned the favour. There is no permeance when it comes to Tamarack Baumann.

You were much more difficult to describe on the account that Qiu can’t decide if you changed as a consequence to them. Your eyes are clear, you walk with a secret purpose, and they still see the same person they had met in their backyard. Being fourteen didn’t stop you from looking at the world with the same reservation, curiosity, disdain and love as when you were ten. Yet, there is no longer anyone around you. Despite their isolation, Qiu had managed to keep those who had been “in” their circle since the beginning as companions. Even Tamarack had found friends.

Yet, for some wild reason completely incomprehensible to them, you decided your circle would still be limited to Tamarack and Qiu, who could hardly call themselves your friends anymore, but neighbours at best. Despite this, you never gave chase. You didn’t push for their company. You didn’t push for conversation. You simply sat there as if their time and care were a given, as if you deserved nothing less. Perhaps your entitlement should irritate them, but it doesn’t. You liked to act as if you could see something they didn’t, every time your eyes met Qiu’s in passing, it was as if you could already see years into the future. It’s unsettling. It makes them wonder if you also believed in things like the red string of faith. Maybe if the both of you were still friends, they could’ve asked.

Their handball, now slightly tattered with age, rebounds into their gloved hand.

Your mother used to intimidate her.

It was a secret Tamarack had intended to take to her grave. Not out of consideration for you (she hardly had any filter when she was ten years old), but because she was embarrassed that the lady next door was what managed to spook her before the idea of bears or thunderstorms.

Your mother, Opal, was kind. She was nowhere near mean. Yet, she talked like an adult. She talked like an extremely mature and smart adult, even to little kids who are barely gauging the world. Tamarack knew a lot of people tend to talk to their kids as if they were grownups, something about building confidence and intelligence. However, she, whose grandparents spoke to her like the child she was, didn’t understand why your mom used such big words and became super serious out of seemingly nowhere. The unpredictability of nature didn’t scare her. It’s the unexpected behaviour of adults that made her nervous.

However, her opinion of Opal has shifted since she turned fourteen. It’s likely because she can now understand most of what the older woman says, so conversations with her felt less daunting. However, interactions with her have also dwindled majorly over the years on account of the both of you drifting away from each other. Tamarack wishes she could have pinpointed the reason why you both no longer sat together in class, or why she stopped coming over.

(Well, even if she did know the reason, would she have made the necessary chase to be your best friend again?)

Usually, Tamarack’s grandmother preferred to hand over any meals to the neighbours on her own. It gave her both the opportunity to soak up praise first-hand, and an excuse to linger for conversation. However, today she requested Tamarack to send over Apfelkuchen to your household since she had a doctor’s appointment she was running late to. So, in what seemed like a long while, she rapped her knuckles against the mahogany of your door and stood with clammy hands holding tightly to the circular dish. After exactly a minute, the doors open to reveal Opal. Her round eyes widen for a split second at the sight of the golden-haired girl, before swiftly offering her a pleased smile.

“Tamarack? It’s been a while,” She greets conversationally, even if she’s looking down at her from her height. Tamarack returns her welcome with less confidence and enthusiasm, before launching into a quick explanation about what brought her to standing on the porch.

“I see,” Opal takes the dish from her outstretched hand, gently but securely holding it in her grasp. “Please send your grandmother my thanks, and I greatly appreciate her sending over her delicious baking.”

She nods along to the older woman, but she cannot stop her eyes that linger behind Opal. Perhaps, deep inside, she wishes you were lingering downstairs, eavesdropping on the conversation before making your entrance to interrupt your mother’s flow of conversation.

(It’s what you would have done back then.)

Of course, you do not show up and soon Opal bids her farewell, with the obligatory show of gratitude for coming to deliver the cake, and that she was welcome at your house at any time. It’s an offer she’s heard countless times but hasn’t accepted in years. She’s sure Opal would have been floored if she actually kicked off her shoes at that moment, and welcomed herself inside.

She makes the short trek back to the comfort of her own house. However, in that minute-long walk, she swore that with every crunch of boots against dried leaves, she could hear the bells of your gleeful laughter beside her.

All good things come in threes.

The first time you heard that saying was back when you lived in a small apartment with your mother. You had no backyard and no kids your age to play with outside of school. Your mother was often swamped with work, and due to the irregular times she would be home, your elderly neighbour offered to take care of you until she was back from work.

Thanks to this, you had become familiar with the smell of strong incense and sandalwood, and of porcelain cats in display cases. You had also picked up the faint scent of tobacco, which was desperately covered by air freshener and open windows before you arrived at her door. Of course, at that age, you didn’t know what it was and assumed it was one of those heavy and weird perfumes adults tended to use.

Even if she was a bit odd with her patchwork skirts and collection of dolls with glassy eyes, she was not a bad person. She let you watch TV whenever you asked, listening in to the static voices of a smooth-sounding woman with the thrumming of her sewing machine in the background. Usually, she let you do your own thing, whether it was sitting on the floor and colouring in a picture book, or watching whatever channel you flipped through. Sometimes, she’d sit on an aging armchair, watching as you coloured out of the lines of a picture of Barney, and preach to you whatever happened to cross her mind. Many things slipped from one ear and out the other, but one saying from her managed to stick to the metaphorical walls of your brain.

All good things come in threes.

You aren’t sure why, but it became your anchor in your childhood. It bled into your everyday life; this belief that happy days are sure to come your way as long as it all happened in threes. You kept three different types of socks for every colour. When you went shopping with your mother, you made sure to put three bars of chocolate in the cart instead of the one you were allowed (and your mother discreetly put it back before you noticed). You kept three glitter pens in your pencil case.

When you first met Qiu and Tamarack, it was the third of the month. You became a trio on the third of the month. You moved to a three-house cul de sac on the third of the month.

Golden Groove was your fortune, you were utterly convinced of this fact. Qiu and Tamarack were your destiny. Even when with age, you began to stop buying and keeping threes of everything, you still did not let go of this notion. Even if conversation had begun to dwindle and invites to hang out had slowed to a stop, you were undeterred. They were your constants, and whatever path of life you all walk will inevitably converge and become one again.

You reflect on this as you lay in bed, hot tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. In your open palm lies a polaroid of Tamarack and Qiu, much younger, squished together at each of your sides. They smile at you as if in love.

#our life #our life now and forever #olnf #olnf tamarack #olnf qiu #qiu lin #tamarack baumann #our life tamarack #our life qiu #gb patch games #olnf x reader #qiu lin x reader #tamarack baumann x reader #olnf mc #reader insert #x reader #i cant wait for step 2 content i love angst #reader is purposefully written to be offputting. they are meant to be a little weirdo <3

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Dirty Work 15

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I need this week to end.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The rest of your personal day is spent in the confines of your room. You hear your father below in a tantrum, working himself up as he blusters and stomps. Soon, the smell of cigarette smoke pervades the house. He's found his fix somehow.

You don't dare emerge. You hide behind a book you can't focus on as your eyes stray to the phone, over and over. You keep it off as you fear another miscue. You can already imagine Mr. Laufeyson isn't impressed by the disturbance.

Your sleep comes in shallow morsels. You awake to each creak and crack of the old house, the neighbours arguing through the wall, and the rustling of leaves outside the window. You surrender to your consciousness just as the sun comes up. You'll need to see what damage has been done before Leslie arrives.

The puzzle is overturned on the floor, the coffee table on its side. The wooden chair reserved for the nurse has a leg broken and the TV beams its blue screen around the room. You tidy up as best you can, putting the chair by the back door until you can figure out how to fix it.

The kitchen is more of a mess, cupboards open and a few dishes shattered across the tile. A jar of jam is smeared over the laminate counter top along with what you had left of the peanut butter reserved for your lunch. You sigh and toss the empty jars, wiping up the puddles of wasted food.

You brew a tea and sit on the front porch, paranoid that your father might rouse and come to taunt you some more. He's done it before, as if to spite your efforts. He trashes the place only to accuse you of being negligent. What did you ever do to make him hate you? Why does it seem like everyone you meet feels the same?

You finish the black breakfast blend and wash the cup. You creep upstairs to get dressed and wait on your bed until your bus is due. You flee with your work bag and a deep yawn you can't repress.

The commute is your rare chance at peace. You don't have to think as you look out the window and watch the amber headlights pass and the storefronts slowly flicker to life. The nicer houses rise as the streets turn suburban and fervent long swells in your chest. Why couldn't you live like this?

Why couldn't you be like those children running to get in the van with their schoolbags bouncing, their parents laughing at their excitement, or like the mother with her carriage, enjoying a lazy walk as the neighbourhood awakens?

Those things aren't for you. You shouldn't complain, someone always has it worse. You shouldn't pity yourself. Your mother died well before she was ever your age and your father is sick. You are healthy and you have a job. That's something, better than nothing.

You break the threshold of the Laufeyson estate, the gate whining and clanging shut. You hunch down and wind along the path, looking ahead of your feet and no further. You rub your eyes as you come to the back door and check the time. A bit ahead of schedule but he can hardly be unhappy about that.

You are careful in the low din of the house. It's deathly quiet as you leave your shoes on the mat and surpass the closet. As you near the kitchen, you hear a clink from within. You slow, padding quietly in an effort not to betray your presence. You keep against the wall as you resist the urge to peek inside.

"You like tea, no?" The voice wafts through, rippling through the still silence.

You cringe and clutch the straps of your bag. You lower your head and wet your lips. You inch towards the archway.

"Mr. Laufeyson, I don't mind tea," you answer.

"Very well," he takes down a second cup as the kettle boils softly.

"I've already had mine, but thank you, Mr. Laufeyson. I should get to work, the carpenter will be in today."

"You're welcome," he replies as he plucks out tea bags from a hexagonal tin and drops one in each mug. "You can stomach a second. I bought this tea in Tokyo a while back. I need to finish it before it goes stale."

You linger in the door. Is this some trick? Maybe it's pity? Had he really heard that pocket call? You hoped maybe he hadn't been able to hear past the fabric. You watch him as he puts the lid back on the tin. As usual, you can't read him.

What would he even think if he did hear? That you're even more pathetic than he believed?

"Come," he puts his hands on the counter with the undeniable demand.

You obey and cross to the other side of the counter. You teeter and look around awkwardly, not certain what to say or do. He drags his fingertips over the granite and leans weight onto them.

"Thank you for the t--"

"How was your day off--"

You both speak at the same time. You snap your mouth shut and give an apologetic flutter of your fingers. He seals his lips and hesitates, clearing his throat.

"You said the carpenter is due," he redirects, "no doubt you'll have a busy day. Tomorrow, I want you to clear the schedule."

"Tomorrow? Yes, Mr. Laufeyson."

"Don't ask me why, you will know in due time."

"Understood," you take out the phone and make a note, your should hanging heavy on your elbow.

He waits. You don't say a word. The kettle pops and he turns to take it and pours the tea. He sets it back on the base and slides a mug closer.

"You're not curious?" He wonders.

"Like you said, I'll find out," you say, "thank you again."

"Five minutes for a good steep," he girds, "you will want the flavour to set."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you step closer as you pinch the handle and draw the cup closer.

"Mmm," he hums, rolling his shoulders back. "I had a question for you then." You look up and wait patiently, your eyelashes clinging with your fatigue, "was there some emergency yesterday?"

"Pardon?" You gulp.

"I saw that you called but couldn't make anything out," his cheek twitches, "but I wasn't sure if it was some mistake--"

"It was. Sorry--" you cover your mouth at your own abruptness, "it was an accident. I'm sorry."

"Ah," he nods as he considers you. Can he see through the lie? Does he even care?

"It won't happen again. I'm sorry to have bothered."

"Not bothered," he assures and takes the string of the tea bag, bobbing it up and down in the water, "I have other things to be bothered with, that's certain."

You cross your arms and sway, turning this way and that as you peer around. He didn't hear but you're still uneasy. He startles you as he moves smoothly around the counter. He approaches you and reaches to grasp the strap of your bag.

“Stay a while,” he insists as he tugs and you unfold your arms.

As he slides the strap down your arm, his other hand gently brushes your sleeve, just where the bruise smarts. The tender spot thrums and you wince, letting out a hiss. He hestitates as he places your bag on the counter.

His mouth opens and closes as if he can't think of what to say. You put your hand over the bruise and grimace.

“Did I–”

“No,” you interject, “ Thanks, that was heavy.”

“Ah, yes, well… it will take some time for the tea to cool.”

You shift, just a few inches away to face the counter again. He must be lying. He had to have heard everything yesterday, it's the only way to explain his behaviour. Somehow, you've managed to sink even lower, he must feel on top of the world.

🧹

Ronan arrives just after nine. You rush out to meet him, your tea only half-finished. As he shows you his plans for the repair, you do your best to answer his questions, telling him that some details will need to be approved by Mr. Laufeyson.

You turn towards the house and see the curtain in one of the front windows ripple. You offer to show the carpenter to the gazebo but he insists he can find his own way. Before he can, the front door swings inward and Laufeyson emerges.

“Ah, you must be the builder,” he struts down the steps, “welcome.”

You're taken aback by Laufeyson’s demeanour. For his own family, he was never more than perturbed, but here he is, playing it up. You know for sure that he is, he's never sounded so… nice.

“Hi,” Ronan faces him, his bag in one hand as his other goes to his hip. He stands nonplussed as the host nears.

“Loki,” Laufeyson introduces himself as he offers his hand.

“Ronan,” the other man eyes his fingers before he accepts the gesture. There's tension in his tendons as he squeezes and shakes. “Fine house, you got.”

“A bit big for just me,” Laufeyson sighs as he's released and waves his hand at the facade behind him, “but I won't complain for it.”

“And you've got a wonderful house manager to deal with it all,” Ronan muses.

“Yes, I suppose,” he shrugs, “did you need a tour–”

“Got it,” Ronan interrupts, “I should start. Got a lot to do.”

“Of course, of course,” Laufeyson steps out of his way, “oh but there is this,’ he reaches into his jacket pocket, “the deposit.”

Ronan nods and takes the check with a swipe, “thanks.”

“I always pay for fine work,” Laufeyson intones with a certain lilt. You sense heat roiling between them but why, you can't guess.

“And I never deliver less,” Ronan folds the check with one hand and shoves it in a denim pocket, “I'll try not to make too much of a ruckus.”

They stare at each other as if in a wordless conversation. As the carpenter slowly steps past the resident, you find your voice.

“Thank you, Ronan,” you squeak after the man and he dips his hand, waving over his shoulder as he disappears down the path.

“Where did you find that man?” Laufeyson asks.

“Online? He had good reviews.”

“Mmm, you should've searched out a proper company, not some independent contractor.’

“Oh?” You frown.

“It's only… I've heard stories of swindlers,” he crosses his arms as he faces you completely.

“Sorry, I…”

“It is what it is. We shall see,” he dismisses your apology.

“Right, uh, I'll just… get back to work,” you turn towards the same path and Laufeyson's step echoes yours as he follows you swiftly.

“What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Inside,” you utter dumbly.

“The door is that way,” he argues.

“Well, uh…” you stop and pivot around as he stumbles to a halt, “sure, I guess… it's a habit.”

“You may go through the front, you do much more than clean now, don't you, maid?”

You're not sure how to take the epithet. Is he reminding you of what you were or telling you what you'll always be? You don't reply. You'll just sound stupid. Your father taught you sometimes it's better to just bite your tongue.

You redirect to the front door as he stays on your tail. His shadow makes you want to shrink down to nothing as he looms close. You enter and he nearly collides with you as you remove your shoes.

You press on to the kitchen as he follows. As he resumes his place before his tea cup you go to the cupboard and search out the pitcher you saw the other day and a tall glass. While you fill the jug, he clucks.

“What are you doing?”

“I'll put some water on the patio in case he gets thirsty,” you pull away from the lever, “sorry, I… should've asked. I was just thinking–”

“No, no, you're right. We should be hospitable,”

You nod and push against the lever so the water pours out of the nozzle. When it's full, you find a tray and set it beside the single glass and add ice. Laufeyson taps his porcelain cup.

“Aren't you going to finish your tea?” He asks.

“Um,” you blink and peek back at the mug as you lift the tray, “sure, when I come back.”

You turn to leave, trying not to falter as his gaze tugs at you. You go to the patio door and stop balancing the tray against the side table. Before you can even try the door, Laufeyson sidles past to slide it back himself.

“There, wouldn't want a spill.”

“Er, thanks,” you don't look at him as you pass. He's being helpful. Too helpful.

You place the tray on the glass table and go back inside. You sweep through to the entryway and grab your shoes. Laufeyson once more tails you.

“Your tea,” he reminds you.

“I know, I'm just going to let Ronan know about the water…” you murmur.

You go outside before he can catch up. You descend the front stairs and follow the curve towards the rear path. Mr. Laufeyson’s silhouette disappears behind the hedges as you round the corner of the house and head down towards the gazebo.

Ronan is at the top of the stairs, he paces around, eyeing the railings and testing the stability of the columns with a firm grip. He tilts his head as you approach unnoticed. You stand just on the bottom step sheepishly.

“Um, excuse me, sir,” you pipe up.

“Yes,” he spins to face you, “miss, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing, I just… I left some water on the patio,” you point over towards the house, “if you follow the path around, the stairs are just by the rose bushes.”

“Thanks,” he says, “that's very… sweet of you.”

“Uh, well, it's pretty hot out.”

“Used to it,” he says as he grabs a thick metal clipboard and scribbles with short pencil, “but it's appreciated. Always nice to work with someone competent.”

“I…” your cheeks ache to smile, you think it's a compliment, “thank you.”

“I'd hate to keep you,” he says as he sets the clipboard back on his bag, “your boss seems to be very… straight laced. I wouldn't want to tangle him up.”

“It's… um, yeah, if you need anything, I'll be around,” you offer, bobbing on your heels, “I'll have my phone, you could message me or ring the bell.”

“I think I'll be okay,” he chuckles, not mockingly but kindly, “go on, you're right, it's too hot to be out here in polyester.”

You look down at yourself, sweat beading along your hairline as if to confirm his warning, “yeah… erm, okay. Thanks.”

You shuffle off the step, balling your fists as you walk away with straight arms, fighting not to look back. That was awkward and strange. You can only think he'll be laughing again, this time at your expense.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #dirty work #au #maid au #marvel #mcu #avengers #thor

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lostintransist · 2 months ago

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Death is Not Always Kind | Part 3

Part 1 here.

CW: Asking for death, implied threats, men (derogatory)

AO3 | Death Masterlist

They have gone. Leaving you alone with instructions that food will be delivered to the door and to not wander. K left you an empty notebook and a series of pens. N nodded once to his bed and shut the door behind him. They shut you in this new cage but left the door unlocked.

You take your days; lining the empty pages with lines a hint of a breath between them as you fill one side diagonal and then the other horizontally. Six pages front and back filled with nothing but lines, a prison for the ink you have wasted. The pounding at the door becomes near constant. You have ignored the food. They are not here to force you.

The words begin to crawl out of you, filling the larger spaces you leave between your lines. You think yourself a dragon, breathing out poison and setting the world ablaze with the hate in your soul. You would say the fires of hell but you have found hell is cold, sterile, white and leached of color.

Exhaustion steals you into sleep more often as your weary body cries for nutrients again. On the fourth day someone opens the door. This man is large. Tall, not as tall as K, but broader by half. A dark hood with bleached weeping eyes stare at you.

“Come.”

He turns and walks from the room. Something about the command pulls you forward. This is a man that will end you. No morals, twisted even as they sat in N and K, would prevent him from granting you release.

He walks silently, massive boots landing without even a puff of air as he displaces the atoms that live between his foot and his next step. You cannot match his silence despite the slight existence of your body. The slap of your feet against the cool laminate follows you as you follow him.

Men drift to one side as they move to and fro, all with some unknown destination. They nod and murmur a quick 'Colonel', eyes categorizing you as not a threat before they pass. Some eyes linger though, the lascivious thoughts clear. Boys, failed by society, found release only in the stolen space within bodies that could not be human. For if they were human, if they were real, men would have to grapple with the baseless violence that marked them as beasts and not as men in fact.

The doors change. Where once the spread out openings were closed tight with solid pieces now windows peaked out at you between the walls and built into the doors. At a door like all the others the man stopped, and you behind him.

A key appeared from a pocket and disappeared into the same after its job had been completed. He opens the door for you, this colonel pulls his second power move by gesturing that you enter first. Stepping through you flick your eyes across the wall of filing cabinets, all shut tight. His desk is neat to a fault. You reach out and touch a pen laid neatly at the end of his matte black desk mat.

No nameplate sits on his desk to identify who he is. The colonel stares at the askew pen before lifting his eyes to you.

“Why do they keep you?” His voice does not rumble as you expect for one of such size. You had expected the growl of a bear but found the voice of a mild-mannered shark instead.

“They won’t kill me,” you reach forward and tap the pen again. It slides but does not roll as the clip lays in the way.

“Why?”

If you knew that you would be freed of this electrified meat suit. Instead, you reach forward and tap the pen again.

His hand shoots out, holding your wrist tight, nearly to the point of pain. Looking up you stare into beautiful blue eyes that should not belong to the reaper.

“Will you kill me?”

“Can you only speak of your demise?” He muses aloud before letting your wrist go and leaning back in his chair. It squeaks against his weight. “No. Krueger and Nikto are some of my best. If I take you away who knows what they will drag home next.”

Wish that you were a witch to drown in your sorrows. Before thinking better of it you skirt the large desk, using all your might to spin the chair so you can settle on your knees between his thighs. You stare up at him, mournful, as your cheek rests so close to his groin that you can smell the sweat of the day collected in his creases.

“Please,” tears you have not shed in years start, “Please kill me.”

He stares down at you, dead eyes unwilling to bend to your request.

“What does death hold that you cannot?”

“Peace,” you sob into the seam of his pants.

Hands pull you upward until you are nestled nose into his hood and arms around his neck. That is how K and N find you hours later. The colonel had worked around you, firing off emails and answering men as they entered his office. He had shared food with you too. Bits of his meal from his own fork pressed to your lips with the expectation of bending to his will. You do. Thinking later you decide it must be the gentleness of his touch, those killing hands holding you gently, that pulls you back ever so slightly from the edge that you crept toward.

K busts through the door, ignoring the unspoken demand to knock and wait.

“König you have something of ours.”

The heat of his gaze sweeps over you, displeasure tasting the air.

N steps through before shutting the door tight.

“I grew up hunting rabbits for my Nonna,” König, as they called him, rests a hand on your back. “We did not keep them as pets, locked in cages.”

They stiffen, catching the message that is beyond you.

“Send her in the morning. Rabbits must have a purpose or they need to feed the pot.”

N surprises you by snarling at his commander.

“She will not play whore for you König.”

König’s fingers tighten on your ribs.

“I have need of a secretary, you have a rabbit in need of watching. You will share or I will grant her request.” All signs of civility disappeared from his voice. Despite your cries for death you shivered.

K and N do not need to share a look to reach a congress. N blinks and K nods.

“Up kaninchen, they will wish to ensure you are well,” he flexes his thigh beneath you.

You stand slowly, already missing the warmth of his body that had seeped into your bones.

“Bring her dressed next time,” he says to them by way of dismissal.

Looking down at your too-large shirt and tightened sweats you frown. You suppose toes should not be out if you are to work in the colonel’s office. Did you want to work in his office? Did you have a choice?

Following your keepers back to your room you let them prod at you and answer their questions. No, he did not hurt you, no he did not touch your body in a way you did not agree to, yes you ate today. When you are delivered to the showers you clean your body perfunctorily, pausing only once to notice that your breasts have started to return. When you return to the room you share with N, K at your side, you find the mattress empty. N has settled himself across the cot you used, light breathing the only indication of life.

“I don’t want it,” you snap at both of them.

“It is our failure that has brought the colonel’s attention to you, the least we can do is upgrade your resting hours,” K pushes you toward the bed. His hand is firm, but not unkind. “Morning comes early.”

You lay down, glaring across the room at N as S kills the lights and leaves you to your nightmares.

Likes are amazing! Reblogs are better (that lets your followers see what you like.)

Part 2 | Part 4

Death Masterlist | Masterlist

@meinemauschen

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #nikto cod #sebastian krueger #konig #konig cod #konig call of duty #cod nikto #nikto x fem reader #call of duty nikto #nikto x reader #lostintransist #lostintransit writing #Death Is Not Always Kind

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brain-n-body-in-disarray · 1 year ago

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What the h*ll is "basic hygiene" anyway?

If you're like me, you've been struggling with hygiene for a long time. I'm neurodivergent, I have chronic fatigue and chronic pain, so yeah, it's been hard, my whole life.

Here's a few tips that helped me or some of my friends.

1. Redefine "basic hygiene"

No, really. Redefine it. Neurotypical and able-bodied people will tell you all can of things about what is "basic" hygiene.

The rule is: do what you can. That's it. The rest of the post will be tips to increase what you can do. But in the meantime, just do your best. You're fantastic the way you are.

2. Time

There's two thing here.

The first is: find the right time for you. It's not always easy, because we often have obligations, and we're supposed to be clean at those right moments. It's not easy. Sometimes it "helps" because it gives us that "boost" we needed to start getting clean, but most of the time it's just stressful. So instead find the moment that works best for you. I know there's moments in the day when it'll be easier for me to start tasks that I would struggle with at an other time, but I prioritise other things instead for a reason or another. Try washing yourself then, even if people will tell you it's strange to have a shower at three pm. Who cares.

The second is: divide to conquer. You don't have to wash ALL the parts of your body at once. You don't necessarily have the energy for it and it's okay. Also it can feel daunting to face that long list of steps. A body has a LOT of parts to wash and clean. Really, that's scary and exhausting. So the solution might be to do smaller things here and there. Do what you can when you can, that's okay. At least you've done something, that's great!

You are also allowed to take breaks in the middle. It can help if you are tired, or if it makes you anxious.

3. Wipes.

I personally hate washing with soap and water, whether it's a bath, shower or just at the sink. It takes time, it's a lot of steps, and it feels horrible. I do it when I can, but I don't enjoy it. The partial solution is wipes.

Baby wipes are great, they're soft, some smell good but faint, some has no odor. You can clean yourself quickly without rinsing. And they don't let that terrible feeling on your skin.

There's wipes made for your private parts. Which is an important part to clean. Also wet toilet paper is good. (For private parts wipes, buy the organic ones, you don't want anything too harsh there)

Make-up removal wipes are not just to remove make-up. They do clean you face.

Don't use antibacterial wipes though. At least not regularly. They are too harsh for your skin, you'll just damage it. Also too much antibacterial stuffs just make bacterias more resistant.

Bonus point: wipes can easily be carried in a bag. Handy.

4. Charts and lists and apps.

Whether you forget to do it or it you have done it already, or you can't get motivated, or you can't manage to start washing, or there's so many steps you get overwhelmed, or you start but can't remember what to do next, etc., those tips might help.

There's apps like Habitica (it's the most well known but there's others) that help you building habits and remembering to do stuffs and making it fun (help with rewards). It's about general tasks but can be applied to washing. A friend also told me there's a pokemon app to brush your teeth but I haven't tried it.

If you get overwhelmed by the steps and get lost in the middle, making a list of those steps, laminating and putting it in the bathroom near the sink or in the shower can help you keeping tracks. You can even put a dry erase marker near the list to check what have already be done.

5. The "bath buddy"

If you live with someone, you can ask their help.

I'm not saying they have to wash you. Or maybe I am? A friend takes his showers with his boyfriend to help getting motivated.

It can just be your platonic roommate behind the door talking to you, telling you funny stories.

Having company can help start the task and make it more enjoyable which help in itself but also make it less daunting the next times. Having a bath buddy also helps if you get lost in the middle of a task, they can tell you what the next step is. They can also keep you on tracks and in the present (I know I tend to dissociate a lot in the bathroom). And they keep your mind off the bad stuffs (body dysphoria for example, or sensory discomfort)

6. You're never too old for "kids' stuffs"

Because you're never to old for fun stuffs.

No, really, there's no reason why you should deprive yourself of something that would make washing more fun.

Wash your teeth with bubblegum flavored toothpaste.

Play with bathtoys. Buy those little plastic boats and those little squirting animals. (Seriously, the fact that the only fun thing for bath for adult is bubbles is a crime)

The word here is "fun". Make the bathroom fun. Buy a shower curtain with cute elephants playing with water. Put adhesive ducks on the tiles. Make that darn room a place you want to be in, not just to distract you from the bad stuff but to enjoy your life.

7. Teeth. Oh no, the teeth.

First thing: as I said, you don't have to use that "adult toothpaste". The menthol contained in it can be sensory hell. You can use kid toothpaste, it cleans just as well. If you can't use any toothpaste try brushing without it with just water. You can also try toothpaste tablets (you chew on them and then brush). You can try mouthwash. You can try oil-pulling. The point here is to remove some bacteria from your mouth.

About brushing. There's different hardness in toothbrushes. If you're using hard, try medium. If you're using medium, try soft. If you're using soft, try baby toothbrush. If no toothbrush works for you, try a wet cloth, or your finger. Try using toothpicks to remove the remains of food and then use mouthwash.

If the storebought mouthwash doesn't do with you, make it yourself. There's recipes online with essential oils (optional, but maybe there's one you might like), baking soda and water. (I don't recommend using lemon juice, it might damage your enamel.)

My friend just told me I should mention dental floss. I personally hate it, but it might be useful to some of you. It's probably more effective than toothpicks. They also comes mounted on these little plastic sticks if you struggle with the thread alone.

8. Chair

No, really, you have the right to sit down during washing. Buy a shower chair. Put a bench on your bathtub instead of struggling to stand up. Put a chair in front of the sink to sit when you brush your teeth.

You don't have to be physically disabled to use a chair to wash. And if you're disabled there's still no shame. Standing up can be boring, it can be painful, it can be tiring. So sit. You are allowed.

And if you prefer standing, do. You can pace. You can dance. You can do gymnastics. (Just be careful if you're brushing your teeth, okay. Or if you're in the shower. Don't hurt yourself.)

9. Music

If you don't have a buddy to talk to you, music or even podcasts, anything to listen to, can be a nice way to help. They makes the experience more enjoyable. They keeps your head away from the bad sensory experience or the awareness of your own body.

I also find using the same playlist useful to keep track of the time I've been spending in the shower. I even time the steps on the tracklist, I know I washed that part of my body for long enough if that song is over, I need to do the next step.

Also, for me me music is part of the ritual. It helps me to get in the right mind, it motivates me, it makes the routine.

10. Multi-purpose products.

I've seen all those beauty posts about "layering". It's nice if you have the energy and the time, but no, it's not for me.

I hate moisturising creams. I really do. They smells funny, they feels gross and sticky, and it takes forever to apply. It's an unnecessary step for me. But I have dry skin (at least on my body). The easy solution is to use surgras soap or surgras shower gel. (Not just the "moisturising" soap, that won't hydrate as well.)

I don't just remove the unpleasant experience of moisturiser, I remove a step. I save energy.

Also, multi-purpose products help with organisation, there's less things to think about. There's less risk of taking the wrong bottle because you're too headfogged. Less chance of chaos in the bathroom.

I personally can't do that for everything. I'd like to have one soap for everything, but my body skin and my face skin and my private parts and my hair all need different stuffs. But I do try to keep things to a minimum, because the number of products can be quickly overwhelming. So try to balance your sensory needs with your organisation problem.

(Also, if like me you hate the feeling of moisturiser, aloe vera gel is great. It is a bit sticky, but in a different way than cream. I personally prefer that one. There's also the option of oil, there's different kinds for different skin types, even for oily skin.)

11. Japaneses know best: the bidet.

This one might sounds strange for some folx. Where I live, bidets used to be extremely common but they are disappearing. We used to have a bidet next to the toilets in our homes. Japanese toilets have a built-in bidet but they are expensive. There is a cheaper (but still not cheap) alternative. You can buy a bidet toilet seat attachment to put on your own toilets.

Why am I telling you about bidet? Because when you struggle to wash regularly, bidets are incredibly useful.

Toilet paper is highly unhygienic. Wet toilet paper is a bit better. Bidets, that spray a jet of water on your privates, clean so much better.

And they are easy and quick to use. You just press a button and you are clean.

If you have a vagina, it's even more important, because it lowers significantly the risks of getting UTI and the likes.

If you can afford it, I recommend it.

12. The hat, or "well, f*ck it"

You can fail to wash in time for whatever obligation you have. That's okay.

Just use the card "camouflage".

Greasy hair? If they are long, brush them and tie them tightly, and put on a fashionable hat. Or you favorite, silly, hat. Or just a random hat that your aunt gave you (you know the one, you wondered for three weeks if you smiled enough when you received the gift because you didn't want to offend her). Scarfs are nice too.

Other idea to hide greasy hair? A wig. They are higher maintenance, but they are good to have for occasions where you have to look a bit better or if you can't wear a hat for whatever reason.

About odors... Well you know the trick of deodorants and perfume. Not what I recommend, at least not alone. For once not everyone can stand their smell. Also, they aren't that great to succeed at masking odors. If you can, use wipes to clean your armpits (also the underbreasts if you have them) and the neck and chest area. It might not remove all the odors but it'll help and with some deodorant if you can stand it, you should be good.

About deodorant: you can use a dollop of moisturiser (yes, I know I said I hate them, but listen), it will help to stop the formation of odors but the fragrance is usually mild or absent. It's also less harsh than the usual deodorant. You only need a small amount for it to work. You just need to clean before (wipes should be enough)

13. Don't stew in your dirty clothes.

Try to change your clothes often even if you don't wash. Especially your underwears.

I know it might sound counterintuitive to wear clean clothes when your skin is dirty, but staying in old clothes is like wearing a petri dish. By keeping the same clothes on you, you also keep the bacterias that live on it and your body.

It's especially bad in some areas, like your private parts, your feet and your armpits.

If you live alone, or if you live with someone who don't care, don't put clothes on at all. You'll just stew in your bacterial crock pot otherwise.

Staying naked also has the upside of reducing the amount of laundry you have to do.

14. Use your strengths.

Sometimes it's as simple as using your other hand because your dominant one is achy.

Sometimes it's listening to a podcast about your special interest.

You're an artist? Put a whiteboard in the shower. Or, I don't know, draw your body, laminate the drawing, and color the parts you have already washed with a dry erase marker.

Your thing is to make lists of animals of Paraguay? Recite them alphabetically and make a song with them while you brush your teeth and wash your face and clip you nails.

Dancers here? Each movement you make is part of a choreography.

15. Aftercare.

Hygiene is immensely stressful and energy consuming. You don't just deserve a reward, you need aftercare.

It's okay to take a nap. It's okay to need to engage with your special interest. It's okay to need a hug. It's okay to want to be alone. It's okay to feel bad too. Have a cry. Be moody. Don't be ashamed of what you feel. Of course it's better if you manage to avoid these emotions. But it's okay if you have them.

And give yourself a little treat. Have a cup of your favorite tea. Put a shiny sticker in your "things I've done good today" diary. Cuddle with your pet. Read the Swedish dictionary.

Drink a glass of water and eat something.

Also, if you have chronic pain, like I do, take your meds. (My joints are always a bit achy after standing too long, or my shoulder are stiff after washing my hair)

Write an essay about why keeping up with your hygiene is a pain.

Do what you want and do what you need.

16. Shame has no place in the bathroom.

If you've read my previous post, you know what I mean.

I've said it in this post, it's okay to struggle, to not be perfect, or as perfect as neurotypicals and able-bodied people say we should be. Their criterias are bullcrap.

Shame won't help you to keep up to these unachievable standards. They'll just undermine you.

Also, it's okay if some of what I've said here seems unachievable also. I shared what helps me and some of my friends, but your needs might be different and that's totally okay. Maybe someone will make a post with tips that'll help more? I hope so.

Anyway, you do what you can and you congratulate yourself for it. Every step is an achievement worth of praise.

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