#Sorry for the Grey spots on the canvas

[cardansriddle]

Sugar - (tom riddle x fem!muggle!reader)

Summary: Perhaps it was an accident. Or perhaps the fates were mocking him. He had not meant to venture into the little coffee shop and he had most definitely not meant to return. But he kept coming back and the waitress kept putting sugar packets near his coffee every damn time.

Warnings: Tom gets possessive halfway through so it's pretty tame for him. not proofread. oh also self-indulgent crime & punishment debate (got a lil carried away).

A/N: 5.5k words but it's kinda mehh. to the person who requested this, i hope you enjoy it at least a little <3

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

Tom felt as if he was a solitary figure in a world hushed by the winter's harsh embrace. With each step he took away from the desolate building of grey against the pristine canvas of winter, he felt lighter. He did not cast a look back towards the orphanage looming behind him, instead focused on the sound of the snow crunching beneath his feet as they led him further into the dark street cloaked in a thick layer of snow.

The wizard knew if he spent another moment in that cursed place he would have lashed out and killed someone, so he had hastily thrown his coat and emerald scarf around himself before slamming the door shut behind him. 

Two more years. He thought to himself. Then he would be out and would never be obligated to return again. Perhaps he would even burn the place to the ground if his plans worked out in his favour. 

The air was crisp, and his breath materialized in front of him with each exhale. His eyes quickly scanned the narrow empty alley for a suitable quiet place where he could pass his time. There was nothing interesting, except for the tiny bookstore nestled in the corner of the street that emitted a warm, golden light through its window. Tom quickly decided it would do, and he strode towards the place with purpose. A small bell chimed as he entered the place, which he quickly realised was a bookstore with a cosy coffee shop tucked inside. 

He inhaled the pleasant aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the scent of weathered books. Before he could lose himself entirely in the intoxicating symphony of scents, a sudden, loud thud echoed from behind the counter, jolting him from his reverie.

"Blimey!" someone cursed, their voice slicing through the tranquillity. Tom found himself rooted to the spot, curiosity piqued, as a figure suddenly emerged from underneath the counter.

It was a girl. Unabashedly, his eyes traced the lines of her features, noting the delicate curve of her jaw and the cascade of hair that framed her face. He assumed she was around his age if not younger and he stared at the girl as she rubbed her head, wincing when she hit a particularly soft spot before she realised that she was not alone in the shop. She froze like a deer caught in the headlights and he watched as her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. 

Tom, still an observer, saw more than just the blush; he discerned the subtleties of her response, the way her eyes momentarily widened before seeking refuge elsewhere, fingers fidgeting with the edges of her knitted cardigan.

She attempted to compose herself and met his eyes. "Oh! Sorry, sir. How may I assist you?" She asked cheerfully, resisting the urge to duck her head down to avoid his intense stare.

He crossed the small distance to the counter. "I'd like a coffee. Black."

"No sugar?" she inquired, to which Tom raised a single brow. Her blush deepened as she quickly averted her eyes from his face.

"Right, of course. You may take a seat while I prepare this for you." With a nod, she hurried to fulfil his request, leaving Tom alone with the lingering scent of coffee and old books that were now intertwined with a pleasant smell of vanilla and sweet— 

It was her perfume, he realised with a start.

He hastily removed his coat and scarf before plopping down on the nearest armchair. His gaze remained fixed on the girl, absorbed in the rhythm of her practised motions as she prepared his drink, her movements seemingly both effortless and comforting. There was an almost lazy grace to her actions and he continued to watch as she sang under her breath so softly if he had not been staring so intensely, he would not have picked up on it. 

He wondered how he had never noticed this place before. He had been passing through this little street for as long as he could remember but for some reason, he had only stumbled upon it today. His sharp eyes darted around, instinctively searching for traces of magic, half-expecting the discovery of a hidden passage to the wizarding world but he quickly realised the place was undeniably, disappointingly muggle. 

Muggle.

He tore his gaze away from the girl at the mental reminder of what she was. He fished out a book from his bag and opened it to occupy his mind. 

The subtle shuffle of her approaching steps drew his attention back to the present, and he met her gaze as she placed the steaming cup of coffee before him. A sugar packet sat innocently beside it. His eyes lingered on the packet for a moment before lifting coldly to meet hers.

She, however, was undeterred by the intensity of his glare. “In case you change your mind.” She smiled at him softly before turning on her heel and walking back.

His gaze lingered on her retreating figure, and then, almost involuntarily, it dropped to the innocuous sugar packet.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

Tom did not know why he had returned. Truthfully, he had not even noticed his feet had led him here until he was in front of the familiar wooden door that led into the coffee shop. Perhaps he had thought more than he should’ve about the disgustingly soft smile of that girl for the last five months. She was an insolent muggle, yet here he was, walking into the place as if he had never left. 

The seasons had blurred since he had last been here. Winter had long surrendered to the warmth of summer. He had to spend at least a month in the orphanage, and he was hoping Malfoy would invite him over for the rest of the summer. 

The place was just as he remembered it. The only difference was the lack of Christmas decorations. He faltered only slightly when he took notice of the girl behind the counter, already staring at him. She had not changed much. Her face was the same, less pale perhaps, but the same, nonetheless. The oversized knitted sweater that once enveloped her had been replaced by a little white sundress, and his gaze involuntarily lingered on the exposed smooth skin.

“Welcome back!” She greeted him cheerfully, and he was not surprised she remembered him. “What can I get you?”

“Black coffee,” he replied curtly

She nodded as if she was expecting it. "Coming right up." Gently shutting her book, she gracefully moved towards the coffee machine. Tom's eyes couldn't help but trail to the volume she had been reading, and to his pleasant surprise, it was Dostoyevsky. He had not pegged her as someone who would enjoy Russian literature, with its weighty and morally morbid themes. In his mind, she seemed more likely to be a Jane Austen enthusiast, with her intricately written romances and flowery prose.

“It’s 'Crime and Punishment'." He suddenly heard her soft voice declare, and he looked away from the book to give his attention to the girl. Then feeling as if she had said something silly, she blushed and looked away quickly. "Though I'm sure you figured that. I just wondered why you look so surprised." 

He replied before he could tell himself not to. "I did not imagine you as someone who would enjoy this." 

Emboldened at his words, she turned to face him, a hand casually resting on her hip as she sported a cheeky smile. "Am I to presume you imagine me often?"

His sharp inhale was audible as he absorbed the unexpected shift in her demeanour. He had not expected this shy, timid girl to tease him so boldly. She was a little vixen.

But he did not give her the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. A lazy raise of his brow was the extent of his acknowledgement before his gaze wandered towards the rows of bookshelves, feigning indifference. "Do you have another copy? Perhaps I shall like to reread this evening."

She frowned, walking over towards the table he had occupied last time to set his coffee down. He grimly took notice of the sugar packet placed near it. "I'm afraid not. But you can have mine." 

"No, that is quite alri—" He began to decline but she had already crossed the small distance between them and was holding out the thick book. He hesitated for a moment before his fingers closed around the object, careful to avoid touching hers. 

The girl smiled and walked away before he could even say thanks. Not like he was going to. 

Settling back into the soft armchair, he opened the book only to freeze at the sight of a name scribbled on the front page and he knew it belonged to her. The wizard rolled the name around in his mind and determined that it suited her. He stared at her name for a minute longer before turning the page and delving into the content of the book. 

He had been so immersed in the story that he had not noticed how the time had passed. The gradual hush of the coffee shop's ambient sounds finally penetrated his concentration, and he distinctly heard the girl approaching him. 

"I'm sorry to disturb you but we're closing in five minutes." She looked at the book in his hands. "You may return it once you're done." 

He hummed and looked down at where he had stopped. 

"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."

He wondered if the universe was trying to tell him something. 

Tom found himself caught in the silent narrative of this stranger's presence.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

He returned the next day.

She looked up to see him enter, the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled up. 

Tom placed the book on the counter. 

"You finished it in one day?"

He shrugged. "I'm a fast reader." 

She gave him a small smile, turning to make his black coffee before he could ask for it. "Every time I reread it it takes me a few days." She paused for a moment, turning to look at him over her shoulder. "The usual?"

He nodded. "The usual." He debated whether or not to voice his next question, and decided one conversation with the girl would not hurt.

"Why do you read it so often?"

"Each time I find new details that make Raskolnikov's character more complex. Each time I discover these small little things I missed the last time I read it becomes so much better. Plus I enjoy his moral dilemma."

He hummed, his curiosity piqued. He took his usual seat and watched as she brought his coffee and set it down in front of him. "Enlighten me." He gestured towards the seat in front of him. She hesitated only for a second before taking a seat. 

"Raskolnikov is obviously a complex character. His actions are driven by a desire for power and superiority, a belief that he is exempt from conventional morality. However, one could argue that his internal struggles and eventual remorse suggest a more nuanced exploration of morality." 

Tom furrowed his brows. "I see him as a product of his environment, a desperate man driven to extremes by the harsh circumstances he faced. His morality shifts to the other side of the spectrum." 

She cocked her head to the side, and he could see her getting slightly frustrated. "But morality is not just a spectrum; it's a complex interplay of values, societal norms, and personal convictions. Raskolnikov's guilt stems from the clash between his actions and the intrinsic moral compass within him. It's the consequence of recognizing the weight of one's choices."

He scoffed before he could stop himself. "Morality is subjective. What is right for one may not be right for another. Raskolnikov was weak and he was an idiot. Guilt is a useless emotion and it is for the weak."

Her expression remained unwavering. "But perhaps it's that recognition of guilt that separates the morally discerning from those who lack empathy. The fact that you can't comprehend his guilt doesn't make it foolish. It makes it human."

Tom's eyes narrowed a glint of impatience in his gaze. "Human or not, guilt is a hindrance. It's a sentiment for those too feeble to rise above their actions. If I were to make a difficult choice, I would do it without hesitation, without remorse." 

He only realised the slip of his tongue after the words left his mouth. He stilled, gauging her reaction yet her response was measured but firm. "Raskolnikov's guilt is a testament to his humanity, his ability to grapple with the consequences of his choices. It's what sets him apart from those who operate without remorse." 

"But—"

"So what you're saying is you would kill and feel no remorse?" She cut him off.

Yes.

"You do not understand." He did not intend his tone to be so harsh, yet the words left his mouth coldly. She visibly withdrew and nodded stiffly. "Right. Enjoy your coffee."

He opened his mouth to say something but realised for the first time in his life he did not know what to say. 

He was left staring at the cursed sugar packet she had left near his coffee again.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

He did not return the next day. Nor the day after. Or after.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

Two weeks passed with no sign of him.

And then she saw him step into the coffee shop. He walked in with determination. He walked up to the counter, meeting her gaze with an intensity that mirrored the unspoken tension between them. "I'd like a black coffee," he said, his tone even, though a hint of something lingered beneath the surface. 

She nodded, her expression composed but guarded. As she prepared the coffee, the air seemed charged with unspoken words. Her usual cheerful smile was notably absent. The absence struck him, and he realised he had enjoyed her smiles.

When she placed the coffee in front of him, there was a palpable pause. He glanced at the sugar packet, a subtle acknowledgement of the lingering disagreement. Without a word, he took it, his eyes meeting hers briefly before he poured the sugar into his coffee. 

She looked at him, her gaze unwavering, before a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

He returned the next day. And the day after that. And for the rest of summer.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

The next time he stepped into the familiar place, winter had covered the city with a snowy blanket once again. It had been a year since he first discovered this little place. And he had not seen his little waiter since he left for Hogwarts in September. 

When he walked in, her eyes lit up visibly. "Hi!" She waved at him with a bright grin. 

"Hello." He greeted as he unwrapped his scarf and settled in his usual seat. In a matter of minutes, she was bringing him his usual order. She was back to wearing her warm knitted sweaters. "How did you enjoy the book?"

"Oscar Wilde never disappoints," he said. She hummed in agreement, pleased at his words. He watched as her hands dropped to fidget with the bottom of her sweater. "You wish to ask me something." He stated. "Ask."

"Do you study in a boarding school?"

Tom hesitated only for a moment before replying. "Yes."

"Oh. Well, that explains the months of not showing up."

"Were you expecting me?" He teased her with an amused smirk, taking delight in the way her cheeks reddened. 

"I was just wondering that is all," she admitted, a hint of curiosity peeking through. Tom observed her, noting the return of the timid, shy girl from their first encounter. It amused him how a few teasing remarks could momentarily whisk away her fiery boldness. He couldn't help but wonder what it would take to awaken it once again.

"And do you wonder about me often, little vixen?" he added, a playful glint in his eyes.

She blushed harder at the nickname but then as if a thought had struck her, she straightened and Tom watched as she visibly mustered up her courage. "I actually was wondering your name."

He bristled, but she must have not noticed because she continued. "I suppose I have not given you mine either." She mused out loud and announced her name to him. "But I thought it bizarre that considering all the time we've talked we never got around to that. Friends who do not each other's names." The girl laughed at the last notion and only then she realised that Tom had remained unnervingly quiet throughout the exchange. She raised her eyes from the frayed edges of her sweater, and the sight almost made her take a step back. His eyes had darkened, and she could have sworn she saw them flash red. There was no warmth, no familiarity in his gaze. 

"Are you alright?"

Suddenly, he rose from his seat, an ominous tension permeating the air as he advanced towards her with every word. "We are not friends. You dare to think I would be friends with the likes of you?" His words were sharper than the keenest of blades, cutting into her with merciless precision. "Foolish, little girl," He spat out before grabbing his things and storming out of the place. As the door closed behind him, the little coffee shop seemed to exhale, the echoes of his harsh words lingering in the hushed aftermath.

She stood frozen in her place, helpless against the storm of emotions and the tears that began to veil her vision. 

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

Tom fumed for months after their last encounter. How dare the ignorant muggle insinuate that they were friends? He scarcely considered his Knights of Walpurgis as his friends, and she thought she would just appoint herself the title? Who did she think she was?

"Mate, you alright? You've been unresponsive for a while." Malfoy nudged him slightly, attempting to draw his attention back to the present.

Tom made a noise of acknowledgement before mentally shaking the image of his little waiter— no, not his, he berated himself— from his mind. 

But no matter how he tried, he could not. He could not just banish her from his thoughts. He knew a part of him, a rather embarrassingly large part of him enjoyed her company, her passion, her conversations— just her. 

And there, tucked away in the recesses of his trunk, lay her damned book— a taunting reminder of her. The temptation to burn it, to obliterate any remnants of her from his life, danced on the edge of his thoughts. He had shoved away, out of sight if only just to save himself the fury, the anger, (the longing).

He wondered if she was going through the same turmoil as him. He hoped she was. She had no right to make him feel this way and get away with it unscathed. 

But she was too enticing to give up. He did not know what it was about her. She was a muggle, an ordinary, plain girl working at a forgotten little cafe. Sure, she liked books, but so did a lot of other people. Yes, she was pretty, but so were a lot of other girls. But none could even come close to stirring his emotions as she did.

Perhaps it was the ease with which she conversed with him. Or the entirely too cheery smiles. Or her endearing knitted sweaters— though he secretly favoured the sundresses.

He, of course, knew what it was. He had tried to deny the idea to himself, but there was no escaping it. Tom had never been able to be unequivocally authentic with another individual before. From his early childhood, he refused to allow anyone close to him. He never lowered his walls and rejected anything that would yield a genuine connection. It was refreshing with her. He had no cause to uphold a curated facade.

Had she not been a muggle, he would entertain the thought of her bewitching him. He would have been convinced the girl put some spell on him or slipped a potion into his drink. 

It was maddening. 

She was maddening.

He sighed upon realising that he had spiralled again thinking of her. He needed to return the book, and maybe that would ease his mind. Perhaps once he was rid of her possession, she would not haunt him anymore. (Though he knew he was only trying to reassure himself with the last thought.)

As summer loomed around the corner, it felt both too distant and too imminent, mirroring the paradox of his tangled emotions.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

The sound of her laugh rang out before he could even close the door behind him. His head snapped up so fast it was a wonder he did not get whiplash. But there she was, his little waiter, chuckling delightfully as some boy spoke lowly from behind the counter. Chuckles escaped her lips, and she bit down on her lip in a futile attempt to stifle the laughter, her hands deftly at work preparing a drink. Despite her efforts, laughter bubbled forth once more, forcing her to set the cup down to avoid any potential spills.

An immediate surge of anger coursed through him. Who was this boy? What business did have with her? What right did he have to elicit such genuine laughter from her? (Most importantly, how dare she replace him?)

Tom swallowed the lump in his throat, attempting to gather himself into some semblance of a composed, unaffected man that he most definitely was not at that moment. With a loud, purposeful cough, he sought to catch her attention.

She spun around, the practised smile reserved for customers settling onto her face as she readied herself to serve him. However, the smile swiftly vanished the moment her doe-like eyes locked onto him. She looked like a deer caught in headlights as she stared at him, wide eyes roving over his face as if to confirm that he was really standing there, in front of her, and was not a figment of her imagination. 

Because despite their last encounter, despite the anger, and the hurt she had felt, she kept hoping he would return. She kept imagining him standing there, with his ridiculously fancy scarf as he spewed out an apology. She had delved so deep into her fantasies involving him that now that he was actually there, she did not what to do or to say. Her tongue was tied, and her brain was fogged. What was she supposed to say?

It seemed he decided to grant her mercy and be the first to break the tense silence.

“Hello.” 

“Hi.”

He shuffled closer, though his steps were unsure, unlike his usual confident strides that she was used to seeing. “I wished to return your book.” He declared yet made no move to reach into his bag for the said book. He allowed his eyes to drink in the sight of her, her eyes that always seemed to glisten, her hands that were always fidgeting, her little sundress that he was afraid would drive him to insanity, (and her lips that he wished he could press against his own just so he could find out what they felt like, tasted like.) He shoved the last one into a drawer in his mind and locked it away. He could not fantasise about her. She was a muggle. He could not stoop so low as to hold affections for a muggle girl.

“Did you enjoy it?” The girl asked tentatively as if afraid one wrong word would set him off, have him spitting more harsh words that would dig deep into her skin and remain there. 

“As always.” He replied. Because every book she gave him held another meaning. She was a clever girl, choosing the ones that she knew would have him coming back with a strong debate prepared in his mind. They always seemed to stand on opposite sides of every argument that the books posed, ensuring that their discussion would get heated, exciting, and thrilling. 

While Tom vehemently disagreed with her views, he found pleasure in the way her mind worked. He admired her quick-wittedness, her ability to counter every argument he posed. No one else had engaged him in such stimulating conversations. She was a breath of fresh air, a captivating force he wanted to inhale and never release. He yearned to suffocate in the essence of her being, to be consumed and to consume in return. He wanted to own her— that irrational desire to keep her for himself was always there in the deeper parts of his mind that he was scared to venture into.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She responded but he could detect the subtle undercurrent of uncertainty in her voice.

He hesitated. “May I have one black coffee?” He was extending an olive branch, and while it was not an outright apology, coming from Tom, it was a whole declaration. 

“It’s five minutes until closing time.” 

She would not be swayed so easily then. 

Fine. Tom thought. He would make her come to her senses. 

The boy who he had forgotten was still there suddenly came to stand next to him. Tom eyed him with disdain, his features curling into an unimpressed sneer, raising a lazy brow.

“I’ll help her close up, mate. You can leave now.” 

“Daniel, that is not necessary.” She muttered, glancing between the two men nervously. Daniel? Tom clenched his jaw, enraged. In his absence, it seemed she had gotten on first-name basis with a boy. His mouth soured with the taste of betrayal at her blatant ignorance. How could she discard him so easily? Had she not suffered all these months at the mere thought of him? Had he been alone in his suffering?

“No,” Tom stated flatly. “You will leave.” He told the boy then turned to face his waiter. “We will talk.” 

“Tom, I do not think—”

He cut her off with a hiss. “It was not a request.”

Daniel seemed wholly displeased. He opened his mouth to argue, but his girl beat him to it. “It’s okay, Daniel. I will see you some other time.”

“Whatever he has to tell you, surely he can say in front of me.”

She shook her head gently, trying to dissuade him. “It’s a matter between him and I. I would rather talk privately.” 

Tom looked smug as he faced Daniel again, struggling to contain his smirk. He could see the indignation clear on the boy’s face as his eyes flickered dubiously between her and Tom. He knew the wizard was no ordinary acquaintance of her, he could feel the palpable tension in the air like a wolf. 

Tom, of course, wished to push his buttons further, just to have the last word. “You heard her. Leave.” 

Daniel scoffed. “I will see you tomorrow then.” He muttered and with one last long look, he squared his shoulders and left the café with as much dignity as his wounded pride could muster. 

As the door shut with a final thud, they were left in pregnant silence, both unsure of the dynamics at play between them. The air in the café hung heavy with unspoken tension as if the silence itself had taken on a weight, pressing down on them both. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than usual, each second echoing in the quiet space.

She was the first to cave. "Well? You wished to talk." Gesturing towards him with a hand expectantly. "Talk." 

Tom inhaled sharply, and for the first time in his life, he did not quite know what to say. How to proceed. 

"Who is he?" The question tumbled from his lips before he could stop it. 

She raised a brow. "Seriously? After how you walked out of here last time I would think your choice of words would be different."

"Different? I hardly think the question was unfair."

She huffed impatiently, discarding her apron as she turned from him to put everything away for the night. "Of course. How foolish of me to assume that you have no business inquiring about my life when we are not even friends." She chuckled bitterly. "You made the notion quite appalling if memory serves me right. You wish to know who is Daniel? For all you know, he could be my fiancee. Would it matter? No. Because you and I are hardly acquaintances." 

An unfamiliar feeling began coiling in the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly felt sick. She briefly turned to fix him with a pointed glare and froze at the look on his face. The dancing flames of the candles seemed to mirror the flickering emotions in Tom's eyes—flames of irritation, discontent, and an unexpected pang of jealousy.

Tom could scarcely believe his fate. How was it that he— the most powerful wizard of his generation— had succumbed to the pathetic disease of— what was it? Desire? Lust? Infatuation? Such mundane urges were beneath him, he had no wish to pursue anyone or anything that was not remotely related to his quest for power. Yet there she was. In her infuriating fucking dress and those innocent eyes. Did she even know what sort of turmoil she had caused him?

All of a sudden he felt exhausted, defeated. His shoulders sunk visibly as he ran a hand through his hair. He would use a hundred of her sugar packets in his coffee if it meant she would just grace him with her bubbly smile again and just— just what? Leave him be? He did not want that. Treat him as if nothing had happened? Maybe. Release him from whatever enchantment she put him under? Yes.

"What do you want from me?" He asked at last, frustration clear in his voice.

She regarded him with disbelief as she rounded the counter to stand directly in front of him. "What do I want from you?" She repeated incredulously. "I want an apology! I want an explanation! I want—" she sighed, cutting herself off before she could finish the thought. "You cannot just show up here demanding things and ordering people around after how you treated me last time. If you wish to continue this conversation, you will apologise to me."

"You want me to say sorry?" He took a step towards her.

"Yes!"

"Fuck your apology." 

Before she could register what was happening, Tom closed the minute distance between them and caved into his desire. He grabbed her face, fingers threading through her hair, and pressed his lips against hers. The kiss was not gentle; it was a collision of pent-up tension and bottled-up desires.

Tom's lips moved fervently against hers, pouring his frustration into the act. It was a silent declaration that transcended the boundaries of his complicated inner turmoil. Tom knew that. But he could not pull away from her— not after having tasted how her lips feel like. 

Her hands, which had hovered hesitantly in the space between them, found their way to his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer. 

She felt—tasted like God's favourite nectar, sweet and addictive and he knew he would never get enough of it. She might not have been a witch, but he was bewitched by her. 

As they broke apart, breathless, the air between them hung heavy with the residue of their shared kiss. He dared not to ease his hold on her, only stared at her with darkened eyes, taking delight in the way her lips were bruised, and puffy, all because of him. But it was not enough. He needed to mark her for all to see. 

He dove into the tender skin of her throat like a man starved, teeth sinking into her flesh with no warning, and a sick sort of satisfaction washed over him at the muffled moan that escaped her mouth. He sucked on the skin until he was sure there would be a purple mark blooming on the spot before running his tongue over the flesh to soothe the sting. He did not waste any second before moving to mark another spot.

"I do not even know your name." She managed to choke out in between her whimpers, hands moving of their own accord to tangle in his hair, and a particular tug had him growling deep in his throat. 

"Tom." He whispered, pulling away from her neck only to return his lips to hers. "Say it. Say my name." He murmured in between the kisses, pushing her back until her back was pressed against the counter. He easily picked her up to place her on the surface, his fingers trailing along her thighs to her knees to nudge them apart so he could stand in between them. 

"Tom." She breathed out in a daze, and he smirked in delight. 

She was his. He had already branded her, and he would do much more to ensure she knew it was him she belonged to. 

He leaned to brush his lips against the shell of her ear. "I hope you know there is no going back from this. From me." He whispered, fingers slipping under the strap of her dress and dragging it down her shoulder slowly. "You are my dirty little secret now. Mine."

She shuddered under the weight of his words but he was already snaking his hand around her throat as his lips found home on her own once again.

No going back.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ 

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[chaithetics]

The Muse

Pairing: Laurent LeClaire (In Secret) x plus size f (afab) reader Word count: 2.6K Warning: 18+ MDNI, smut, oral (f receiving, are we surprised?), and unprotected piv, pwp honestly! Reader is plus size but there's no other physical descriptions beyond that 🫶 A/n: Nobody asked for this but I have serious brain rot, please enjoy! Yeah, I know the title sucks, sorry. Comments and reblogs are appreciated! Please validate me beautiful people🫶

The way Laurent painted made you feel seen in a way that you never had been before. His large, deep brown eyes seemed to have the gift and curse of seeing a soul for what it really was and capturing it naturally onto the campus. You couldn’t help but hold your breath under his gaze, it was only each time he blinked and you were able to appreciate his full, long lashes that you remembered breathing was more than encouraged. 

His paintbrush glided across the canvas, he’d blended the right colours to perfectly capture your glowing skin, radiant he thought. You weren’t the first person, or even woman, that he’d painted before. He’d painted many, many portraits of dreary souls but yours wasn’t one of them. Your face wasn’t begging to be shadowed in dreary greys, he wanted the most vibrant greens. 

That pretty smile of yours made him think of pleasant summer strolls in nature, how he’d love to sit down by a tree with you and then take you, he knew your face would only light up more when approaching an orgasm. It was something he had to see. Something he had to feel. 

The way he painted made your cheeks heat up, you’d never seen a man pay such close concentration to a task before, it was impossible to not feel like it was a compliment as he studied and compared your full cheeks to the one on his campus. You wanted to feel his lips on you as he thought about how soft your round cheeks would feel under his fingertips. 

He painted with his mouth slightly agape, every now and then you’d spot his tongue poking out as he carefully looked at the canvas and then back at you, analysing every feature, appreciating every curve. It was criminal that your family was putting you in this position. Sure it sounded nice in theory, paying a talented young artist to capture their favourite child in a piece of art. But it was beyond impractical, leaving you unsupervised with him, some would call that improper. 

So it was only natural that your cheeks heated up and that his gorgeous brown eyes made butterflies flutter around in your stomach and made your heart turn into one of a hummingbird. He was devilishly handsome, talented, and Laurent had waltzed into your family’s estate feigning humbleness and polite manners that you’d seen through immediately. 

You didn’t trust him as far as you could throw him and you wouldn’t have been able to throw him far at all. But you also wouldn’t be able to deny any sparks, or him, even if you didn’t want to. He was a womaniser without a doubt, you could see that but you still couldn’t get over what he was doing to you. 

“Tilt your chin to the left, just a tad.” His voice broke you out of your thoughts, it felt slightly stilted as if he was measuring over his words. You obeyed and tilted your chin slightly to the left. 

Laurent nodded approvingly and stepped closer, his soft looking curls bounced slightly as he approached you and you wondered how soft his brunette locks would feel in your fingers. “You look quite perfect in this light, more so than usual.” He says softly as he places his fingers on your chin and looks at you reverently. He admires how the light of the afternoon dances on your skin, how your soft lips look and how your skin is as soft and warm as he’d imagined, dreamed of. 

You tilt your chin without his aid to look up at him, you look at the lines of his face, the sharpness of his jaw, the perfectly tousled curls, the bridge of his nose, he’s handsome and you feel yourself holding your breath as you look up at him and his big brown eyes of cinnamon and other warm spices meet yours. 

His fingers lightly trace over your soft jawline, he watches your face as he does, you gasp and feel your cheeks heat up as you feel the electricity meet you from the pads of his fingertips. If there was a candle to light for desire, he’s already lit it. 

“You’re a pretty one to paint and an even prettier one to admire up close.” He says as his fingers start to trace back up to your cheek, Laurent lets out a shaky breath as he feels the smoothness of your plump cheeks, his fingertips lightly trace down to the edge of your lips.

“Do you mind?” He asks softly, his eyes are blown out though as lust starts to take over. 

“No,” you whisper looking at his eyes and watching as his pupils expand, “not at all.” 

It’s all the confirmation he needs, his fingers trace over your full lips, they’re just as soft and as warm as he imagined. 

“Is this part of the painting process?” You whisper, trying to break some of the tension that’s threatening to make you explode on the spot. Laurent’s fingers feel your lips move and he smiles at the sensation and watches your mouth shape out each syllable. 

“No, no it’s not.” He smiles at you and puts his other hand to cup your cheek, he smiles wider as you lean into his touch naturally, almost instinctively. “It does help to… Explore a muse’s body, but this… This is for me.” He whispers and while you’re seated in front of him, he leans down to kiss you. 

There’s a bump of noses, the kiss isn’t perfectly smooth, it’s a strained cord of tension being pulled and sparks flying as his soft lips crash into yours. They’re pillowy and you love the feeling and taste of them against yours, you love this and you need more. 

You knew this would be deemed improper but you were getting to the point of lust taking over and not caring. You knew that you technically could be caught, but this was to be expected right? You were left to be painted by this handsome man, completely unsupervised. 

You put a hand up to run your fingers through his silky curls, he lets out a groan against your lips as you do. You smile and feel your cheeks heat up at the sound of his delicious groan and open your mouth up for him. Laurent dips his tongue in and slides it against yours. 

Laurent deepens the kiss as your tongues dance with each others, and he pulls you up from your seat with his strong hands on the back of your waist. He keeps his hands there as his thumbs rub small circles over the fabric of your dress. 

You walk with your hands in his hair, revelling in the kiss as he guides you down to the chaise in the room to lean back on that. You gasp out against his lips and he nips your bottom lip slightly with another delicious groan. Each noise he makes only turns you on more. 

Laurent then drops down he looks at you as he pushes the layers of your heavy skirts up to your waist in order to expose you, he needs to taste you. He looks at your face, seeking a confirmation that this is what you want, this is what you need. You nod your head frantically. 

“Yes…” You whisper, eager for his touch. 

“Good.” He whispers. 

You’re an incredible muse, one he plans to worship. 

Laurent brings himself down to your legs, he runs his hands over your thick thighs for a moment as he lifts one up to over his shoulder. His eyes focus on your heat, you’re already visibly aroused and wet which makes his eyes light up and another musical groan comes from his mouth. 

A line of kisses is sprinkled along your inner thigh that tickles and makes you gasp and squirm slightly before Laurent reaches right to your core, he wastes no time, he can’t, you look too divine to tiptoe around indulging in. He needs this just as much as you do. 

His mouth dives in and your back arches as you feel him immediately lap up at your heat and he moans against you as he does, it just makes you moan out and shiver. 

The vibrations from his moans against you are heavenly, you close your eyes and put your hands into his hair. Running your fingers through and gripping as his tongue circles your sensitive bud, his tongue moves frantically to create the perfect sensation and he keep moaning against you. You can’t help but cry out and tug his hair which just pulls out another sweet song of moans from him. 

Laurent grips your thigh of the leg that’s over his shoulder as he keeps licking you frantically, with his free hand he slowly slides his index finger into your wet hole, you’ve done a perfect job of lubricating his finger as your entrance eagerly swallows him before he even has the chance to start pumping it. 

You gasp and cry out and you feel your eyes roll back at the added, new sensation of his thick finger inside of you. You keep one hand rooted in his hair while the other comes out to cover your mouth to try and muffle your cries of pleasure. 

This reaction only spurs Laurent on as he looks up at you while he continues, he presses his face against you more and starts to suck on your little, sensitive bud, you gasp out and thrust your hips up to try and meet him, desperate for more friction. Laurent groans against you and starts to grind desperately in his position as he keeps lapping you up and moves his finger, curling it to meet that soft, spongy part of you inside that feels like heaven. 

As his mouth passionately continues and his finger touches you in just the right way, your back arches and your eyes roll back and you gasp, desperately flailing your hands to reach some part of the furniture to grip onto as you feel yourself reach the top of that mountain and come undone because of him.

It’s an explosion that leaves you breathless, after a moment you let out a shaky deep breath and pant. Laurent’s satisfied with his work of bringing you undone, he stops grinding and licks up your sweet, tangy orgasm gently and then moves to adjust himself. 

“You taste heavenly,” he whispers in awe as he looks at you with wide, lust-blown, dark eyes. He brings his slick finger up to his lips and sucks your juices off of it slowly, savouring the taste. You gasp at this and feel your cheeks heat up even more. 

“That was… I don’t even have words for that…” You whisper as you look up at him. 

Laurent chuckles almost bashfully, there’s something charming about you, hypnotising and he can’t just walk away now or resume painting you without feeling you. 

“I need… I need more…” He whispers as he looks at you reverently and caresses your cheek. 

“Well I want more… So it sounds like we’re quite the match.” You whisper with a smile as you watch him.

He chuckles and then immediately undoes his trousers, he adjusts himself and you bite your lip as you see his thick member for the first time. 

Laurent positions himself and slowly sinks in, your mouth opens in an ‘o’ shape as you moan out at the full feeling of him slowly sinking in. He lets out a soft whimper as he feels your warm walls swallow him up and squeeze him lightly. You’re perfect. He feels so at home like this. 

Laurent watches your face as he enters you, the sounds of your moans only ignite him further and he closes his eyes and he waits for a few moments, giving you time to adjust to the sudden fullness, the feeling of him. He then starts to slowly move his hips and your eyes open wide and you let out a moan as he does. It’s heavenly. It feels so right, like your bodies fit together perfectly. 

You let out a whine as his pace starts to increase, he moves his hips rhythmically, you’re sure he must be a true artist, dabble in music as well because of the way he moves. There’s no other explanation you think as your back arches pressing you more into him and he smiles at the feeling, his hand running along your cheek as he moves with passion and affection. 

His pace has increased, his hips move quickly and you whine out. He moves with need, a need that only you can fulfil. You tilt your head slightly as he thrusts into you and kiss him, your lips meet together in another messy kiss of wet, soft lips dancing against each other and vibrating with the other's moans. 

The kiss breaks when he thrusts into you deliciously and makes you cry out, your head falls back against the chaise more and your back arches as you’re overcome with pleasure. The angle of his movements hits you in the most pleasure-inducing way. 

Laurent moves his head down, presses a soft kiss to your throat and then groans into your neck as his hips move quicker, his soft lips leaving a wet spot, it’s a sensation that would tickle in any other circumstance, any other circumstance that doesn’t have him buried in you. The few calluses on his hands are from paint brushes, despite the fact that he’s atop of you, socially he’s below you, but he still hasn’t worked a day of manual labour in his life. His hands are delicate and blend the greatest scenes of pleasure in your body. 

His careful hands move to interlace with yours above your head as he continues to thrust into you, his eyes are squeezed shut as his hips roll and he groans, he’s getting closer. Laurent leaves open mouthed kisses all over and the feeling of his hot breath on your throat makes you gasp each time. 

There was something truly divine about seeing you in the throes of passion, it made his length twitch inside of you as he groaned but it also inspired him. Inspired him to paint. He wished more than anything that there was some way for him to simultaneously take you, fuck you, make love to you and to also paint you at the same time. He would rather die than have somebody else give you this pleasure and for him to paint you, but he also wouldn’t trust another artist to be able to do you justice if they watched you two together. He’d have to take breaks between fucking you and painting you to try and achieve his vision, something he had no issues with. 

Laurent watches you and squeezes your hands slightly as his hips move more sporadically and he becomes more out of breath, he’s just a few more thrusts away from reaching his orgasm. He groans out and whimpers as he gives you that final thrust and spills into you, you squeeze him and his eyes blink shut tightly as he orgasms. 

His breath is shaky as he comes down from that high and he looks down at you, below him. He knows that only the beautiful muse of the woman below him would be able to give him that kind of pleasure. He won’t complain about that though, that’s the type of realisation an artist like him could dream of.

[infranuz]

Hii can I get a Chishiya x reader where the reader is an artist? It can be in whatever format u like, I don't really mind. Please and thank u!

“ A PAINTING FOR YOU!! ” — chishiya x artist!reader

where chishiyas s/o is an artist who likes to take painting commissions, except this time valentine’s day is getting closer and they want to make a special gift just for chishiya.

— HIHI!! TYSM FOR REQUESTING,, I had this idea to add on to the request hopefully you don’t mind<3 but I hope it is to your liking!! ,, ps there’s most likely spelling and grammar mistakes so anything I missed, feel free to correct me 💕 also so sorry for writing this 4 days after valentines😭 ,, also,, mentions of wife and husband..

it was currently 10 pm, saturday february 11. three full days before valentine’s day, yet you were still busy finishing up your commissions instead of planning something special for your boyfriend. the thought of making something for him this year crossed your mind as you were scrolling through Instagram looking through your feed. it wasn’t a bad idea at all actually. surely chishiya would appreciate a gift.

you were a painter who made portraits and other paintings for people, chishiya admired this. he always wondered how you were so patient yet fast when handling your art. truly a unique talent, even for him to admit. you had actually tried to teach chishiya how to sketch and make a good painting, the basics. not once did it work out. he may be a fast learner but sticking to the med field instead of art would be better.

still, you always kept his painting attempts most of the time. point is, valentine’s day was approaching rather quickly and this year you wanted to use your talent to good use. it had to be something meaningful yet pretty, something he would love to admire. this was your second year as a couple celebrating the 14th together. you had thought of other things to possibly gift the half blond but chishiya was never the materialistic type so choosing something for him was rather difficult.

so that’s when the idea of a painting came in, i mean you could easily finish a canvas in three days, right? the moment you realized what you wanted to do you got up from your bed and immediately started to sketch out your idea. you only had three days to finish the painting, thank god chishiya didnt live with you, otherwise the gift would’ve been a big fail right from the start.

after about an hour of narrowing down your ideas, you went for the safer option, your favorite date spot. it was more of a rough sketch idea since you weren’t fully sure when you first started, finishing the sketch would probably take all night but you were willing to take that risk. of course you would be closing and pausing your commissions just until the 15th so you could focus on the main thing.

obviously the colors would be a pain to find so mixing and combining the ones you had at home were the safer option. greys, whites, some really pigmented and bright ones others pretty dark.. yet it was a good palette. it all looked good together when you tested it on a small scaled canvas. it was now 7 am, frebruary 12th, took all night to finish, but at least the picture itself was done.. good news!!

although the bad news on the other hand,, chishiya would be arriving at your doorstep any moment now. he would always make sure to see you before a shift of his at the hospital, which was quite early. you had to put a cover over the canvas and securely lock your art room beforehand. it was screaming suspicion but who cares, not like you killed anyone. though the idea of chishiya finding out his gift wasn’t pleasant so before he arrived you tried to look natural which wouldn’t be easy with the evident dark circles under your eyes that made it obvious you hadn’t slept an inch.

right after you walked back to the kitchen the sound of keys trying to unlock the door were heard. normally you would be happy yet sleepy of his presence right before going to work. this time you were nervous and still sleepy, he figures things out way too quickly specially when you act suspicious, he can read a person too well. you heard him go upstairs, thankfully not where your art room is at. confused you waited for him to come back downstairs, “there you are, I thought you were still be in bed” chishiya made his way to the counter. on sundays you stayed in bed until he arrived and woke you up to eat breakfast.

“I woke up a tad bit earlier today” you turned to him with two mugs filled with hot water. “morning chishi” you smiled at him trying to shake off the nervousness. he looked up at you and his eyes immediately landed on the dark circles right beneath yours. “did you not sleep well?” he frowned. “ah, this? I was finishing up some commissions last night that I completely forgot to sleep haha..” he raised a brow at you with clear confusion, but questioned no further.

to anyone, you staying up finishing any art project of yours would be normal, to him it’s was very,, weird. chishiya knew you all too well, you would never and when I say never it’s because clearly, never have you stayed all up all night trying to finish a canvas. still he didn’t mention a single word of this, “you should’ve told me, you could be sleeping right now instead of having breakfast with me” it was your time to frown, “but I wouldn’t have seen you today, anyway it doesn’t bother me I purely run on coffee” you said proudly.

“you’re stupid” he sighted, though truth is he was glad he got to see you before work, long hours at the hospital were exhausting specially when he didn’t get to see you all day. he would never admit to that though. “make sure to sleep after, it’s not healthy not getting any sleep, you could get sick” there he goes again scolding you about your health, it’s almost as if he was your husband and you his wife. “i know, i know, don’t worry i will” you weren’t..

he left soon after you packed his lunch, which was rather silly. everytime you thought about it, it would be almost as if you were a married couple. with a quick kiss and hug he exited your house and walked to his destination.

right after he left you grabbed your keys and unlocked your art room again ready to continue. he would scold you later when he finds out you went straight to your project rather than sleeping. but that would be a worry for later. sadly he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow when he finished his shift.. at least it would give you more time to work rather than having to hide your painting.

at some point you decided to stop and actually take a small nap, anyway you were half done and it was 1 am, february 13th. once again you put a cover over the canvas and locked the door before walking up to your room and finally sleeping. yet that didn’t exactly do much for your eye bags.

“you didn’t sleep again?” he sounded tired and sleepy the very next morning he arrived from the hospital “you haven’t slept either chishi” whenever he arrived at your doorstep tired from his long hour shifts you would grow worried for his health. “let’s get you to bed” you grabbed his hand as he followed. it was a pretty normal routine by now. he would sleep at your house while you either stayed right beside him or went out to buy groceries. this time you would have to go back down and finally finish the project. which was very risky considering he was there.

he immediately knocked out after he felt himself laying down, you giggled at his sight as you went back downstairs. you made sure to lock your art room before starting so he wouldn’t accidentally walk in on you making his gift. after many hours later the painting was finally done and you could get a good rest right next to your boyfriend.

finally the 14th of february arrived, you were excited to show him his present that you worked hard on. hoping that he would like it even more, you took him to the exact same spot that was painted into the canvas. a picnic date to be exact. you were both clearly still in need of sleep but that business would be for later after your date.

he had a bag and some flowers in hand when he arrived, he was wearing the white hoodie you got him last year with a white shirt underneath and sweatpants.. typical of him. the canvas was right beside the basket of food you brought but that would be opened after you were done eating.

some small typical talk later you both finished your food “thankfully you had today off, you seriously needed a break” you were picking up and trashing the items you no longer used. now, it was the time for gifts , much to his dismay. chishiya was never good with words so he always just handed you your gift straightforward “here” he grabbed the bag by his side and gave it to you. it was a necklace with both of your initials although the s stood out more.

you let out a grin “thank you shuntaro”, surprisingly he didn’t buy you a ring, (he was about to).. actually even more surprising, he got you jewelry. you asked him to clip the necklace from behind your neck. it was a pretty necklace needless to say. he also handed you a letter but he advised you to open it later when he wasn’t in your presence anymore.

now it was your turn to give him his gift. you let out a deep breath and grabbed the boxed canvas behind you. “i wanted to gift you something special this year, so hopefully you like this” you hand him the painting.

he slowly unwraps the tie and opens the box, for a second you see his eyes widen as he stares at the content inside, slowly they soften and he smirks “so this is what you were hiding” you look up at him shocked “YOU KNEW?!?” you couldn’t believe such a moment was ruined by him telling you he already knew.

“it was pretty obvious dumbass” you sighted in defeat “at least you didn’t know what the painting contained..” you smiled softly “do you like it?” you looked up at him, his eyes to be exact. he only hums and smiles at your words, you feel all the nervousness lift from your shoulders.

you launched yourself at him with joy as he falls back on the grass. his hands travel to your waist as he hugs you. truth to be told you loved these moments were chishiya showed just how much he actually enjoys being with you without him having to actually say it.

your hands land on both of his cheeks, a small kiss to his forehead. “i’m glad you liked it, let’s have more years together okay?” you smile at him. chishiya could only chuckle at your words yet agree, he looked forward to spending many more years to come with you and truly, only you.

[theoxenfree]

re: art and art history, this is one of my favourite pieces that I learned about during my one (1) art history class! (sorry it's a little long ajdhfhs)

It's "Pieta" by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, which is a biblical moment that has many artistic depictions (i think the most well known one is the statue "madonna della pieta" by michelangelo iirc)

the subject matter is mary grieving her son jesus after he passes on the cross, but the thing that makes this painting notable for the time period (according to my art history prof) was that most depictions of the virgin mary and jesus were very focused on depicting them as "beautiful" and "dramatic" as possible, so the raw (almost furious) grief that you see on Mary's face here was extremely unusual compared to the other depictions of pieta/virgin mary at the time.

it is important to note that the painter was grieving the passing of his own son when he painted this.

needless to say, this piece resonated so much with me in so many different aspects which solidifies its spot as one of my favourite art pieces of all time! (michelangelo's pieta is worth checking out too!)

heya, bitti!!! thanks for expanding on this conversation, I think this is so sick! I'd love to hear about more paintings/other aspects of art history that you like!

so, with the background info you gave me about how, at the time, paintings were made to be more "beautiful" and "dramatic", what I find really interesting here is that every other character within the painting are just that. beautiful and dramatic, particularly jesus. they really embody what I envision other similar paintings of the time are trying to encapsulate—but, mary is such a drastic departure from that. I can imagine it was a really jarring piece for ppl to see around that time period

bc even though most of the portrait is fairly muted in terms of the vividity of colors, it's all still fairly "bright", particularly jesus. but then you have mary here who is not only sitting there in raw, controlled anger, she's also much darker than any of the other characters in the painting, which effectively gives deeper depth and disquiet to the painting as a whole. you can really see just how intensely the artist focused on mary's darkness and shadows and the intensity of her stare. the artist probably thought he was seeing himself look back from the canvas.

I'm really not an art history person, never once took a class, but one painting that I see which never fails to evoke emotion from me is:

The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Paul Delaroche. I particularly like this one because of the historical background to it wherein she was only queen for nine days before mary tudor had her deposed and beheaded. poor kid was only 17. to me, this piece is extremely emotive and so powerfully so that I can spend, like, minutes just staring at each character in the painting.

my favorites are jane grey's ladies in waiting (particularly the one who is thrown against the wall with her back turned) and the priest/bishop/whoever. the lady in waiting is trying to create distance from jane, hide herself from the sight, and dressed immensely dark compared to jane, whereas I feel like the priest/bishop/whoever is almost embracing her, supporting her, gently guiding her to the slab—maybe a final act of kindness towards her??? you can absolutely tell the executioner doesn't want to be there, either.

I also find it very interesting that lady jane grey is also so vivid compared to the rest of the characters in the painting. my brain automatically interpreted it as the artist trying to portray her "innocence" (she was 17, man).

idk man, it's such a good piece to me. I love it!

[maverickstudio]

May I ask how you shade skin? No worries if not!! Im obsessed w the way you render

Well thank you very much, I'm flattered. Sure, I'd be happy to try and share my skin routine with you!

I think one of the main things I began doing a while back with painting skin that's really helped it look more lively is diversifying the colours you can see on it. Adding various warm and cool tones can really help emphasize any shading! I'll use my Klavier and Daryan illustration to show what I mean as I still have a layered version.

Above are the boys with a 50% grey base layer. Notice the hints of blue, red, and yellow about the skin that can't be seen on Daryan's jacket, for example? That is what I'll be referring to!

I'll typically start with basic skin tones for the character (above) and on two separate layers begin to paint on some variations of red, orange and/or yellow (layer 1) and blue, teal, and/or purple (layer 2). I typically already have the opacity on these layers down, but just to kinda show you the types of colours I may use and where I place them, this is the kind of monstrosity I create:

In my experience, Yellow is a good neutral zone addition, Red is great for places with a lot of blood flow like cheeks or fingers, and Blue is good for areas that may not get full exposer to the light source(s). I was first taught a real simple gradient down the face of yellow (brows), red (cheeks/nose), and blue (chin, jawline) for faces. Then as you get more comfortable with slapping them on the canvas, go a little wild with it and start intermingling the colours like adding blue on the eye lids or red on the lips, for example.

For Layer 1, or our warm red/orange/yellow colours, I typically set the layer style to something like a Multiply and lower the opacity to 15-30% depending on the skin tones and image's lighting.

For Layer 2, or our cool blue/teal/purple colours, I do a highlight layer style with Overlay typically being a nice safe pick. For this layer I generally stay around 20-45% opacity. After you have that all set, you'll get something like this:

Which is thankfully not quite as jarring as the other version haha. From here, I start shading normally! I typically use 2-5 shading and highlight layers, depending completely on the lighting of the piece. For skin specifically, I try to keep a smooth gradient or matte look to these areas with a soft brush and blending. Back lighting and colours from the surroundings generally seem to bounce off skin well so I tend to utilise a lot of that too.

In the end I wind up with the top(which I now realise was a pretty bad example image to use as they are in a SPOT LIGHT I'm so sorry) and also added the version without the extra colours for comparison(bottom):

I know it's nothing SUPER noticeable in this piece if you're not looking for it, but that's also the point! It's a little bit of flavour without being a distraction. I've personally really enjoyed the overall look of the skin I've painted since incorporating this.

On the other hand, when it comes my single layer paintings (using my recent painting of Beanix as an example,) I couldn't really tell you my process besides throwing colours at the canvas and seeing what sticks. I still try to incorporate the "sway my colour towards yellow here, change the hue to a bit more blue there," but there isn't much method to my madness outside of that. Just have fun with it!

I hope all this gave you some insight or helps in the slightest! If I didn't answer the right thing, you have any other or more specific questions regarding how I paint skin, feel free to ask them at any time. I'm happy to help where I can.

[haunted-rose]

Rays of Sunlight Peeking Through the Thick Fog.

Hello there! This is my first time posting a fic on Tumblr, so please forgive me if I mess up any formatting. This is a fluffy SKK as parents one-shot. The premise is Dazai allowing his adopted daughter to draw on his bandages, after he finds her dissociating after a rough day. So please be mindful of that. This piece is also dedicated to the amazing @stinkyme who gave me the last bit of courage I needed to post this. Stinky is the absolute best, and there aren’t enough words to truly convey how wonderful she is!

Also in true BSD fashion, SKK’s daughter Halina gets her name from halina poświatowska, one of the most important writers in modern Polish lit. Also one of the meanings of Halina is sun-ray, which you will get as the fic progresses. I will also be posting this on my ao3! With all of that said, let’s get to the meat!

Walking through the door of his apartment, the ambiance felt off. Not in a way that would set off the alarm bells in his head from having survived this long, but something wasn’t right. Placing his shoes in the genkan, slipping off his sandy brown trench coat, and allowing the door to softly click shut behind him; Dazai was left alone with his thoughts. 

“Tadaima,” Dazai calmly calls out; with only his echo greeting him back. He patiently  waited for the soft bell-like voice to reply to him with an okaeri, but the response never came. He knew he wasn’t alone in the apartment, as his dress shoes had been placed next to blue canvas hightops with doodles drawn in pen. A text earlier had told him that she had gotten home safely, and that she had no plans to head out. Another text had alerted him that his Slug wouldn’t get home until early morning; something about needing to help Ane-san, and not to wait for him for dinner. 

Walking further into his home, he noticed traces indicating his Sunshine’s presence. Her shoes neatly placed in the genkan, her favorite slippers missing from its resting spot, and her bubblegum pink school bag leaning against the wall. 

Yet, for all that was there to show her presence, the apartment felt empty of it. Soft footsteps couldn’t be heard dancing along to cheesy American pop songs. No spontaneous melodic laughter was lingering throughout. The bitter smell of her preferred brand of Earl Grey wasn’t wafting, filling their home like something akin to perfume. 

Before panic could truly set in about the paradox in front of him; the mystery solved itself as he made his way into the kitchen. Sitting at their small table was his Sunshine; however, instead of being filled with relief at seeing her, worry washed over Dazai. Approaching his sweet girl, Dazai purposely made his steps loud, so he wouldn’t scare her. Yet, his loud steps caused no reaction from her; all he was met with continued silence. 

His Sunshine was now an eclipse. Or perhaps a black hole, a cruel entity that had drained away all of her radiance. 

The site before him filled him with sorrow, as he knelt beside her. Clumps of blonde curls surrounded her face like a curtain, looking as if they had been sharply pulled from her still existing pony-tail. Resting his hand against her cheek, he was met with the sensation of dried tears. Her vivid hazel eyes usually filled with so much warmth were glazed over; a fogginess indicating his Sunshine was dissociating. 

“Oh, my sweet girl, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He stood quickly moving to get to the freezer, “it’s going to be alright Sunshine.” Dazai wasn’t sure if the affirmations were for him or his sweet girl. 

They were for him, as she wouldn’t be able to register his voice with how deep she appeared to be dissociating. 

Kneeling in front of her again, Dazai muttered a quick apology. Gently grasping her left wrist, he pried open her hand placing a few ice cubes in it. His bandaged fist swallowed her dainty hand covered in streaks of acrylic paint. The reaction was immediate, and he felt horrid for keeping the frigid ice trapped in her hand. He remained calm and unmoving, even as she tried to jerk away. Doing anything to escape the cold grounding her back into reality. Water began to pool in her palm, dripping in between the silvers of their fingers as the heavy fog began to slowly dissipate from her eyes. 

Minutes felt like hours, but slowly awareness began to shine in her eyes. 

“There’s my sweet Sunshine,” Dazai practically cooed as he began to rub smoothing circles on her right cheek with his thumb. “It’s okay. You’re safe sweetie. It’s okay.” 

“Tata? What’s going on?” Her voice hoarse further enunciating her masovian dialect. Vivid hazel eyes trail down to observe the scene in front of her. “I floated away, didn’t I?” She mumbled out, voice softening with each word. 

Dazai released his grip on her hand, drying off the water on his pant leg. “You were dissociating, but there is nothing wrong with it. There is nothing to be ashamed of.” She refused to meet his gaze, so Dazai turned her head to face him. 

“Halina, there is nothing wrong with you. I’m your Tata, it’s my job to take care of you. You, my brilliant Sunshine, are not and will never be a burden.” The firm but loving words were all that were needed to break open the floodgates. His Sunshine collapsed into arms, with sobs ripping out of her throat. All Dazai could do was hold her close, rubbing circles on her back, and mumbling affirmations of love and care. Her sobs wrecked through her small form, breaking Dazai’s heart as he was helpless to assuage her sorrows. 

The only thing he could do was hold her close. A naive part of him hoping that he could shield her away from the demons lingering in her mind; and the monsters awaiting her everytime she stepped out the front door. Dazai knew for all of his predictions and precautions, that he couldn’t always be there to protect her. However, he could be there to take care of his sweet girl in the aftermath; giving her sanctuary to be vulnerable.  

Eventually the sobs quieted and the tears ran out. Halina lifted her head meeting Dazai’s gaze. Her eyes were an irradiated red from the crying, but her light was slowly returning; bathing them both in the warm rays. 

“It’s okay sweetie,” Dazai softly murmured, knowing Halina was most likely overstimulated. “What happened? Did you have a bad day?”

“No, I had a great day actually. I don’t know what happened. I felt fine…” her voice trailed off.

“Did everything just hit you at once?” Dazai said, finishing what she couldn’t. 

“I think so,” she replied with a teary tone. She further leaned into her Tata’s embrace. 

Feeling safe within his arms, basking in his loving touch, and listening to his steady heartbeat to keep her grounded in reality. With her Tata, Halina didn’t have to be strong. She could allow herself to relax and let her walls down. She could simply exist without having to wear a mask. She didn’t have to worry about how anything she said or did could be used against her. She was safe, and had the freedom to just be herself.  

“Come on sweet girl, let’s go sit somewhere more comfortable.” Dazai said lightly, with his knees popping, and a firm grip never leaving Halina���s hand. He knew his Sunshine needed to have a physical reminder that he was here, that he wouldn’t abandon her.

 He led them both to the living room, and gently placed his Sunshine on their bright orange couch; it was a nauseating neon shade, with matching fuzzy vomit green colored throw pillows. It was something he had bought to annoy his Chibi; the thing was an eye sore and migraine inducing. However, it was here to stay as Halina sincerely loved it, and thought it was beautiful; only their Sunshine could find beauty in something so revolting. So, the second youngest executive of the Port Mafia, half of soukoku, Nakahara Chuuya was stuck with the ugly thing polluting his living room. As he was unable to deny something that truly brought his Daughter joy. 

Dazai was broken out of his thoughts, as he gently wrapped Halina’s favorite blanket around her. Though he made sure her arms were free, as he knew she hated being trapped when she felt fragile. “I’ll be right back Darling. Tata just needs to grab a few things, and then I’m all yours.” He waited until Halina nodded, as he knew the constant touch was one of the few things keeping her from dissociating again. 

Dazai returned a few moments later with a box of fabric markers and sharpies. He placed the box on the coffee table, and turned on the television; putting on Mama Mia. He and Chuuya couldn’t stand the movie, but their Sunshine absolutely adored it, and that was enough for them. He sat down next to her, and gently placed his bandage arm in her lap. He handed her a random marker, “do you mind Darling?” 

Her reaction was instantaneous, a huge grin broke out on her face, and Dazai was blinded by her contagious mirth. “Is there anything you want in particular?” His Sunshine was practically vibrating in excited anticipation.

“Surprise me. Anything you draw will be incredible.” Dazai barely finished his sentence, before Halina began to draw on his bandages; Mama Mia forgotten as the blank canvas in front of her was demanding her full attention. 

When Chuuya finally made it back to the apartment he shared with his Daughter and Mackerel, it was four in the morning, and he knew it was pointless trying to be quiet. His Mackerel would wake up immediately when someone entered their home, even if it was just Chuuya; and his sweetheart could sleep through an earthquake. 

He was led to the living room by the noise coming from the T.V, and the site he saw filled his heart with warmth; not that he’d be caught alive admitting that to his Mackerel. Halina was asleep with her head resting on Dazai’s chest, with his arms wrapped around her waist. 

“Oi, I know you’re awake stupid Dazai.” The bastard refused to open his eyes, even as he replied. “Mah, my Hatrack is so mean. Here I am just trying to rest, and I’m so rudely awoken.” 

“I’m rude, am I?” Chuuya replied with a soft kiss to Dazai’s cheek. “The rudest.” Dazai agreed, bringing their lips together. Chuuya’s eyes trailed down to Dazai’s right arm, the entire thing was covered in rose drawings. He was mesmerized by the vibrant colors and graphic lines, sharply contrasting Mackerel’s sterile white background. 

He slowly put the pieces together as he finally noticed what movie was playing on the television. “Rough day?” Chuuya’s voice was steeped in worry. 

“Everything just hit her at once. I came home to find her dissociating in the kitchen. I think she was more worried about us viewing her as a burden.” How Dazai kept the rage out of his voice, Chuuya would never know. “You can’t kill the dead Chibi.” Stupid Dazai said whilst carding his fingers through Halina’s thick curls. 

“I know that, Mackerel. Doesn't mean the fantasy isn’t appealing.” Chuuya replied as he sat down, and began to rub Halina’s back. 

“The best thing we can do is to take care of her when she breaks. We’ll remain a constant presence, so she knows we won’t ever abandon her.” 

“When did you get so wise, Bastard?”

“I’ve always been smart, it’s not my fault your slug brain can’t comprehend that. 

“If you weren’t holding our Daughter, I’d kill you right here and now.”

“Oooo, I’m so scared.” Dazai teased as he leaned over for another kiss. Once they had parted, Halina began to stir. “What’s going on? Is it time for school?” Her words were mumbled out in a mixture of Polish and Japanese. She turned to face Chuuya, “Oh, welcome home Papa.” Even half asleep her voice was filled with warmth. “Hi, sweetheart,” Chuuya cooed as he gently patted her head. “Go back to sleep Angel.” 

“Okay. G’night Tata. G’night Papa.” Halina murmured as she nestled her head in the crook of Chuuya’s neck and shoulder. 

“Goodnight Angel.” Chuuya murmured, as he held Halina tight and placed a soft kiss on her head. 

“Sweet dreams Sunshine. Your Papa and I will protect you from nightmares.” Dazai said, adjusting the blanket over the three of them. 

Fin. 

[selkieniamh]

Hey, Little Songbird When: November 10, 2022 

Niamh didn't want to go back to her foodless apartment. Her stomach grumbled, but she chose to ignore it—no, she did not choose. There was no choice. She was at her poorest, her hungriest, and it wasn't because of any reckless spending on her part. There were simply unavoidable expenses she must allocate her funds towards, things that were more essential to her survival than food: the retrieval of her selkie skin. 

And information costs money. 

She needed to go somewhere. She couldn't go home. All day, her cell had clogged with emails from encrypted addresses, messages that vowed they knew someone who knew somebody who had seen an extraordinary seal hide (large and grey and dappled with charcoal spots) circulating the underground market, and they would tell her about it if she only turned up in some ramshackle building in Itaewon with a wad of cash. If she went home, she would read all of them, chew on her thumbnail, overthink, and make a rash decision. Instead, she walked. 

Every day she walked at dusk after finishing her shift at the Oak & Ivory. She would clock out, hang her apron on a knob in the back room, and throw on her faded plaid peacoat. Wave goodbye to her coworkers, step out into the lit-up and bustling streets of Hapjeong-dong. She slung her purse over a shoulder, a canvas bag that only held a wallet, TonyMoly lip balm, her iPhone 6, and a tangled pair of wire headphones from 7-11. 

She inhaled and started her nightly ramble, passing by the standard sights: the other independently owned cafes lining the street, the French pastry shop that was delicious but expensive, the tea rooms featuring the same fashionable people cozied up in window booths, stirring their matcha lattes and milk teas with tiny spoons. Then she’d head out of Mapo-gu entirely, north to Hongdae.

People were returning home from work or going out for the evening, and Niamh liked to imagine their lives and insert herself in them. She'd get lost in this dollhouse-esque fantasy, in the unrealistic prospect of a new life, and the daydream would bouy her around the city. She could keep doing it indefinitely. It helped her drain her mind and kept her thoughts from her twisting stomach. Car horns honked. Teenagers laughed and showed each other videos on their phones. Lights blurred together. 

Walking through Gyeongui Line Forest Park, she was struck by the unnerving feeling that she was being watched. The little hairs on the back of her neck rose in unease. She glanced over her shoulder, trying to be casual. A man's shadowed form strolled a few feet behind her, hands wedged into the pockets of his slacks. He appeared unconcerned, as if he was going for an evening stroll the same as her. Nonetheless, she accelerated her pace. She moved to a busier street, where the large glass windows of a Pizza Up loomed before her. Someone tapped her shoulder. 

“Are you lost?” It was the man from the park, smiling at her auspiciously. He was middle-aged with a high forehead and pomaded black hair. 

“No,” Niamh said in Korean. “I am sorry. Excuse me.” She made to keep walking, but the man stepped in her path. He was still smiling, but it did not reach his eyes.

“I would like to speak to you, Niamh Murphy,” he spoke in unhurried, accented English. “I’m a busy man, so I, unfortunately, cannot chat for long.”

“What’s this about then?” She considered screaming bloody murder, sprinting in the opposite direction, gouging out his eyeballs with her thumbs. But she did none of those things. 

"I hear you’re looking for a rare seal skin.”

Niamh’s ears pricked. Her stomach growled. 

His smile widened, and, at last, his eyes crinkled with it. “Let’s get you something to eat.” 

They walked inside the warm Pizza Up and sat at a table near the back. The strange man bought several slices of pizza in a variety of flavors but did not touch any of them, instead leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her eat. She normally would’ve objected to this unusual dinner, but hunger induced irrationality. As she bit into a gooey slice of cheese and tomato, she couldn't help but feel like a canary pecking at seeds in his outstretched hand. 

“I will get straight to the point,” the man said, “I know where this skin is located.”

Niamh jumped up like a spring toy. “Where?”

“A foreigner starving in Seoul,” he remarked instead of answering, tut-tutting. “How sad. Especially one so pretty and young. It’s senseless. I can help you in more ways than one.” 

“How?” She asked, narrowing her coffee-ground eyes.

“I want to give you a job.”

“I already have a job.” 

“This is different,” said the man, “You’ll never go hungry again.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with the seal skin.” 

“You see, a thing like your seal skin is not easy to get ahold of,” explained the man. “Though I know of its location, it’s going to take some time to get, and time is money.”

Niamh deflated. “You’re not offering me a job. You’re offering me servitude.”

The man looked offended at her accusation. “Of course not. The job offer comes purely from the kindness of my heart. I only meant to say that it won’t be instant, and I would not like to see you starve to death in the meantime.” 

“Why would you help me?” She wanted to know. “Who are you?” 

“A regular man with a golden opportunity,” he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and procured a business card. He slid it to Niamh.

Niamh looked down at the card, “But it’s blank—”

In the next moment, text appeared on the parchment in incandescent purple: Kang Siwan. Hotel Proprietor. She touched the card with the tip of a finger, and it tingled faintly, warmly. Her molecules buzzed. Her gaze snapped up. “Magic,” she murmured. 

He nodded. “I know what you are, Mrs Murphy, and I have a suspicion that this seal skin belongs to you and not a third party, as indicated in your email.”

So he’d found her through those wretched emails. What a stupid thing she’d done, Niamh thought. Stupid and desperate. A ramble of self-effacing curses fired off in her head. 

“I once had something stolen from me. Something precious,” he said. “So perhaps you can now understand where I’m coming from. Why I would offer you a job at my hotel.”

“What would I do?” She asked just to say something. 

“Sing.” 

She balked. “How did you know—”

“I know.”

The assuredness of his tone sent a shiver up her spine. 

“I don’t expect an answer now,” The man stood, buttoning his jacket. It was not a button at all but a small glass eyeball. It stared at her like it could actually see. “In fact, I’d prefer you think it over. You can find the hotel address on the back of the card. Visit me when you’ve decided.” He pushed his chair in. It made a metallic squeak against the tile. “But don’t take too long. I’m a busy man.” He turned to go, paused, and gazed at her over a sharp shoulder. He winked. “I hope to see you soon, little songbird.” 

[dinnerwithrefi]

11.2 - Dedication to Lost Appetites

Dinner: chicken tender wraps w/cheddar cheese, baby spinach & kale, salt, pepper, mayonnaise & a splash of Louisiana hot sauce

I'm sorry about Claudio.

I know it isn't much consolation coming from someone you barely know, but it's the truth. No one should have to watch somebody wilt away like that from a terminal illness, and while I understand grief of that nature, it is uniquely shaped to the individual and the relationship they shared. Still, from what I know about him now, he seems like a really lovely guy, even if your personal account of his accent as "a Muppet soaked in pomodoro" made me snog my iced coffee. I can understand why you have a soft spot for the Giants, even if you're not a big fan of the pigskin. Then again, maybe soft spots aren't exactly something I should bring up, given how shaken you got when we talked about him in his last days, how the most vivid images are when he looked more lesioned than lively, more purple and grey than olive, the cheery anecdotes replaced by incoherent anguish. It's awful how we're forced into being an unwilling audience member in these theatres of decay, surrounded by feuding one man shows of desperation, departure, and what comes after.

I think more than anything, though, it helps us reach a common ground of sorts. I was the same way with my grandmother, though she at least had the ability to go peacefully in my aunt's home. I couldn't see her as Grandma in that moment, though, that wasn't her. That wasn't Grandma's hand I was holding when I heard her breathe her last, the sagging, frail freshness of death in front of me couldn't possibly be the sweet, lovely Grandma who'd warble "Happy Birthday" to my voicemail every year, even if I was seeing her just a few days later for the conglomerate birthday-Thanksgiving hybrid meal my dad's side of the family held after the separation. It didn't feel real. Part of it still doesn't, honestly, but I drank so much alcohol that I honestly couldn't tell you where the clinical noises of the hospital started and the waking nightmare of two deaths close to me ended.

But that's what was bothering you yesterday, and I'm glad you told me about it. You heard desperation in facing yourself and others in the wake of tragedy and terminal illness and that somehow mutated into a form of jealousy, didn't it? At least with that album, Halsey was able to leave something for when the end comes, a connection for both those they found important and the multitudes who felt that same level of import towards them. It's funny how art remains the greatest dedicator for the world. We build monuments and erect statues, write poems and sing songs, sew clothes and knit quilts, paint murals and spread genius across paper and canvas alike - all in the sake of getting the chance to show the magnitude of their worth to not only that individual, but to the entire world. We never got that chance, though. At least, you and I never took the opportunity to do so in a timely fashion.

Besides, you argued, how could your cousin's commemoration at his funeral, the stirring piece from a grieving daughter that brought a church to tears, or the shrine built to the buzzer beat three point shot your brother made the night Claudio died, which he claims he dedicated to him as he threw it, compare to the short story you wrote about the persimmon tree your aunt planted in his honor a few weeks after his death? From your account, it had been two months after his death that grief notched its arrow and struck inspiration in the hopes of achieving resolution. It must feel disingenuous to revisit it now, assuming you still have a copy. You never got the chance to tell him how much you valued him, no matter the lack of closeness between you two, and I suppose there's a sort of guilt seared into you that you'll never get rid of now.

I wasn't the same way with my grandma, though I wish my goodbye could've been on the terms I had imagined them being. She always wanted me to sing her "The House That Built Me" by Miranda Lambert at some point. I would've done it for her if my dad hadn't been right behind me while she was in her final moments. Then again, we wouldn't have been there in the first place if I hadn't told him to prioritize seeing her. While I try to love him in the ways that I can, I shouldn't have had to tell him that spending a small amount of time while his mother waned away was more important that a trip to pick up fucking bulk lumber for his front porch project. Still, it was that simple round of cussing that got him to take the exit and end up getting home late in lieu of actually missing out on saying a proper goodbye, regardless of her comprehension. She was able to go after that, and I think seeing her son might have sparked those last moments of lucidity before she closed her eyes one last time. I broke a month of sobriety because of it, but scolding her son to pick up the damn beams later was probably the best dedication I could've given to her.

Unlike you, though, I have a lot more people living that I'll never get the chance to do that for as time goes on. You seem to have a tightly knit circle of friends that, while countable on one hand, they drive you to keep making strides towards self-betterment. I'm not really the same as you in that regard. I somehow end up in people's lives not on the whims of fate or by a stroke of luck, but rather sheer meteoric impact, cratering them on first meeting, almost helpless as I watch the slow crawl of personal extinction around them, to the point where I just end up just a giant rock in their life, sometimes cumbersome and earth-shattering, others groundbreaking and life-altering, but always indelible. I always end up disappearing, though. I know why that is, and I wish it hadn't bled into my life from trauma inflicted by those monsters from my teenage years, but that's just how I end up. There's a part of me that wishes I could be like you, able to hold tightly to the three people you seem to value most, the motley ensemble that you are. That's my own jealousy, though, and I hope it's one that I can get over.

Shame that the wraps got cold, but I guess we have leftovers for breakfast before we job hunt tomorrow morning.

[triscribe]

Chapter 2

“Alright, Mifu-”

“Don’t say it.”

“-we are officially lost.”

The centaur groaned, shoulders slumping. “What part of don’t say it did you not hear?”

His best friend only offered a shrug. “Sorry, had to be done.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Mifu continued to grumble under his breath about hard-horned minotaurs always stating the unwelcome obvious, which Lepl easily ignored - the benefit of long practice. Despite being Officially Lost, the two of them kept heading along up and down the rolling hills, no other landmarks to be seen for miles around. Supposedly, the pair were headed due east, but the heavy blanket of dark grey clouds overhead made it impossible to check. It sadly did not, admittedly, occur to either centaur or minotaur to simply hold position until the clouds cleared - they were young, on their own for the first time ever, and eager to keep moving.

Nor did they think to look back from time to time. Otherwise, the boys might have seen the occasional flicker of motion in the tall grass, following their trail.

Eventually, at the top of yet another hill, with nothing on the horizon to guide them, Mifu sighed. “You wanna eat?”

Lepl glanced at the sky, still filled with light-blocking clouds, and nodded. He set his pack down to dig out some small tubers and dried apples, while Mifu retrieved a water skin and two pouches of oats. The pair split their supplies, settling in to munch away.

After his second apple, Lepl hummed. “Think your uncle patched that split seam before the rain hit?”

Mifu snorted. “Not likely. He probably completely forgot - right up until water started pouring in through the canvas.” They shared a chuckle at the mental image... At least before a distant rumble of thunder interrupted, causing both boys to look warily around them.

“If you say one word about not bringing a tent-”

“I won’t,” Lepl huffed. “But we’re definitely getting one first chance available.” Mifu grimaced, thinking of their limited trading materials, though he didn’t bother to argue. And then a third voice spoke up out of nowhere, causing the pair to jump.

“Why bother with a tent when there are plenty of caves?”

Later, Mifu would absolutely deny screaming when the stranger popped up right next to him, and Lepl would resolutely keep his mouth shut with his eyes pointed skyward, not saying a word about nearly falling over backwards himself. But that would be later; in the moment, a very unimpressed kitsune stared them down with folded arms.

“Really,” she said flatly, after the boys somewhat recovered their composure. “A potential attacker appears, and that’s the best response you can manage?”

“Well excuse us for being taken by surprise,” Mifu snapped back, shoulders hunched.

“Where did you even come from?” Lepl asked, warily glancing around them. The kitsune, somehow, managed to look even more unimpressed. And then she crouched, vanishing completely into the grass that - to be perfectly fair - only came up to Lepl’s hips and Mifu’s underbelly. A slight flicker in the same spot made both of them stiffen, shifting closer to each other. Then the kitsune reappeared, on the opposite side of their little tamped-down clearing, causing the pair to jump a second time.

“Now that’s just ridiculous,” she huffed. “If I’d been a slaver neither of you would have stood a chance.”

“Slavers don’t come this far north of the Border,” Mifu sniffed.

The kitsune’s expression turned abruptly incredulous. “Uh, yes, they do. There’s an Arriv trading outpost only three hours south of here.”

Both boys blinked, before shooting horrified looks at one another. “Well,” Lepl eventually said. “So much for heading east.” A half-choked snort drew their attention back to the kitsune, whose expression wavered on the boundary between dismay and disgust.

“You thought- you were going east?”

“To Mekethem City,” Mifu made himself mumble.

“Yeah, no,” she said. “Did you lose your compass or something?”

“Uh.”

Her ears flicked back and then forward again. “Ah. You didn’t bring one at all.”

“They’re expensive to make!” The centaur protested. “And it’s not like we need one when we can check our direction against Parunt’s path.” Even as he said the words, his shoulders hunched again - and the embarrassment only doubled when the kitsune made a point of tilting her head back, gaze lifted to the grey clouds overhead.

Lepl took that moment of silence to speak up again. “Um, do you have a compass?”

“Yes, and I’m not giving it up for anything-” The kitsune paused, before fixing the two of them with a sharp look. “-but that doesn’t mean we can’t share.”

The boys shifted uneasily. “Share?”

“Mmhm. I need to retrieve something from the Broken Hills, which I’m perfectly capable of doing by myself, but extra hands wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

Mifu very nearly reared back with instinctive panic. “The Hills? Those are south of the Border! You can’t just- just stroll down to pick something up!”

“Why not?” The girl set both hands on her hips, tail swishing with irritation. “Arriv slavers cross the Border without consequence-”

“Because there are military outposts behind them, perfectly willing to send reinforcements if we try to fight back!”

“So the Amkyn response should be to just pull back further and further north, effectively handing over more territory for the Arriv to claim?” Snarling, the kitsune yanked a long knife from her belt and brandished it with a flourish. “It’s past time someone scared them into retreating for a change!”

“But that’s not what you’re doing,” Lepl cut in. “Right? You said you just need to retrieve something - probably without being spotted by any Arriv.”

Russet fur smoothing back down, the girl nodded. “That’s right. A skirmish in the Broken Hills two months ago included a kitsune warrior from my home. The Arriv who won that fight kept his armor as a trophy - I’m going to get it back.”

“Armor?” Mifu couldn’t help but ask incredulously. “You’re risking your life for armor?”

“Sigil armor,” she clarified, and that. Well. That did make a difference. Mifu’s own staff was sigil-blessed, passed down from mentor to student for centuries, and if an Arriv got their hands on it... Yeah. Suddenly, making their wandering way to Mekethem City and back purely for the experience of traveling without the tribe’s numbers seemed, well, childish.

Lepl clearly thought the same, if his next words were any indication. “Where in the Broken Hills?”

“Close to the Darend River,” the kitsune replied, returning her weapon to its hidden sheath. “The Arriv armies don’t maintain a permanent base there because of the seasonal flooding, but the mobile unit that fought in the skirmish should still have a camp in the area for another few weeks. My plan is to slip south of the Border before making my way west, in order to come at them from the direction they least expect an attack.”

A terrible plan. A terrible, horrible, likely-to-result-in-death plan. But Mifu looked at Lepl, whose eyes were wide and round and pleading, and then at his staff, carved from white wood with a dozen strands of hand-painted beads tied around the curved top.

“I’m Mifu Oyatusen,” he eventually said with a sigh. “And this is Lepl Lehsano. I guess we’re your new traveling companions.”

“A pleasure.” The kitsune bared all her pointy teeth in a grin. “My name is Sana, of the Swift-Tails, and I promise to do my best not to get either of you killed.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Trials of Youth Ch1

(...so. So far my attempts to get in a good headspace to finish this book's second draft have not gone well, which means it's time to take drastic action. Hence, sharing the first handful of chapters here, and seeing if my friends having someplace to screech and ask what's next will help)

Dawn bloomed.

In the southern plains, sitting near the very top of a cottonwood tree, a girl admired how light spread across the land, transforming everything by simple use of illumination. When enough time had passed that she could see her surroundings clearly, the fourteen year old turned and looked down.

“Fren! Time to get up, lazy-bones!” A muffled grunt was the only response. Rolling her eyes, the girl started to climb downward, swiftly passing her own hammock to crouch beside the one below. With a teasing grin, she started to push at it, swinging the cloth and its inhabitant from side to side. “Frennnn.”

“Mm’up.” A hand and arm were stretched up out of the mess of blankets, before flopping back over.

“Freniden Brusan, if you don’t wake up in the next thirty seconds, I’m tipping this thing over and dumping you out of it.”

Bunched-up cloth and curly black hair were pushed aside so that her friend could direct his glare towards the girl. “You wouldn’t.”

“I most certainly would.”

“We’re twenty feet in the air, Tali!”

“Then you’ll just have to use your all-powerful wizardly talents to keep from getting injured.” She released her hold on the hammock and stood. “Now come on!”

“Alright, alright, I’m getting up,” the younger boy grumbled, kicking his blankets off and reaching for his bag, hanging from a nearby branch. “I swear, everyone in your family is a lunatic, rising at dawn and ordering other people to do the same...”

“I’m sorry, does this come as a surprise to you?” Laughing, Tali climbed back up to avoid the smelly sock Fren threw in her direction. Within a few minutes, both children had donned their outer traveling clothes and rolled up their hammocks, stuffing the bulky bundles into Fren’s enchanted satchel. Once they’d clambered back down to the ground, the wizardling pulled out some hard biscuits and dried meat for their breakfast.

“So,” he asked around a mouthful of food. “Now that we’ve successfully gotten too far from the city for your father’s search parties to find, do we have a destination in mind to start looking for this missing sister of yours?”

Tali frowned thoughtfully. “Well, much as I want to find Lillia, we could stop by your old home first, visit your family-” She stopped when Fren snorted.

“Bad idea. My relatives wouldn’t let us leave for at least the better part of a month, which I know would drive you insane.”

“It would?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing interesting ever happens in Fammon.”

“Well, fine then, if you don’t want to see your uncle and aunt and cousins, we’ll just go straight north.”

Fren raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all the great Petalia Crant can come up with?”

“That’s all we need,” Tali argued, looking ahead with a fierce expression. “We go north.”

“I’m starting to have second thoughts about running off with you...”

“Too late to change your mind now!” Tali playfully punched her friend’s shoulder, and giggled when the chubby boy pretended to stagger.

“Hey! Easy with those muscles of yours! I may have extra padding, but that doesn’t mean it won’t get bruised!”

“Oh, quit being such a whiner.”

“Bully.”

“Wimp!”

“Aquimbe!” Before Tali could blink, a spray of water caught her in the face. She spluttered, ducking away as Fren cackled. The spell ended after a moment, water spout fading back into nothing, though the girl remained very much wet.

“That,” she declared, wiping at her face with the edge of her cape, “Was so not fair.”

“Forgive me for wanting to get the upper hand just once,” Fren grinned.

The pair continued to banter as they walked on, eventually finding a road heading in the right direction. Tali checked it over for recent tracks while Fren whispered a quick scanning spell for nearby people. Neither of them found any signs of fellow travelers.

“Should we risk it?” The wizardling asked. His friend shrugged.

“May as well.”

Winding as it may have been, the road nonetheless took them north, and the pair made good time. By mid-morning, they’d covered several miles, and stopped for a water break on top of a shallow hill. When she handed back the water skin, Tali decided to climb another tree, to get a look at their new surroundings.

The girl had only gotten part way up the trunk, though, when something not too far away caught her eye.

Fren flinched as she suddenly landed beside him, fumbling the water skin and nearly dropping it. He didn’t have any time to ask what she’d seen before Tali was dashing off down the hill. Scrambling, Fren hurried after. A few minutes later, they rounded a bend in the road, and he too saw what had grabbed his friend’s attention.

A small, weather-beaten wagon was stuck, one of its front wheels trapped by a deep crack in the earth. The driver, a wrinkled old goblin, strained as she tried to pull it free without much success. Harnessed to the front of the wagon, her horse saw the two human youths first, and whinnied.

“Hello there!” Tali called, slowing her steps as she approached. “Could we offer you a hand?”

The goblin, who’d paused at her horse’s sudden warning, looked over in surprise. “I wouldn’t mind a bit if you did! I just need a tad more oomph to lift it free, I think.”

Tali immediately stepped to her side, crouching in order to get a good grip on the frame of the wagon before glancing over her shoulder. “C’mon, Fren, hurry up.”

He rolled his eyes. “Wizard student, remember? Elvitaere.” A soft yellow light sprang from the pendant tied around his left wrist, enveloping the wagon and causing it to slowly float into the air.

“Oh my,” the goblin gaped. 

Huffing at her friend’s dramatics, Tali nonetheless pushed the wagon’s side, nudging it away from the hole. As soon as all four wheels were over even ground again, Fren ended the spell, letting the wagon gently set back down. The old goblin clapped her hands in delight.

“That was wonderful!” She gushed. “Saved my poor back and everything! Thank you so much, dearies.”

“You’re very welcome,” Tali said. “Is there anything else we could help you with?”

“Well, now I feel silly, but I’d emptied out everything I could to make this old hunk lighter - I don’t suppose the two of you would mind giving me a hand putting it all back, would you?”

Blinking, Fren leaned over to look at the other side of the road. Sure enough, several blankets were spread across the ground, dozens upon dozens of books and knick-knacks and other peddler’s goods piled atop them. He gave Tali a side-eyed glance, and sighed when she glared back.

“Happy to be of assistance, ma’am.”

[confident-green-artblog]

Who knows when I finish this

[topazy]

The world between

Parings: Steve Harrington x reader, Billy Hargrove x sister reader, Max Mayfield x sister reader

Warnings: Swearing

Chapter: 2.01

You rolled your shoulders, picked up a paintbrush, and ran your fingertips across the soft bristles, which parted like golden ears of wheat on a windy day. The slim, wooden handle was light but firm—worth every dollar you’d spent on it—and you rolled it between your slender fingers, then dipped the brush into a pot of bright blue paint and raised your hand towards the canvas. The canvas wasn’t blank, as it already bore lines and curves of bright colours ranging from red, orange, yellow, pink, and purple. The colours formed the outline of a man you had never met but would soon meet—you could feel it in your bones. He didn’t have a proper face yet because you hadn’t seen his face yet. You often toyed with the idea of filling the figure with a mixture of grey and black paint. But no matter how long you stared at the canvas, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Because you feared the recurring figure from your nightmare that would come true if you did.

Painting outdoors was something you loved doing. You had a special spot under a tree where the rays of sunlight pierced through the gaps between the branches and leaves, giving you a warm ray of sunlight that wasn’t too harsh on your skin. When the grass rustles in the breeze, it sends a warm tingle down your back. There were square dents in the grass under the tree, where you always mounted your easel and stool, dents that showed that that little area was yours—your territory.

A bird landed on the top of the canvas, balancing on the edge. You smiled at it, and it tilted its small head to the side, but when you slowly reached out to touch it, it flapped its wings and flew up to the sky. You purse your lips—you wondered if Hawkins would be as beautiful as California.

Your brother, with whom you had shared a womb for nine months, took great joy in telling you in his cursive language how awful the weather was and how rude the people were. You weren’t looking forward to moving, but you all needed a fresh start. The odd dirty looks and whispers around town were beginning to drain your family. So when your stepmom, Susan, informed you of the numerous opportunities they could all have, you accepted that moving was the only option.

“I’m going to miss this.” You say to yourself as you drop the paintbrush and tilt your face towards the canopy of leaves above you. As you look at the sunlight piercing through the open gaps, your hair falls in gentle waves down your back, making some of the leaves appear translucent.

You turned towards your family’s home to see Susan walking towards you with a glass of lemonade in each hand and a faint smile on her lips. She looked over your shoulder to get a better look at your most recent painting. “Can I sit with you? Keep you company?”

“I'm not alone,” you joked. “But sure. I’m sorry Billy is making this move a bit difficult. Is he still off sulking somewhere instead of packing?”

Susan nodded, confirming that he was. “Ah, you know how it is with your brother and father.”

“It’s not fair though. I know Billy has made a lot of mistakes, but this time he didn’t do anything wrong. I just wished my dad would listen to him or me.”

“You know how it is.” Susan repeated, handing you one of the glasses. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I'm going to make sure Max hasn’t thrown out anything she’s supposed to keep.”

You exhaled softly through your nose and turned back to the painting. Susan always left when she didn’t like how a conversation was going. You dipped the brush into the pot of rainbow water that was slowly turning a muddy shade of brown before dipping the brush into green paint. You worked on your painting, adding more pops of color, till the golden sunlight turned orange and your eyes and hands began to hurt. You leaned back and admired how bright your painting looked, even in the setting sun. But it couldn’t distract you from the looming feeling that something bad was coming.

As you packed up your art supplies, you wondered if you would still have the same amount of time to paint in Hawkins.

—

“I can’t believe you baked a whole damn pound cake!”

“Max! Language! Cass did a lovely thing by making us desserts to celebrate our first family meal in our new home.”

You did your best to conceal the pout on your lips. You wouldn’t have classed this as a family meal because Billy wasn’t present. He’d stormed off not long after you arrived and hadn’t been seen since.

Dinner was chicken, creamy potatoes with some vegetables on the side, and for dessert, freshly baked pound cake that was still warm. The food was spread out on a light pink tablecloth with floral patterns and served in their fanciest bowls of China, which was just a matching set of ceramic dishes with blue hand-painted flowers. It was all pretty and all for show. You had grown accustomed to ready meals and takeaways in your old home since neither you nor Billy knew how to cook, and you hated it when he ate alone, so you’d skip family meals so you could eat with him.

“You know, I squeezed the oranges myself,” your dad said, with a twinge of pride.

“No wonder it tasted funny,” you quipped. Then, make a show of sniffing the bright yellow liquid in your glass cup.

You studied your dad’s face as he laughed at the joke, knowing full well that if your brother had made the same joke it wouldn’t have been received so well. That was the elephant in the room. You and Max could do no wrong in her father's eyes, while Billy could do nothing right.

“So, Billy says he’ll take you both to school tomorrow.” Susan asked.

“Yeah, we are going in slightly early to make sure we don’t get lost.”

Your dad scoffed into his cup. “He could’ve chosen a safer town to live in. Let’s hope he doesn’t screw this up.”

You opened your mouth to protest against his comment, but decided against it.

You immediately went to your room to finish unpacking when dinner was over. You stood in front of your most recent painting and brushed your fingers over it, checking it was completely dry before hanging it up on her wall. Three gentle knocks made you turn to the open door, where your sister stood leaning against the doorway.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Your bed creaked with your weight as you both sat down on it. “I’m nervous about tomorrow.”

You raised her brows in surprise. Max was never nervous. She was very laid-back for a kid. “You worried about not making friends?”

“No, I don’t care about things like that,” the young redhead girl tutted at her. “I’m worried Billy will really screw it up. What he did to that guy in the bar... was just messed up.”

You gave her a warm smile, which Max returned. “Please just give Billy a chance... I…” You sighed and looked down at your nails, which had paint stuck underneath them. “Okay, so there was more to what happened that night. It wasn’t all his fault.”

Max understood the plea in your eyes and didn’t need to hear anymore. She stood up, “Right. I'd better start getting ready for tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

You watched her amble out the door, and with shaking hands, you continued unpacking.

—

You clutched the bag in your hand tight to your chest, afraid it would slip out of your hands at the speed Billy was driving. When he pulled into the school parking lot and abruptly parked, Max almost immediately got out, and hopped onto her skateboard, mumbling, “See you later.”

You roll your eyes while getting out of the car, noticing that Billy’s erratic driving had gotten him an audience. You watched with curious eyes as a group of girls seemed to be swooning over your brother.

Whatever.

“I guess I’ll see you around.”

You were introduced to your class as a new student by your teacher before she pointed out a desk for you to sit in. As you sat, a brown-haired girl sat beside you. You gave her a polite nod before opening the book in front of you.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

[twistedisciple]

With his fitful and erratic habits, Griss didn’t usually dream in those snatches of unconsciousness one might call sleep. Instead, dreams usually came to him in vivid tapestries of nonsensical colors and placid shapes while he was still awake, allowing him a glimpse of a world brighter than the greys and blacks that made his own. His hands became the tools to create something meaningful, his body made a canvas stained in the crimsons and plums, blacks and yellows that told of its worth, and at the end of it all when his own reflection wouldn’t look back at him, sometimes someone else would. He’d gotten used to it over the years, these little waking dreams, consigning them to the rituals of the fallen.

The first time had earned him acquaintance with Zephia. In hazy fragments, he could still remember how she’d knelt beside him as he traced his fingers over and over and over the same spot on the ground, bewildered by a seemingly endless fountain of red, and asked him, softly, what he called himself. No one ever had.

At some indeterminate point along his jumbled chronology, there had been another, too. A sheet-pale face. And eyes that were maybe green, maybe gold. Maybe red. Staring out from the gloom of a moonlit cell. But not at him. Never at him. Hot breath against the palm of his hand. Concern hissed in “shut up”s and “they’ll get you”s. Fingers grasped for fingers, recoiled, rejected. Something shattering open: “don’t leave. Don’t… leave.”

The face as white as the snow around it, lycoris wilting from its sockets. Stripes of grief painted across his own back, some effort to escape the dizzying senselessness and the irrepressible, choking need to be seen.

If those moments had been bold streaks of paint thrown by the bucketful onto canvas, making shapes by coincidence, shouting against the monochrome, this one was a little sketch tucked away in the middle pages of an old notebook that spent its life in a drawer.

It was coherent. There were people in it. He even recognized one of them as Lord Rafal, except the name would never come out. The other one, he thought at one point, might have been a stranger, and then might have been himself, and then maybe a stranger again. He couldn’t be sure, watching this scene unfold in sketchy, uncertain lines, if he’d ever known anyone so timid. Or that Lord Rafal could be so gentle. But he was an actor as much as he was the audience, and for the white dragon’s approval, he stood outside of the stranger less and less. It was warm. Itchy. Foreign entirely in its script. But—

There was Zephia and the self-portrait she’d helped name, streaked in red, a collar around his neck.

—something—

There was the lycoris and the monastery darkness where it refused to grow, the frigid hand it’d left empty in the Elusian winter.

———stirred.

Here were his hands flecked with blood, and now came the sound of a voice. No, two voices. Griss blinked at his palms, sniffed, raised his head, bewildered, to see blurred lines ebbing back into the familiar shape of a candlelit tavern. 

”Huh?” He glanced around to find who had spoken - first the barkeeper, who wasn’t looking at him, then Lord Rafal, who was. His attention lingered on the dragon until from its murky emptiness coalesced a single thought: Where were they? He shook his head.

”Uh, yeah,” he agreed tentatively, but as the scene slowly came into focus - the moaning men scattered among fragments of shattered furniture, picking themselves up and limping shamefully away, and the ominous rift looming outside the window - his confidence came back as well. 

“Yeah,” he repeated, this time more forcefully, the daring back in his eyes and the devil in his smile as he looked at the chef. “Two hot meals! The best you got on the menu! And don’t think about skimpin’ any! You saw what we did to those sorry bastards.”

”Of course, of course,” the barkeeper said placatingly, his gratitude a barrier to the pair’s demands. “I’ll bring that right out for you, but, ah—“ After a frantic search around the dining room, he finally clapped his hands together, “Oh yes! Here’s a clean, untouched table over here,” and led them over to it.

Griss dragged out a chair and dropped unceremoniously into it at once, arm draped over the back, legs spread out beneath the table, a self-satisfied grin on his face as he watched Lord Rafal take his seat across from him. 

“Look at that: free meal and we got to have some fun, too.” A frown crossed his face suddenly and he turned his head to assess the rest of the destruction. “Only problem is that I don’t remember exactly what happened. Musta got really into it…”

◜  ₊  —  𝓡  ˚  ₊ 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌

[21burritoseavey]

you’re safe now (j.m.)

a/n: um...this genuinely sucks and you can’t prove me wrong but....I hope you enjoy? 

warnings: descriptions of blood, cuts, bruises. 

Summary: You find Jonah tired and bleeding and tend to his wounds/take care of him

The early morning came with a broken promise. An invitation to stumble out of bed at the lack of warmth against your skin and emptiness of his side of the mattress. Amidst the trees surrounding your home, the wind whipped along tall trunks and billowed out the sheer curtains hanging from the open bedroom window, the transparent material puffing like soft marshmallows before deflating, again and again. 

You stuck your head between the two ends of fabric to survey what the morning had brought, gravely hoping your boyfriend was one of its gifts. The roads were glossy with water. Puddles spilt onto the tarmac, across the footpaths and slicked the tires of vehicles perched on the curbs, and a gloomy sheath of grey had overcome the sky.  

Your eyes scanned the tiny looking individuals, the mist cold and crisp upon your skin as you began to peer further down. Your lovingly tended plants sat forgotten along the length of the windowsill, their ceramic pots drowned in a pool of dirty rainwater. With the icy temperature, shouts and groans of sleep deprived frustration came from people in their cars, their loud words resonated in your ears as an unwanted prompt to the previous night.

The silence hatched a ghostly calm over the room, heightening your concern of his whereabouts as whispers of a damp breeze continued flowing through the window. You stopped your search momentarily upon hearing a creak of antique wood, now spoiled from last night’s weather that’d seeped through the cracks. “Jonah?” You called. 

There was nothing but a small whimper from somewhere in the house, soft and weak. You gulped, now walking out of the room hesitantly, the tips of your toes tapping along the floorboards. The footsteps became heavier. Another creak, another shuffle. Just down the corridor. The sound of rustling, like wet clothes rubbing against each other, and squelching of soaked boots were the sounds you were so relieved to hear. 

He stood across from you, staring, as if you owed him the first word. Droplets of red spotted his shirt, like messy polka dots, and a sharp edge had made it into his cheek, an almost perfect line carved into layers of his pale skin. His feet inched closer to yours, painting a maroon mix of dirt and blood on the panels of wood underneath his feet. That’s when you noticed his limp, the slight hobble of his left leg with more of that alarming red darkening the edges of his denim.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jonah breathed, taking a deep gulp. “- that I didn’t come home last night.” He continued, his eyes hiding from yours as he spoke. You hadn’t heard from him in hours. After hours of waiting up last night, and with the expectation that you’d feel him beside you the next morning, you decided to go to bed. But that wasn’t the case, and your anger seemed trivial now that he was dripping blood and soaking wet right in front of you. 

“Oh, J” You breathed, tears instantly misting over your eyes. You rushed over to him. “Should I call an ambulance or something?” You creased your eyebrows in concern, but he shook his head, letting out a small ‘no’. “Just give me a second, okay?” You left him with a gentle rub to his shoulder and a weak smile. 

You worked quickly, bustling around your home to find the first aid kit you knew was somewhere in the expanse. The kitchen cabinets and drawers slammed and rolled shut abruptly, and Jonah lifted his head up, glancing over his shoulder as you were getting out the first aid kit. He smiled so briefly, the speed at which you fled to find supplies and rush back over once you found them was heart-warming. He was sat against the wall tiredly, the bare white canvas of the wall gleaming brightly behind his damaged features. 

“Okay, okay.” You repeated, sighing gently as you sat cross-legged next to him. “You’re okay.”

You looked at him as if you couldn’t see the blueish purple bruises that’d only get worse overtime on his arms or hear his weak groans slipping jaggedly past his lips. You merely held a damp cloth over the cut, watching intently as the blood dribbled into the soft fibres as several minutes ticked by. 

“Thanks for helping me, love.” Jonah said sadly. 

“Of course,” You leaned in and cradled his head ever so lightly. His hair tumbled over his face messily and you swept it back, feeling the coldness of his skin, before gently kissing his head. 

Once the bleeding to his head stopped, Jonah peeled off his flannel to move onto the rest of his body.  His formerly handsome abdomen was a crimson mask, blood trickling into the creases of his stomach. A quiet gasp arose from his throat and lingered in the frosty air of your apartment, his arms flailing limply by his side as you brushed your fingers over the wound on his stomach, profuse apologies rushing out after seeing his pained reaction. 

The pressure of the cloth clamped over his stomach rattled a broken moan from within his chest. Those few minutes you spent pleading with yourself or God or anyone, for him to look at you, to smile a little, feeling the very fluid of his life drain away over your cold hands, you didn’t think anything at all. There was no time to be thinking about why or what had happened, and you didn’t want the answers anyway. So, you kept your thoughts in, surrendering your mind to this very moment of tending to his battered body. 

“Do you feel a little better?” You asked, worry still very much threaded through the wrinkles on your forehead. Jonah nodded and leaned in ever so slightly for a kiss, his red lips puckered readily. You smiled, a faint warm feeling creeping over your face. As you kissed, Jonah felt a little blood on the corner of his lips seep into his mouth, like he’d been rubbing a penny between his lips, but he still grinned as you both pulled away. 

Light grew steadily outside. Sunlight roused more colours from its sleepy, grey monochrome, and the both of you stayed in the same spot until the yielding curtains glowed. You felt your concern slowly ebb away in his arms. He was safe with you.  

taglist: @chilling-seavey @marthagryffindor @randomlimelightxxx @hiya-its-amber @the-girl-who-cried-wolf​ @hackerXavery @jonahlovescoffee @onlyangelavery @sadbitchfangirl

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[rufoustee]

[Thumbnail description: ENA and Moony wearing winter clothes. They’re smiling and blushing. Text reads: “Animation” in all caps.]

 [Video description: An Intro song plays in the background. Text: An Ena Fan Animation, RufousTee.]

[Text: “Ena and Moony from: Joel Guerra.”]

[Two video thumbnails: "Last" on the left, "Upcoming" on the right.]

[Ena walks in, smiles upon spotting the "Upcoming" thumbnail and stops by it.] ["Tuba" is used to represent Ena’s sad voice and "Music box" is used for her happy voice.]

"Moony look!" [Happy Ena, music box.]

[Moony is shown playing chess. “Thinking music” plays.]

Ena, shouting off-screen: "Moony!"

[Moony, standing still in shock.]

[Moony springs back to normal.]

"What?" [Moony’s voice is represented by the "Acoustic bass".]

[Ena is about to click "Upcoming".]

Moony, shouting: "Wait! No!"

[Ena is about to click on the "Upcoming" thumbnail, but zoomed in and faster.]

[Ena clicks said thumbnail. Screen goes dark.]

 [Distant sounds of wind and snowfall, a snowy winter background.]

[Moony, just standing, blank.]

Moony, angry: "I was about to win!"

"Ah. Sorry!" [Happy Ena, "Tuba" voice.]

A person, off-screen: "Good day!"

[Sounds of wind and snowfall, a person in a red coat, smiling.]

"You two looking for [unknown]?”

Ena: "That's right'!"

[Red coat person, anxiously looking around.]

Ena: "Can you show us how to find it?"

"Uh. Um." [Looking around, distraught.]

[Ena staring into red coat person's soul with big, spakly pupils and pink blush.]

[Moony, vacant, looking away.]

Moony: "Oh. Right."

[Moony also staring into red person's soul.]

[Red coat person, shaky and grey.]

"I think I can."

"I know a way."

[Scary dark woods music, scary dark woods in the background.]

[Pointing at the scary dark woods: "This way.]

Ena: "Many thanks!"

Person: "Oh it's nothing."

[Red coat person, grey and afraid, looking away.]

[Ena and Moony in front of scary dark woods as a distant song plays.]

[Ena pulls said Scary Dark Woods Background with her finger a little bit, as if it was a curtain. The background song is now louder. Once Ena lets go of the curtain, the background & music go back to normal.]

[Scary dark woods curtains are fully drawn. Background is now a blank canvas. Music is loud.]

 [Screenshot of a video sharing platform, showing a WIP of the video titled: "22_07_18_Snow_Day_But_Bad_WIP"]

[Moony and Ena spring into the scene from below. They start looking around.]

Ena: "Now to find that [Unknown]."

[Moony and Ena looking around. Ena gets sad whenever she looks to her left, is happy whenever she looks to her right.]

[Ena spots something.]

"Ah! That's it!"

[Ena reaches towards the screen, towards you, grabs something and happily holds it in her hands. It’s a weird round green alien baby thing.]

[Moony, grey and shaky. The same thinking music plays but it’s slowed and odd.]

Moony: "What is that thing?"

[Ena, blank, looking at Thing.]

Ena: "I don't know" [Happy Ena, "Tuba" voice.]

[Music. Text on screen: “RufousT”. A small Moony is shown sleeping.]

Short animated thing of Joel Guerra's ENA and Moony!

A snow day adventure on another *reads notes* day that comes after monday.

[graviconscientia]

Hmm. I know this feeling incredibly well. I'm sorry, Joker.

I am having trouble picking a day to talk about, though. i can speak on a great deal of things, but to pick one day is difficult! I suppose I could talk about today.

I am still afflicted by the grey magic, but I am feeling better about it! I spent most of today reading, bundled up under blankets. I didn't make any food, so it was a chips-as-a-meal sort of day. I should've done better than that, but claws are not conducive to cooking, so... Junk food. I still have these wings, and I have to use them while I have them, so I did a little flight over the forest. I've been checking certain spots recently, with few results. But it's easier to canvas from the air, I'm finding. The other day I found something akin to a nest. Today was the scales. It feels like I'm getting closer to finding what I've been looking for, but even if it still takes a little longer, I don't feel so disheartened and frustrated. I have leads. I have proof. And that is so much better than the hope I had before. Now, I'm back under blankets, waiting for someone to come over, trying to be some sort of help to you! My fingers are crossed in the hopes that this did what you needed it to do.

Should sleep.. Can't. Worried about nightmares.

Tell me about a day. Any day.