#i like his undereye wrinkles

[spacenintendogs]

Perhaps if you’re up to it, Krogan for the six fanart meme? (Typical Maea request but)

done!! :)

[mimsypoo]

my friend ordered some johnlock doujins, and i had to flip through them first to ensure there was no surprise triggering material and mycroft featured in a few of them.. i thought it was so fun to see how all of the different artists chose to depict him, whether i agreed with their methods of drawing him or not. it was a fun, cute thing to take note of, and it also really helps me to decide how i personally want to draw him!

[bitchslapblastoids]

ok these screenshots suck and aren't suuuuper illustrative so sorry in advance, but @ingydar-phan asked for some examples of times i think they're wearing foundation/concealer, so here's what i've got. disclaimer- i think they're both the most beautiful men in all the land. no shade to either of them; this is just how i clock when they're wearing makeup! also i know lighting makes a big diff and isn't remotely standardized across the videos i took screenshots from. maybe i'll add more/better examples another time when i'm less sleepy and lazy!

i find that phil's undereye concealer is often too yellow and doesn't fully blend with his super pale skin tone. he wears concealer under his eyes often in videos, but otherwise i don't think he wears much on his face.

dan seems to have started wearing a matte foundation/bb cream more regularly this past year (seems like he used to only for important events). it evened out his skin tone, but i found the matte actually kind of amplified any texture/wrinkles he has. recently he seems to have switched to something dewier, because he's looking smooth in texture but glowy in tone, rather than washed out.

dan with no foundation:

dan with matte foundation:

dan with light, glowy foundation

dan with more heavy foundation:

phil without undereye concealer

phil with undereye concealer

both of them all glowy and made up:

[spurbleu]

disciple ✞︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. if you look for God, you won’t always find him. but you always found Ken.

warnings: mdni, religious imagery, mentions of vaginal sex and oral (both receiving), angst, toxic(ish) situationship, grinding/leg riding, ken before his growth arc, maybe a lil ooc

a/n: this one is a little nasty, sorry. i promise the next one will be cute to make up for it lmfao. inspired by @mitskicain and her beautiful work here.

word count: 3.8k

vote on sequel here !!

࿓༚︎︎‧✞︎︎⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎✞︎࿓︎༚︎

Somewhere along the way, you had become devoted.

The Bible’s spine bound to your own- the alters of your chapel nailed to the foot of your bed. Velvet cushions the color of your undereyes- swollen mauve. You slept there, allegiance to something larger than yourself keeping you to its feathered seats, molded into a ceaseless kneel.

You could call him many things- a whore, bastard, a good (no, great) fuck- but Ken Sato was no god. Your spite made sure of it, refusing to enter the coitus infused oak that built your confessional. The stench of sex would not pull the truth from your stubborn lips, white in denial (wedding veil, erotic). His influence on yourself couldn’t be larger than your own. 

It wasn’t. It would never be.

You wrote out that lie on his thigh, your teary cunt on the harsh fabric of his trousers. They felt rich against the lace of your panties- embroidered in every language of your arousal, highlighting the blush as it sheens through the fabric.

“That’s it, baby. Ride yourself out- filthy girl.”

Obedience. You groaned- frustrated, mostly with yourself. It was out of character for you- doing bidding without complaint. Sculpting your body in the ways he wanted you to, foggy minded and pussy drunk. Since when were you willing to take orders?

You supposed it was his drafting party- 3 years ago. Arrogant, young bastard then- high on the birth of his success- talking to you like he had the world in the palm of his large, fledging hand (Atlas, before the world wore him down, too). Despite it, your friend had begged you at the bar,

“Give him a chance.” She was dating a Dodger at the time, albeit a much more mature one.

Reluctant, you entertained. Forcing an airy laugh at his formless jokes, many of them losing the punchline behind his liquored teeth. You would run your hand up his shoulder, massaging muscles under Abercrombie. They had been bigger, then- plumper and less relaxed- yet another desperate attempt to stand out.

Obnoxiously amateur. It was stamped on his forehead, his tongue, and his knuckles as he drove you to his apartment, black ink cracking the faulty persona he had created for himself.

There, he fucked you senseless.

His god given gift must have been stamina, you decided. He made the night endless, morning suspended by the brutality of your next orgasm, the expanse of his mattress (not yet expensive, impatient for his first paycheck) memorizing the way you screamed his name and the taste of your drool (vodka, and the admissions you were wrong- prayers).

It’s when you realized his orders always seemed to align with your desires- spoken or not.

You moaned again, hips curling against the space above his knee, grinding like your orgasm would return your dignity with a fat, blue bow. Replace what you had lost to the shape of him, fill the hole that had once been your own. Now who’s the amateur.

He held your hips with a plum grip- thumbs bruising the patch of skin beneath your dress- folded in careless wrinkles on your waist. It was one of your favorites- not that he cared. He could buy you twenty more of the same ones, if he wanted to. But he didn’t- no, now, he wanted to see you fold and whimper over the shape of his quads.

“C’mon baby. Cum for me, show me what I do to you.”

It’s funny. Your knees were half bent, straddling him in shaky rhythm. Your fingers interlaced behind his neck, hands sailing the nape of his neck, brushing against shore of hair- searching the waters for minimal stability. From far away- it would’ve looked like you were deep in prayer.

The twist of your nose mistaken for devotion, not lust. Your interlaced fingers and touching foreheads a physical vessel for the god you were calling out to- his name spoken quietly in breathy moans that fell from under your tongue. A religious ceremony- the Eucharist between your legs- wine against lace (filth in a chapel, dust on candles).

Your orgasm was sinful, the damnation near worth it as you crumpled into his chest, sighing your reconciliation. His hands slid up from your hips to your waist, eager to hold the space under your arms, palms pressing against your rocky exhale.

He pulled your face from his chest with a single hand, gripping your teeth through your cheeks. It wasn’t rough, but it was strong enough to break you out of your sexed stupor, your eyes meeting his as you searched for answers in the grey of his iris.

How did you get here?

Grinding his leg like it was your deliverance- like it would somehow stop the horns from growing. Your transformation from a devil into something lucid- a little more deserving of limbo. The red of your lips kissed away into a tasteful pink, the dim light above his bed illuminating your mussed hair into the apparition of a halo.

Equally- he torn the putridity from you, smudging the grime in a cross on your forehead (Ash Wednesday, burnt innocence and palm branches). Your crimes, pockets of lust found between your weeping cunt and glossy lips, held you captive to his embrace.

You were one big step away from salvation, and three small ones away from hell.

So instead of moving, you lay stagnant on the bed of your shared apartment, his back turned away from yours. There, you were left to think about what brought you to Ken Sato- God or Satan? Perhaps both, found in the gentle snore of the goliath next to you, his features in sleep contrary to the harsh lines that structured his jaw awake. They were softer, here, innocent.

You knew better.

Ken wasn’t a man of chastity. The way he fucked acting as your testimony, near selfish as he chased your orgasms, each shudder of your legs a building block to his tall ego. How, when he arrived at your dimly lit porch, breath low, there wasn’t that begrudging, drawling slow talk. Pointless questions about the other that neither really cared about.

No, Ken pulled you close. Skipped the part where you get to know each other, or that airy friction before your lips meet. Instead, you both pilfer your manners, settling for the impolite shape of a kiss, a precursor to how he’ll fold you tonight.

Perhaps that’s how you know him well. You’ve become so good at reading his touch on you, palm searing the details of his day with his lifelines into the small of your back, that you don’t even need to ask. People tended to speak with their words- but Ken had a particular fluency for the use of his hands.

They tell you other things, too. How his immaturity can still be found in his desperate sighs and arrogance. How his favorite meal is the one between your legs. How quickly he can fall asleep, and how he talks in it. You listen, wondering if this time, he’ll say something forgiving (like your name).

But that’s where it ends. You both fall somewhere between strangers and lovers, knowing more than a stranger would but significantly less that a lover should.

You still don’t know his favorite color.

But why would you want to? You didn’t- shouldn’t- care. As long as he kept his cock buried the in plush of your cunt, or his mouth on it, you couldn’t. It could be something poetic like sapphire, for all you care. But you knew if he ever asked, he’d say something stupid like,

“The color of your cheeks when I make you cum.” Abhorrently charming, and motivated by his own libido, you’d think, before straddling his thigh. Romantic enough to make the request of you riding his leg, dirty enough to actually get you to do it.

Again, that thoughtless obedience. You were losing your edge, that ardor that made you chaseable, out of reach. But now he had you around his finger, and it drove you mad.

You both knew you have every ability to walk away. To stand up, pack your things, and leave. You could never see him again, find a decent man who doesn’t talk to you like you’re some whore, and settle down. White picket fence- within your reach- just out the door. Ken wouldn’t chase you- but that’s it- isn’t it? He wouldn’t care.

But you wanted him, didn’t you. He fucked the unpredictability out of you- the effortless curl of his index finger bringing you on your knees, mouth open in a worship. You wanted to have him guessing, on his toes, like he had you.

“I only fucked you because my friend had begged me too,” You had said one morning, an attempt at regaining it, “You were charity work.” You watched the ridged lines of his silhouette for a reaction.

But there wasn’t one. He only chuckled, standing as he stretched the inflation of the dawn off his shoulders, “Yeah…I was pretty annoying back then, wasn’t I?”

You were approaching tantrum. Had you lost your bite? Were your canines dulled- since when were you a domesticated dog? Where along the way had he cured you of your rabidity? You came up dry.

So defeated, you had said, “Yeah. You were.”

He turned to you, that familiar glint in his eyes, not dissimilar to a priest before a homily (delivering the truth), “But you came back, didn’t you?”

He was right. You called him- three days later. Midnight, swallowing your pride and your arousal as you asked, “Want to come over?” and hopeful when he replied “I will never say no.”

And he hadn’t. You suppose that’s where your bite came back, canines softer but still effective. That when they tear into the softness of his neck, coming back bloody and hysterical, he bent into you. He started kneeling, eating you out like somewhere, beneath your noxious folds, was redemption.

(Is this where you’re his god? Above him, moaning his name, hips rolling in tandem with his tongue? If so, you feel powerless. Because outside the bursa between your legs, you had nothing to offer.)

But he never said yes either. He would just hang up, and in 15 minutes be at your door, seconds before his mouth was on yours. Maybe, he was saying yes then. Spelling out a y, e and s in the hickeys he left on your neck. But the selfish, younger part of you wanted to hear him say it.

Whisper it in your ear as he fingered you, or as you licked his tip, kneeling before him as he whispered his little plea. Yes, yes, yes, yes. Hear the heat of orgasm in the bobbing of his adam’s apple.

But instead, he talked to you rather than about you, when he was close (delusion- that he saw you in that moment).

“Your littl’ cunt it my favorite- y’know that sweetheart?”

You were folded beneath him, a rare time when you faced each other. His head was against yours, hot breath fanning on your bruised lips as his rutted into you, shroom tip making stars fuzz on the sides of your vision. It made his utterance, motivated by your clenching walls, beyond intimate.

You couldn’t help the weight those words held in your hands. Favorite. Such a complicated feeling.

You knew he fucked other girls- his whorish grin buried into dozens of cunts before yours. But a young, childish creature was born in the cavity of your chest- envy. It’s plump hands tearing the rips in your indifference, revealing the head of your heart. Bent over into the bed that would never be just yours, you felt it leak out of the intimate parts of you, slicking his cock as if it would stain him.

Although, there was an impish pride in it all. That you had bewitched him enough, ass flaring against his hips, flesh opening wide and obediently for him, that he made a mistake in calling you a favorite. A pedestal for you to kiss his feet at, where you looked down at the other disciples and you knew, you fucking knew, he was a close to yours as he was ever going to be.

That’s why, in the normalcy of it all, of being ‘the one’ (less romantic than you had thought it was when you were a girl), you weren’t surprised when he asked you to live with him.

Two years ago, now. He had been lying next to you, the drowse of sex pulling his chest up in a rhythm you found repulsively soothing, he asked you, “Do you want to move in?”

And because you had never been more causal about anything in your life (exhilarating, the apathy an illusion of control), that you replied, “Sure.”

Huge apartment- stench of wealth written in every spotless crevice. Modern, grey arches and colorless domes- highlighted by the rich brown of the oak that surrounded the exterior. The bedroom view overlooked Anaheim, and most mornings you’d catch yourself staring at the sunrise, another sleepless evening behind you. It was your favorite view of the city.

Not that Ken knew- you never told him, and he never asked.

That’s how you planned to keep it. Even if you lived together, nothing about your relationship would change. You weren’t going to role play the happy wife- waiting at the door with his liquor and lace under your apron as you asked him “how was your day?” over dinner. There would be no domesticity. It would stay a house not a home.

But eventually, it became neither. Instead, it became a church.

Business with reality ate away at both of your lungs, that by the time you reached the door, you were breathless and crawling. You found ceremony in asthmatic sex; body already accustomed to the feeling of asphyxiation.

There was never room in your lungs for actual romance. Not all liquor could be rum- not all love could be sweet. You settled with the discovery as you rode out your frustrations on his cock, feeling as he stretched you out (merciless, perdition by pleasure) the grip on your thighs motivating your assault.

Tell me, it would say, tell me with your hips.

Routine.

It was your service. The Gospel, as he whispers in your ear how much he missed you today, how much he needed this- you. How quickly you were brought to your knees, feeling as his cock stretched your throat- more room for the hymn of his name.

How you became the choir, the altar servers, the priest and the attendees all at once. How he made you everything, then (except for of course, God. He played that role in your selfish exhibition). How when you screamed his name, your cunt memorizing the feverish pace he thrust into you, angels heard worship.

You could feel it happening- that subtle, long, change from a devil to a disciple. That as his cock reformed the shape of your walls, your cervix slowly morphing into the shape of a crucifix, he made you a follower.

It was another year before the candles snuffed. His mother disappeared.

You had heard of Ms. Kato before. Not that he would ever take you to her- you aren’t exactly the type of girl you bring home (a vice, really. No mother wants to meet their son’s damnation.) But everyone knew about Ms. Kato.

He talked about her in interviews, and besides slumber you haven’t seen his face that soft before. Admiration- a son who loved his mother. It humanized him, and sometimes you’d find yourself searching for a similar plasticity as he cleaned you up, holding your bambi legs (if you got lucky, he’d place a kiss on your knee, gracious. Hopeful.)

You decided she had no place here, with you. Not because you hated her (far from it)- but out of a compassion. You wouldn’t stain the one thing that made him redeemable. A tenderness that shouldn’t be corrupted. There were equally parts of you that you would never share, and he would never know- for that very same reason.

Because if you do, you’ll be judged empty handed and irredeemable.

But then he cried.

He cried, in front of you. The peak of vulnerability, curling into your arms after breaking a kiss that felt particularly dull, uncharged. You had agreed, so many times, to keep things casual. To ignore the tug at your tendons to reach out, or to ask about him. To find out his favorite color.

And against all your better judgment, you embraced him. You held him as he sobbed into your chest, a boy missing his mother. Your hands bridged the gaps in his hair strands, fiddling the parts of his body he couldn’t feel in that moment (keep some semblance of distance, if that were ever possible).

You both fell asleep like that, tangled in the dips and rifts in your bodies. His tears had stained your shirt, not that you minded. It was nice, having him daub you with something less lewd- placing his tolerance on the crest of your chest.

The next morning, you sat on the edge of the bed as you watched him get dressed. There was a sluggishness about him, a depression between the sleepy jostle of his shirt, stretching over his heavy chest. The daybreak was dimmed by his swollen eyes, the imprint of your chest showing up a red rash on his cheek.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

A mistake, but an empathetic one. Asking about him. Without sensuality, the motivation to get between his legs, that familiar ache in your cunt. No, this was a different ache- much higher- fluttering in the bluntness of your heartrate.

When he turned to you, it swelled, and you realized you had crossed a boundary. A thick one, the one that glued things together for this long. He didn’t glare at you- in fact there wasn’t expression. Dulled knife without bloodlust, just a utensil, half used and ready for the next meal.

“No,” he had said then, and you knew it was over. End of an era, nail in the coffin.

He told you he was moving to Japan shortly after. As he was packing his things into the U-Haul, you watched him from the doorway, and the world seemed to narrow between his acnetis. You swallowed as he taped the last box.

He stood in front of you.

Thinner, than three years ago. Older, a bit more mature- hell you’d even call him a man. He wasn’t playing dress-up in a fancy suit or in his baseball uniform- no, here you found him rather casual- in sweats and old merch. A hat, brush back your favorite texture- thick rooted hair.

3 years of your life, packed in a U-Haul and out the window of an airplane. Not that you even expected it to last this long.

But what was it anyway? A sorry excuse for a relationship? An exchange of goods that both of you needed but neither knew how to ask for? An empty embrace, without personality but with all the intimacy? You couldn’t figure it out.

What happens to a churchgoer when it’s stolen from them? Candles snuffed, building bulldozed, the beautiful stained glass broken in faithless shards at their feet, eroded by angel tears. Left to find another one, you supposed.

But that’s the thing- you weren’t just going to church to worship something, but someone. And now he was leaving, as you both agreed you would not follow, left to explore the expansive hole he drilled within your body by yourself.

You weren’t bitter- in fact you found yourself understanding. Every God abandons- and it will always feel too soon. There wasn’t a point in begging, praying, kissing. You had done your job, washed his feet, let him move on (why couldn’t you do it with him?).

“What’s your favorite color?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he gave you the apartment keys, half out the door with his last box- photos. Maybe you were in there, somewhere (would he frame it?). “What?”

“You never told me,” you found a goodbye in his eyes, so there wasn’t a need to say one back, “I want to know.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. There wasn’t an answer that would satisfy him anyway. He searched your eyes, perhaps for your own goodbye. When he came up empty handed, his shoulders caved with a sigh.

“Don’t have one. But I…” guilt. There it was. The desire to clean up half the mess you made, recognition that by leaving, you’re destroying a follower and her morale, the goodness and obedience you had built for so long. It flashed across his features in a ripple, rock hitting the water. A weak smile, and for a moment you had been convinced it was real (God’s son, a little more human, a little more tangible).

“I have always loved the color of your eyes.”

Cruelly romantic, and in the most inopportune time.

You caught a glimpse of what could have been as he drove off. Taking you with him, fucking you in the airport bathroom, hand keeping you quiet. On the plane, he’d interlace your fingers through his as you lift off (he finds out your afraid of heights). You live in Japan, he teaches you patiently how to say hello, holding you after making your bed. A domesticity, a place of worship, lost to an inability to talk- to risk.

He didn’t kiss you when he left, but you both know that was for the best. That your frenzied physicality, the only thing that seemed to keep you attending church, was absent in your goodbye.

It really was over.

He left your apartment half empty (church without an alter). He didn’t call like he said he would, neither did you, and your devotion simmered into hardened, bitter lines. Resentment was found in every corner of that apartment (because there wasn’t a place where he hadn’t touched), and truthfully, yourself (again, imprinted).

It didn’t take long before you moved out as well.

While packing, you came across a picture you took together at his draft party. You both looked so much younger, and it reminded you how big you could smile. A memory- that although you had convinced yourself you were never charmed by that amateur, there was a reason you found yourself under him that night.

And, funnily enough, for the next three years.

You burned it.

Fuck him. You would think. Good riddance.

But above your head, a flame flickered to life- orange in its birth, fueled by the ashes of your fervor, the years of your bleeding knees, and that fucking picture.

Even now, he’ll remain in your subconscious fidelity.

What a bastard.

[tesseractrave]

Any tips/tricks for people who are starting to draw Egon or any of the ghostbusters?

The key to capturing the likeness of an individual character in your art is identifying features and proportions. Just like how general stylization or exaggeration of art can't be achieved without knowing the basic fundamentals of it (the "you've got to know the rules to break them" deal), you can also study the fundamentals in specific character's appearances to capture likeness and differentiate between them!

It really just comes down to studying them and their individual features and figuring out how to translate them into your style. I'll use Egon as an example in a little tutorial/rundown on that below the cut:

I've made this mostly unstylized study of his (Harold Ramis's) real proportions and features so we can learn the rules before we break them.

(If you guys want me to make a study like this for the other three, I can! :])

First, I identify the character's foundational shape to assist in stylization. Egon has very rectangular shapes in his appearance.

(For the other Ghostbusters, I'd say Winston is diamonds, Ray is circles, and Peter is squares.)

Then, we spot the most defining facial traits to help us out. For Egon:

Tall face

High-angled jaw

Squared forehead

Long, hooked nose with high nostrils

Flat, thin lips

Small, dark, deep-set and downturned eyes

High-arched eyebrows with low ends

Things like moles, freckles, dimples, and wrinkles can also help a lot as either just features or to convey age. Egon, for instance, has dimples when he smiles! :)

You can add whatever other creases and scrunches you deem necessary. I personally also enjoy the undereye crease for that "mature" flare.

Things like hair and accessories can be included as "identifying features," but they're two of the very few things we can easily change about our face, so unless it's essential for identifying the character (like it is for a lot of anime styles) or you're planning on never drawing them in situations where they don't have them, try not to use them as a crutch!

(I say this because I tend to draw Egon with his hair messed up or without his glasses, and I like him to still be recognizable.)

My style tends to simplify curves and angles to create a more interesting silhouette, and I emphasize and exaggerate features and apply a lot of shape language, but I do my best not to lose the identifying traits that make the character look like themselves.

It's sort of a balancing act, and it's never perfect (people's faces are squishy and can look slightly different from angle to angle and depending on what facial muscles are being used) but I hope this at least helped a little bit!

[blindmagdalena]

Hello, I have a request for Homelander x fem reader. The two of them having a skin care routine night. I've seen TikToks of couple doing their skincare together. I feel like Homelander would enjoy the feeling of the readers hands gently massaging his face. (He does have smooth skin when I watch the show.)

Initially, Homelander’s curiosity about your nightly routine manifests as mocking. Each night, while the two of you are getting ready for bed, he likes to pick up the array of tools you keep in your vanity and invent uses for them.

“You cannot tell me this isn’t a cock,” he says, holding up your facial roller. He gestures to the end of it. “C’mon, it has balls.”

You laugh, snatching it out of his grasp. “Stop it! It’s for your undereyes,” you insist. He likes the broad way you smile at his juvenile teasing, how it emphasizes the lines in your face that you spend so much time and product on minimizing.

Homelander’s relationship with the passage of time has become a complicated one. He doesn’t mind seeing signs of you aging, seeing the way you’ve changed. It’s an indication of the time he has spent with you, and you’ve only grown more beautiful the longer you’ve loved him.

On the other hand, the thought of how much time you have remaining fills him with an awful dread. Similarly, the same lines he admires around your eyes, he prods at in his own reflection, dismayed. You’ve brought an uncomfortable awareness to his mind regarding both of your ages. 

Regardless, watching you take the time to pamper yourself has become one of his favorite parts of the evening. He lingers in the doorway or leans against the counter while you both talk about your respective days. One day, you pop open a new product, and he leans in, taking a sniff.

“Smells good,” he comments offhandedly.

“Wanna try it?” You ask, holding the jar out to him. He stares skeptically at the goopy mixture inside. It isn’t as though his skin gets damaged, per se. He’s sensitive, but not to irritation. He supposes it couldn't hurt to give it a try.

So begins your new shared routine.

Days later, Homelander’s not entirely sure how exactly it escalated to this point–his blonde hair held back by a fuzzy pink headband–but he’s not going to complain while your knuckles are massaging soothing circles on his cheeks, pushing back towards his jaw and temples, slick with some kind of new serum. He doesn’t pay much attention to the products, if he’s being honest, but he likes listening to you talk about them nonetheless.

“Apparently vitamin C hydrates, helps with collagen production, and reduces hyperpigmentation,” you say, rolling your thumbs gently along his under eyes.

He hums noncommittally. “That sounds like words.” He opens his eyes just in time to see you playfully roll yours.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you tell him, kissing his nose. 

He wrinkles it in turn, huffing a laugh. “Oh, don’t I know it.”

Next, you swirl your finger in a lip balm that comes in a tin. It seems to him an exceedingly awful way to package a lip product, but he’ll accept it in exchange for the intimacy of your index finger placing the product onto his lips, your face close to his, your other hand tilting his head back while you focus on applying the balm. Your own lips are shiny, parted in concentration.

“Alright, all-” you begin to say, but Homelander cuts you short with a kiss. He waited for as long as he could, but the rapt way you focus on him in these moments is too much to bear without tasting you for himself. He needs to feel you.

“Have I told you how sexy you are when you’re pampering me?” He asks between kisses, hands settling on your hips, pulling your body flush to his.

“Mmmmhm,” you hum, smiling with such warmth, such love, he thinks he might burst from it.  “I don’t mind hearing it again.”

“You’re sexy when you’re pampering me,” he purrs obligingly, kissing you long and slow. You push your fingers into his hair, knocking the headband loose, wringing a low moan from the back of his throat as your nails drag along his scalp.

“I love you,” your murmur, the words familiar yet no less wonderful against his lips.

“Love you,” he gives back, deciding he will spend the rest of the evening etching it into your skin with every touch, precisely the way you have taught him to.

[wilderhyperfoxations]

BELOS' MOUTH LINES- WHAT ARE THEY?

Argument/hypothesis: Belos's mouth lines aren't wrinkles, they're actually scars or the curse! (Warning- use of hypothesis and such might be rickety as yoga balls. I'm not a bigbrain, I'm just a guy with a lot of thoughts.) Evidence proving the hypothesis: No elderly character or any character has the same lines, two on top, one on the bottom, and all connecting to the mouth. Gwendolyn has deep cheek wrinkles and forehead wrinkles when she frowns. She also has sagging skin around her jaw. She's around 60/70- Belos is over 400 but doesn't look old. Terra Snapdragon has two lines above her lip, smile lines, lines under her eyes. In the scene where we see all the coven heads together, her two top lip wrinkles connect to her lip, but they do not look like Belos', and otherwise they do not connect, even a few frames later.

See? None have the same features as Belos, or even similar. Scratches are usually stylized to be some variation of red. Scars are usually pink-ish or darker. But- Principal Bump has a scar/stitches over his eye, and they are black. According to the storyboard of the s2 finale when Belos speaks to Luz, the mouth lines are not present during when he gets his green stripe removed, but appear only when it comes back. Also, in this one, his one mouth line connects to the green scar. Storyboards never depict him as old, moreso withered, tired. Especially this one. Take away that little line and you've got yourself an eccentric twink.

Okay, sure, the mouth lines are different- but if they are scars, why aren't they like Hunters' or Luz'? Maybe because it would have been tedious to color, or it is just a design choice, based on the black lines being bolder or weirder looking. Or maybe the opposite. He also has no other wrinkles besides the line when he smirks, and lines under his eyes are very dark undereye bags. They look less like wrinkles and more like exhaustion. Belos generally has an ambiguous design age-wise, without his greying hair and or the mouth lines, he could pass for a younger person, even if you keep the under-eyes- no other wrinkles are present, and neither are any signs of age on his body. Counter evidence, disproving the hypothesis: Storyboards often have inaccurate scenes or designs or things that are later removed (see Darius having purple eyes or looking mega weird in some storyboards, or even the scene w Belos where his face melts) and sometimes characters are missing scars in sbs, like Hunter here. So Belos only having mouth lines when the curse kicks in could be that, an omission for the sake of convenience.

Also it could have been a unique and weirder way to show wrinkles, evidence as to different characters who have different designs. Plus usually scars are red/pink, and these are solid black lines, more like wrinkles. And most older characters aren't extremely old looking. Without Eda's hair color it's harder to tell her age even if she's supposed to look more aged. She just looks 40 but grey, and her design is most similar to Belos' in that regard. In other storyboards Belos has no mouth lines either, while having the green line. Could be design changes or for simplicity.

Storyboards aren't reliable as evidence. The boards have inconsistent designs or earlier designs, as shown by his eyeball face or egg elf face above, as well as the lack of nose bump. The input of others: I ran a poll on tumblr, and the results were- 78.8% chose wrinkles, 17.5% chose scars, and 3.8% chose curse. There were 80 votes. One person said they were pretty sure they were wrinkles, because Belos is "old as balls" and "some old guys have dry lips". Another said scars because "his whole body seems to be covered by them", and he has "no crows feet" [or other wrinkles]. Another said that they assumed those were scars, because they look too odd and are connected to the lips to be wrinkles. The fandom consensus seems to be that they are wrinkles, and most draw/write/regard him as such. Conclusion: Who the chit knows! Evidence points to it being wrinkles, I say. But I personally believe it's the curse or scars and there's just enough ambiguity for me to hold that opinion. Could I ask Dana or something? Probably, doubt that she would reply, but also I feel like that would ruin the fun. What do you think?

[nectar-cellar]

Hey, i don't know if you accept WCIFs (If you don't, please ignore my ask), but i really liked Dante's eyebags and dark eyeshadow, could you share where you found them?

heyyyy i actually converted his forehead wrinkle and eyebag makeup from TS4 cc, which i'll be posting soon :3

my go-to for dark undereye shadow has been niobe-cremisi vampire eye socket N1 for all my other male sims

[nuvomica]

an old fic im sharin with someone. ignore it

As Bella rests in her hospital bed, peaceful but so sickly, her father, Chief of Police Charlie Swan, can only wait. He has a job he needs to do, or at least have a good sleep to do well, but he can’t bring himself to leave. He sits in the corridor with the bright, unflinching white of the hospital lighting stinging his eyes.

Or, maybe his eyes are still dry, still red, from when he’d finished crying some hours ago. Short, sharp, painful as he looked down at his little girl clinging to life, the harsh, irregular beeps of the monitor at her side announcing her fight to live.

Stable, but only just. How can someone be only just stable? Charlie can’t leave, because what if that stability vanishes?

He doesn’t realise someone has come to stand in front of him until a solid, strong hand touches his shoulder, making him jump. His shoes squeak as they slide over the linoleum and he slips in the uncomfortable plastic of the chair, whole body flinching as he battles the surge of fight-or-flight.

“Apologies,” the cool voice of Carlisle Cullen soothes immediately, the hand retracting just as fast. “I’ve been calling your name. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No,” Charlie says quickly, then clears his throat, well-aware of how sandpapery he sounds. Feels. Especially in comparison to the crisp, alert doctor looking down at him with a patient smile. “No, I’m– I was, uh.”

“Lost in thought?” Carlisle offers. He’s watching, still gentle, still placating. Kind, in his own, cool way.

“Sure.” Charlie sits up straighter, blinking in a futile attempt to make himself feel more awake and grounded. He scruffs a hand over the back of his head, roughly massaging away the ache from leaning against the wall too long. How long has it been? He makes the effort not to wince, making eye contact with the doctor long enough to give a polite, thankful nod. He can’t make it last too long. It’s difficult with this man, and he’s not sure why.

Something about how calm he always is. 

Not a soft kind of calm, like comes naturally to the rainy, washed-out Forks, but sterile as the hospital he works in. Stone makes his face, his eyes, and he is unyielding. There are no stress-wrinkles or undereye bags on his face, and his job has to be about as stressful as Charlie’s.

And Charlie only has a few people in his life he loves enough to worry about. He couldn’t imagine having such a large family to care for on top of everything else. Worrying about Bella is enough to–

“As I was saying, Sheriff, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat once throughout the duration of your wait. I understand the desire to be near Bella as she rests, but you’ll be of more help to her if you take care of yourself.”

It’s not supposed to be manipulative, Charlie thinks, but he still feels a twinge of unease at the words. Right. Be of more help to her, because he’s been damn useless at that so far, apparently.

“Right, sure, cafeteria.” He stands up, nodding his head and readjusting his clothes, tugging at the belt loops as he straightens himself out. Not everyone can be perfect all the time, Doctor, he doesn’t say. 

“Ah, well, the cafeteria staff aren’t there at this time of the morning. Only emergency staff and nurses are on.”

Charlie feels sheepish. Of course. “Oh. Well, I’m sure I have something at home.” Like bread. Milk. It’ll be fine. He doesn’t want to leave, but he feels like a child, chided and cared for by the young doctor.

“Nonsense, Captain Swan. Charlie.” The first name sounds so nice on Carlisle’s tongue, like the plain name and plain man it belongs to are a comfortable thing, something more. It makes an already strung-out Charlie feel winded, suddenly. Tired, worn thin. “The reason I’m here is because I’ve finished my shift. I’m fine to drive, and I’m not sure it would be professionally responsible of me to let you drive yourself.”

“Nah, I’ve worked later shifts, I’ll be just fine.” Charlie refuses to be more of an inconvenience.

“As a friend, then. I’d feel terrible as your friend if I left you to drive alone, hungry and tired, after the events of tonight.”

Charlie takes a moment, foggy brain turning things over in his mind. The offer, the situation. Himself, Carlisle. Friendship.

“You’re so frustrating,” he says, not quite thinking as the exasperated, half-fond words slip out. It’s something he’d say to Billy or Harry, almost. Almost.

“I’m sorry?” There’s no offence in Carlisle’s tone, just polite surprise.

Charlie’s words catch up with him, slamming him into embarrassment. Now he has to explain himself. He never liked doing that.

“Just, I know being a doc isn’t the easiest thing in the world, but you’re always– I don’t know.” Charlie pauses, trying to find the right words. He rubs his hand over his mouth, his chin, as though hiding himself will get him out of the situation he’s created by not just taking the offer and doing as he was told. Damn. He can’t just say that it’s annoying how perfect Cullen is, can he? Even he has more tact than that. “Calm, I guess. All the time, no matter what happens.”

Carlisle gives a nod, then, and a gentle, “Ah.” It’s an acknowledgement of understanding and familiarity, which makes sense, because he’s probably been told that plenty.

“I know people in your profession see a lot of shit. So do I, you know?” They’re not in totally different leagues, just levels, where Carlisle sits in the high choir while Charlie scruffs around in the mud and dirt, both of them helping people, both of them with blood on their hands. Yet the two of them are so incredibly different.

“I know.” Carlisle has tilted his head, frowning in a way that shows thought rather than irritation, and Charlie nods, encouraging himself.

“You just never seem… tired. Worn down, like everyone else gets, and I know that even if you’re a perfect guy, it’s a lot. It’s a lot.”

Carlisle looks at him then, and it's a curious look from under his lashes, eyebrows raised. Not surprised, not quite intrigued, but something softly settled between. A single strand of blond hair has come loose, curling gently over his forehead, and it’s so definitely out of place that Charlie can’t help but stare at it.

“A lot of practice,” Carlisle says after a moment of still silence. “Restraint. Using any built up frustration, energy, in other places so it doesn’t wear me down. Useful places.” It’s a thoughtful answer that Charlie wasn’t ready for and he can’t help but stare. “Where the consequences are minimal, but each movement important. The intent doesn’t matter, but the understanding offered does. It’s a sort of rest that works incredibly deep.”

To Charlie’s exhausted mind, it makes no damn sense. Intrigues him, though. Maybe. Maybe another time. For now, he grunts and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, ducking his head and ignoring the dull ache behind his eyes at the sudden light strain on his neck muscles.

“Where d’you wanna stop to eat?” Not many places were open this time, Charlie realised. Even the fast food places didn’t get enough business to justify 24/7 access in Forks.

“I have already eaten, but we can decide as we drive, if you like?”

“Sounds good.” It really did, except for one very important thing. “Bella. Who’s, uh. Caring for her.” He almost hadn’t felt the way his worries had settled beneath Carlisle’s calm, but he noticed the weight easing off his mind a little now.

“The nurses here are exceptionally kind and attentive. I can promise you she won’t come to any harm; she will be comfortable, and she will recover quickly. She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

Charlie believed Carlisle’s words save for the last few. How could he, when Bella was just a girl, his little girl, and she looked so small in that hospital bed? Maybe that was his curse as a father. To always see her as his baby.

He hummed, frowning at the itch in his eyes returning, and rocked on his heels. “Good. Good, okay.”

Carlisle slowly offered his arm out, as though Charlie might need the help walking out. Charlie shook his head quickly, then gave a short breath of laughter. He wasn’t that old, that emotional, just yet.

“If she’s not here to boss me around, fast food’ll do just fine.” One last look at the doors, as though he could see through to where Bella was unconscious, and Charlie turned to head out, patting Carlisle’s offered arm as he did.

He could trust in Carlisle’s treatment and his word. A trust he felt deepened after that night, as professional courtesy became a friendly acquaintance. Charlie’s frequent thoughts of Carlisle and his perfection stayed the same as they had been before.

BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK

“You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like. We have a spare bed. Or, I can take you home.”

Charlie looked up from his plate, the last of his greasy, hastily put together burger leaving sauce smears on the perfect blue-and-white ceramic. He’d missed the stuff, the comforting sugarfatsalt that scratched an itch in his brain, and it did help settle him, he had to admit. Feeling less jittery, he found talking to Carlisle much easier now he had food in his stomach. Maybe he was tired, too, enough that 

..........

To cullen home.

Charlie think back, convo. Relax? how.

Charlie, quiet. Tries to imagine. “Sports?” Hm, baseball, apparently. He could see it. Is that what he meant? Or arts and crafts. He tries to picture carlisle doing scrapbooking, makin ghim go Hrnm. from upstairs, he hears a clatter. Jumpy man.

“Just edward,” carlisle assures. “He’s reading some sort of comedy, i believe.”

Charlie cant imagine it, but the less time spent thinking abt edward the better.

Jump. Book whatever. friend dies. Charlie struggling to keep it together, and he needs to. As the sheriff. As a father. Alcohol.

He is found by edward, who goes to get carlisle. It happens fast. Time must be weird bc of drink. Has to keep charlie awake, gives iv. S… smelling him? Apologises, when iv pricks he seems to bend down, smells. Sits up, and tells charlie it’s not high enough percentage to need oxygen or stomach pump. Charlie is like aight. I wanna sleep. No–

Charlie: do you. Do you fuckn ever lose your composure? How do you do it.

Carlisle: sometimes. In the right scenario. The right place.

Post-canon

Nonsexual bondage. Tie charlie up, and just sit with him. By his side. Carlisle is reading. The cool touch of his hand is nice. Charlie is sore, but says nothing. Winces when he goes to sit up, and carisle asks. Then gets… angry? No. something else. “I asked you to tell me if you got uncomfortable. Or in pain. You look in pain.” charlie shrugs. “Nah, im jus’ old.” “Charlie.”

[paskhein]

Kaveh || *Dramatically drapes on his twin.* Wine~?

Random || Always Accepting.

.‎‎ ‎‎‎" ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ An arch here would better support the building's structural integrity, but then there would be an even number of them...That doesn't seem like the most artistic approach to such a problem. Perhaps I should- " The sudden weight of someone draping their form against his hunched-over body broke the architect from his droning, vocal monologue. With a jolt, he gripped his pen tightly before exhaling soft and slow, a chuckle bubbling out at the end. " Wine? Why, I couldn't agree more, " he hummed, turning his visage to the side so he could give his twin a grin, all but forgetting the oh-so-important project he was to be working on. Sparkling like the desert sand, his cheeks glowed in the lamplight thanks to his natural complexion and the addition of glitter-laden foundation covering the low-hanging wrinkle of exertion darkening his undereye. Always one to cover his imperfections, Kaveh had to make sure he looked his finest for anyone paying him an impromptu visit...

. This seemed to include his twin. " White or red ? I'm more partial to something that will pair well with our dinner tonight. I came in contact with a reputable butcher just yesterday who gave me the most wonderful discount on a fine cut of beef. With that information, I do think we should choose something red. Perhaps a pinot noir? " Don't ask how he was able to afford the wine, too. A lot of favors to repay, that's all you had to know.

Grazie.

[frederickabberline]

Where are the visibly elderly reapers,

[thequillandscreen]

The Dressing Room Scene Part 2!! YOHAN DOES GAON’S TIE. ROBBED AGAIN! (from the officially-released script!)

Interestingly Gaon doesn’t wear the watch in this scene! Then when did he start wearing it??

Gaon (like he’s annoyed) Yes, yes. (He places the suit near him, turns around and start to remove his pants, then turns to Yohan with an awkward expression.) Uh, so I...

Yohan: (Laughs aloud and turns around) beol (my note: used in the sense of: this is not a big deal)

Gaon: (Immediately switches his pants first, then quickly removes his shirt and puts on the dress shirt).

Yohan: The wound’s healed up.

Gaon: (Putting on the buttons) Eh? (He turns to find Yohan with his arms crossed, the wardrobe’s mirror in front of him. He frowns for a second, then puts on the necktie haphazardly and then the rest of the suit) Happy now?

Yohan: (Looks at Gaon from head to toe, then strides to him, takes his messy-done tie and slooowly tightens it up). It suits you, surprisingly. 

Gaon: (shrugs) Because I’m still young. Unlike someone. 

Yohan: What?”

Elijah: Oi, ahjusshi

Yohan: (turns to her in a flash)

Elijah: Don’t get argumentative over it. Ahjusshi and oppa are different.

Yohan: (pretty loudly) You!

Elijah: (Wheels away)

Gaon: (laughing out loud) Elijah~ Have you eaten? (Follows Elijah)

Yohan: (Fiddles with the watch he gave Gaon with an angry expression) This! (Goes into the closet and beholds his luminous face. Looks carefully at his undereye wrinkles and grumbles) What about this is an ahjusshi?

[the-witty-pen-name]

The Nanny Pt. 3

Lee Bodecker x Nanny!F!Reader

18+

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: alcohol/drinking, food, corrupt cop, mentions of prostitution/smut, implied age gap (reader is in her 20s), cursing, mentions of serial killers/murder, mutual pining, 

Summary:

Based on this Request: The reader moves to Meade/Knockemstiff while answering an advertisement for a nanny in the paper. We learn that the ad was posted by Sandy, who has the reader watch her child whenever she and Carl leave to do their secret thing. After one of these trips, Sandy and her husband never return, so the reader is left caring for their baby. With the new investigation into these events, she meets Sandy’s brother Lee, the older, out of shape, alcoholic bachelor, and they are suddenly thrown into each others lives as he begins looking into his sister’s disappearance. Through it all, Lee starts to fall for her, and they slowly become a family.

A/N: I got inspired re-watching one of my favorite shows and I want to know if anyone else gets the reference I’m using! If I missed anything I should include as a warning that I missed please let me know! This is also unedited!

Taglist Form is in my bio!

Series Masterlist

Your shoulders tensed listening to the radio in the morning. Sitting on your ottoman, you were painting your nails, using the coffee table as your nail station. It was a really bright morning, and you had the curtains pulled open to draw in light. Julie frantically rushed between her room and the bathroom getting ready for her shift at the diner. The newest single from The Beach Boys was playing through the little counter top radio, but at the top of the hour, the melodies playing through the speaker changed to the news. The top story of the morning was chilling.

“Jules,” you said, calling her over hesitantly, putting the cap back on the bottle of polish. “Come listen to this.”

She scurried out of her room while working to tie her apron in the back, and then she stood next to where you sat to listen to the story on the news. The color drained from her face as you both listened to the reporter describe the horrific scene that was under investigation early this morning.

Roy Laferty was an evangelical preacher whose body washed up by the lake very early that same morning. The news report talked about the police investigation, and also disclosed his wife Helen, is also reported missing. They are looking into the disappearance of Helen, as well as opening a full investigation on Laferty’s murder. They also urge individuals with any information regarding the two to call the Sheriff’s department and to provide a statement.

“That’s horrifying,” you mumble, shocked as you try to process the news. Julie nods in agreement but strangely doesn’t seem nearly as affected by the news as you.

“It’s happening again,” she mutters, obviously concerned but her lack of surprise worries you.

“What do you mean again?” you ask.

“There was a string of unexplained murders, all men, like this newest one,” Julie explained, “This was all over the news like two years ago- can’t believe you hadn’t heard about it.” All you could do was shrug; this was all new to you. “Obviously, there was nothing linking their deaths, but there were these five killings a couple of years ago that are still unsolved. There’s no evidence, but the town rumors it was like a serial killer or something. Nothing is confirmed, of course, just a story.”

“What makes people think it was all the same person?” you ask, hesitantly.

“All the people were always the same type,” she shrugs, “Men all in their 20s and 30s. Again, there’s nothing linking them all together. It’s just talk.”

You clicked off the radio, and didn’t know what to do with yourself. Julie patted your shoulder, comfortingly but she had to go on with her day. So did you, and you almost her ability to move about the apartment almost unfazed by the news. You suppose it makes sense, her growing up here she’s probably used to it. You didn’t have the experience or the thick skin she had.

You had decided to go to the library, still preoccupied by the news segment as well as the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff. You spent the better half of the morning looking at the library’s archives of old newspapers. You wanted to read more about the unsolved cases Julie had told you about, so there you sat for several hours looking through the microfilm reader. You even stumbled upon articles that featured the Sheriff.

There he was plain as day on the front page when it was announced he had won the election the first time he ran several years back. You couldn’t help but notice the changes in his appearance and demeanor compared to the man you keep running into. He was a little slimmer, and he looked a lot happier, a little fuller of life, you decided was a good way to explain it. His smile was wider, and you could see the difference in his eyes as well. It was seeing how he was before the stress of the job began to take its heavy toll. He had on the same leather jacket as well, you were fairly certain, even though the one in the photograph hung a little looser.

You continued to skim through articles, piecing your way through the history of Knockemstiff. Little articles in black and white that persevered the history of this dark little town. You were beginning to realize this backwater town was a lot more tangled and complex than you originally believed. It was a tangled history, riddled with crime and unclosed cases, that people seem to have either forgotten or choose to ignore for their own sake. Your mind wandered back to the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff and him being corrupt. You wonder how much of what you read about linked back to him. Though you imagine if he has any sort of political connection, which a man like him must have, the things he was involved in probably didn’t even make it into the paper. The thought made you physically shiver.

You put the large leather portfolios of archives you took and put them back into their proper place on the self chronologically. You grabbed your sweater from the back of your chair, and pushed the chair back into place. Looking up at the clock on the wall, it was only just one in the afternoon. You decided to head down to the diner and grab a bite, and also visit Julie during her second shift. It was a short walk from the library to the diner. Everywhere felt like a short walk here, probably because everything in downtown was not much bigger than a few blocks. The majority of people lived far from the center of town, on their own land and farms.

The little bell on the door rang when you stepped in and Julie waved at you from behind the counter and pointed for you to grab an empty table in her section. You put your bag on the table and took a seat. It was a fairly busy time, most people who worked at the surrounding businesses coming in for their lunch break. Julie brought you over a coffee and then said she’d be back to chat when she got to take her five.

Lee hadn’t been able to go home since the phone call. The symptoms of his hangover were worsening and he was growing more irritable. His five o’clock shadow was still evident on his tired face and his head was pounding. He tried his best to just power through it but the sound of anyone trying to talk to him just made his ears ring.

After leaving the scene, he had to stop by his office and then he was on the phone for the better part of an hour fielding calls from frantic citizens not only of Knockemstiff but also Meade, where Laferty was from. Despite how horribly he felt, he tried his best to keep his temper level and just reassure people he had things under control. He was losing his patience.

He opened up his desk drawer and grabbed his bottle of asprin. Empty. He threw it into the small waste bin and got up abruptly grabbing his jacket off the hook and storming out. He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving and he didn’t care. It was a short walk to the drugstore from the station and he wouldn’t be five minutes. He just needed to do something to stop his head from hurting.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the pharmacist greeted when he walked in. He nodded his head upwards briefly to reply without having to talk. He just needed to get in and out. She went back to whatever she was working on when he came in, and he browsed the aisles for what he needed. After paying and walking out, he glanced in the direction of the diner when he was crossing the street. There you were, again. Sitting alone and chatting with the waitress that was refilling your coffee.

He let out a heavy sigh, and then continued walking. He didn’t want you to see him like this, hungover, unshaved, wrinkled uniform and heavy undereye bags from his lack of sleep. You looked- well, Lee thought you were the prettiest thing he’s seen in a while, maybe ever. There was something about you he couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe it was just because you weren’t from here. You were a fresh face, and not ruined by this town. There was a sweetness and an innocence in how you talked to him, because you didn’t know him like the rest of people here did. He liked that.

Even when he left the station for the day, he couldn’t even go home yet. He had a meeting at the bar with one of Brown’s lackeys. He was just supposed to collect his cut so he couldn’t imagine it would take long, but he was still annoyed. Stepping into the bar he looked around as he took off his hat. It was a little more crowded tonight then when he was here last. The red curtain was closed and his eyes lingered there for a moment before directing his attention to the man he recognized who was waving him over.

“Sheriff,” the man greets and Lee slides into the booth across from him.

“Hayward,” he replies. Without even needing to order, the bartender comes over bringing them a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

“You ever go back there?” Hayward asks, watching as a girl came out and brought a man behind the curtain who had been waiting at the bar.

“No,” Lee scoffs.

“They are amazing,” Hayward says, almost giddy. Lee feels sympathy towards the poor woman who had to take care of him. Lee doesn’t acknowledge the statement and just empties his glass and begins to pour himself a second.

“So, my cut?” Lee asks. Hayward frowns and goes into the breast pocket of his sports coat and pulls out an envelope of cash.

“You aren’t getting full,” the man says when Lee cocks a brow at the thinness of the envelope.

“Still?” Lee asks, pissed. Hayward nods. Lee’s jaw clenches.

“You didn’t keep things tidy on your end,” Hayward reminds him, “You got one job. Keep the cops out of our territory. We had two cruisers drive through last week. The only reason you’re getting anything at all is cause you managed to keep your people off us when we did the exchange with Deckard’s crew.”

The man finishes his drink, and then slaps the empty glass on the table. He pulls out his own envelope, which is much thicker than Lee’s and drops down more than enough for the drinks. He chuckles condescendingly and tells the Sheriff to get a dance. Fuck that. Lee takes the extra money and plans to just put it right in his pocket and go home. He finishes his third scotch and suddenly his headache was back. He felt worse than he did earlier today.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” a feminine voice asks, making him break his line of thought. He looks to his side and he recognizes her as one of the girls he sees bringing men to the back room, behind the velvet curtain. He shakes his head, and instead of leaving him alone, she slides into the booth next to him. Her hand grazes over his thigh. “You seem awful tense, Sheriff,” she says and then bites her lip.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. He knows she doesn’t actually want him, and it’s just an attempt to get him to spend money in the backroom. If he doesn’t focus his already hazing vision, maybe she could vaguely remind him of you. He can’t do it, but he wants to. Her hand moves up his leg and he pulls away. He adjusts his pants and she shrugs.

“Maybe next time then,” she winks before walking away. He rests his head back on the vinyl seat and sighs. He grabs his hat and jacket, leaving before he changes his mind. “Ask for Cherry when you come in, yeah?” she calls when he walks out.

You are just everywhere. You’re in his head and he doesn’t even know you. He needs to sleep, desperately, and part of him in the back of his mind hopes you’ll be there. When he wakes up, he doesn’t remember.

“Have you heard about the Church fundraiser coming up?” Julie asks. You shake your head. “It’s a pretty big deal here. Everyone participates.”

“What is it?” you ask, kicking off your slippers so you can sit crisscross on the couch.

“Bid-On-A-Basket,” she says casually, like it’s the most obvious thing.

“Never heard of it,” you reply, “It sounds fun. What is it?”

“All us single gals put together a picnic basket with everything for a lunch,” she explains, “and then all the eligible bachelors bid on the basket and a date with the girl who made it. Last year, the dreamiest guy, Bill Whittier, bought mine- it’s so fun. Me and Bill didn’t work out but it was a good time.”

“I don’t know anyone here,” you say hesitantly.

“Perfect way to get a date then,” she teases. You bite your lip. You aren’t sure about this.

“And what if some creep is the highest bidder?” you counter.

“You get a bad date story for your next date?” she poses. “Please,” she begs, “It’s for a good cause, all the money this year is going to help the Sunday school.”

“What if no one bids on it?” You rebut.

“Look at yourself,” she scoffs, “you’ll get bids. Trust me.” You roll your eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally. She smirks, completely planning to wear you down.

“Remember it’s for the kids,” she reasons, “It wouldn’t hurt to go and participate.”

“I said I’ll think about it,” you laugh.

Time passes and soon enough you get another call from Sandy, and you are suddenly back to taking care of Valerie. You had missed her, a lot actually. You definitely have gotten attached to her, and you think you’ve grown on her too. Sandy was vague this time for how long they’d be gone, but since the previous time went so smoothly, you didn’t worry about it.

About a week after Sandy and Carl left this time, there was another disturbing news report. You were sitting on the floor, changing Valerie and you had the television playing softly in the background. The news told the story of another body, this time found in the woods off of the highway. You finish changing the baby and hold her close, her little chin resting on your shoulder as you watch the news story. It was just like Julie had talked about. Another man, thirty years old. He was shot and his body abandoned. You jump at the knock at the front door.

You peep through the curtains, and you see the Sheriff waiting on the front porch. You wonder if he knows you’re there. Part of you almost wishes he knows it you here and he wanted to see you. It’s incredibly stupid on your part and you know better, but nonetheless, part of you hoped he came here for you. Very stupid. With Valerie on your hip, you open the door.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he says walking into the house. He stops in front of you and presses a kiss to Valerie’s forehead and she squeals happily seeing Lee. You close the door with your foot. “May I?” he asks, and opens his arms. You agree, based on Valerie’s reactions to him whenever she sees him. He takes her in his arms, and she starts playing with his tie. He loosens it so she can play with it and not choke him.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” you ask. He reacts in a way in a way you can’t really read, but you don’t press.

His mind just goes back to the woman a couple weeks back in the brothel who asked him the same thing, and that his mind immediately had gone to you. He just clears his throat and snaps himself out of that thought process.

“Um, I just came by to see Sandy,” he says, “But I can fathom a guess that she’s not here?”

“Excellent deduction,” you joke, and he smirks. Valerie has his tie in her mouth and is covering it in drool. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you nod. “You looked a little scared when you answered.”

“Just watching the news before you showed up is all,” you explain, “They were talking about how there was another man found dead.”

“Ain’t got nothing to worry about,” he says, “We’re on top of it. I’m on my way over there now.”

“Can I ask you something?” you ask hesitantly.

“Of course, darling.”

“My friend, you probably know her- Julie Grady.”

“Yeah, nice kid,” he says, listening but gently pulling his tie from Valerie’s grasp. She starts playing with the flap of the pocket of his jacket.

Kid. You almost grimace. That’s right. Of course, Lee would view someone your age that way. You weren’t. You chastise yourself for even caring, but you decide to continue. You shouldn’t care how he sees you.

“Yeah- well, she told me there have been others,” you continue, “I also read up about it, just the newspapers at the library- but she said people thought it was some kind of serial killer… I just, I want to know what you think.”

“I don’t think know,” he answers honestly, a little taken aback, not expecting you to approach him with something this serious. “I doubt it,” he explains, “Serial killers stay close to home. Now those cases you read about, and these two we are looking at- they sound close together but logistically, they aren’t really. Two of those unsolved were in completely different states- just like this new one.”

“So, no traveling serial killer?” you chuckle, trying to sound lighthearted. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“Most people like that stay in one area,” Lee explains, “They work jobs, they have a home, you know? They tend to stay near where they live.”

“That makes me feel much better,” you answer honestly.

“You got nothing to worry about, and that’s a promise,” he grins, although he supposes coming from him that probably doesn’t mean much. Regardless, it makes you smile.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” you offer again. He bites his lip, taking a moment to think.

“Sandy keeps a bag of candy in her cabinet,” he says, walking into the kitchen with you following close behind. He passes Valerie off to you and he chuckles under his breath at the state of his tie. He reaches up in the cabinet and pulls down a brown paper bag, filled with taffies and chocolates.

Something about this man who has a whole time scared of him playing with his niece and then stealing sweets from the cupboard is something you find so strangely endearing. He unwraps one of the brightly colored taffies and then puts the bag in his pocket.

“I gotta go,” he announces, “let me know if you hear from Sandy, yeah?”

“Of course,” you reply.

“Gonna head out to that scene, and do my report,” he discloses, not really sure why he’s telling you. “Then I have a meeting at the rectory about that fundraiser thing. Figure out security.”

“They need security at Bid-On-A-Basket?” you ask, with an eyebrow raised. He smiles.

“You going?” he asks, flirtatiously.

“Just seems weird to have police at a Church thing.”

“There’s been stupid fights,” he shrugs, “some guy will get outbid and cause a fuss. Nothing serious. Probably just gonna be me and a deputy in case. You going?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” you say sheepishly. “Why?”

He walks towards the front door, and you follow seeing him out.

“Cause I gotta know if I’ll be bidding on a basket,” he winks.

“You gonna start a fight if you don’t win it?” you joke.

“If it’s yours? Absolutely, darling.”

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[aenaxes-moved]

hi🥺 could i request some wolfee fluff

yes you can! here's some wolffe r&r

warnings: none

w/c: 0.8k

a/n: requests will be open throughout the summer! feel free to drop by anytime

“Twenty minutes?”

The usual rich, unwavering timbre of authority and complete control of Wolffe’s voice is instead replaced with a strained half-whine half-plea as he squeezes his eyes shut. Brought low by, of all things, a sheet mask.

“You have to keep it on for twenty minutes,” you affirm from the bedside as you crumple the sheet mask sachet into your palm, squeezing out what dregs of watery serum remain into your hand. As artfully as you possibly can, you scoop a generous heap of the fragrant gel with your fingertips and smear it into the thin sheet pressed over Wolffe’s skin. “Corvis has the comms and Sinker and Wildfire are doing your paperwork, so you, commander, are stuck with me.”

“And I have to stay still the whole time,” he repeats flatly.

“Unless you want serum on your blacks. And stop scrunching; you’ll get wrinkles.” You reach up to the crease between his brows, rubbing insistently until he relaxes and peeks up at you with an uncertain expression.

“Y/n I feel like a corpse,” Wolffe mutters. And to some extent, he is right, lying ramrod straight on his back with his hands clasped at his navel, stone-still save for the occasional restless twitch of his fingers. But he’s also being dramatic (oh woe, relaxation).

“Lucky corpse,” you quip, trailing your fingers over the bridge of his nose to smooth over the dark lines of exhaustion etched into the skin of his undereyes. “I’m pretty sure most living people never get to try Corellian heartleaf extract, much less corpses.”

For all his restless graces, you don’t miss how his cheeks twitch at your remark in a floundering attempt to smother the smile under your touch. He looks a bit silly, his eyes and mouth bordered by a stark ring of white silk and gleaming almost comically under the thick layer of serum. But it’s easy to look past the spectacle; you can still make out the proud line of his jaw, his dark lashes, and the somewhat artificial distress in his deep brown eyes as you feel him shiver delightfully under your touch.

Still handsome, you think as you massage your fingertips over his temples, but just a little silly.

“You think I look ridiculous, don’t you,” Wolffe mumbles, grimacing when you laugh.

“Just a little bit,” you admit, and you laugh a bit brighter when Wolffe rolls his eyes. “But it’s cute. You’re cute. Your skin’s going to look fantastic tomorrow, too.”

“Cyar’ika,” Wolffe huffs, the unmistakable lilt of laughter lifting his tone. “Aren’t I usually the one calling you cute?”

“I’m just calling it how I see it,” you smile, and the warmth in your chest blooms with fluttering strength anew when you open your eyes to catch Wolffe’s gaze, soft ease and fond (reluctant) admission that maybe the whole song and dance of skincare was nice after all. It’s that kind of expectant look, as close to pleading puppydog eyes as humanly possible over Wolffe’s near perpetual scowl, but it’s your sure signal that the good commander’s last defenses have been lowered: that you’re not only welcome but very much anticipated.

You take your invitation like a prize and lean down to press a quick kiss over Wolffe’s lips, careful and chaste so not to smear mask gel over you, too.

But it’s not enough, one kiss is never enough, and you lean down over his bedside again, capturing Wolffe’s lips with yours. You tilt your head, murmuring happily into his touch, and you’re so enthralled by this, by him, that you can only vaguely register the weight curling at the base of your neck as the commander’s hand cupped over your skin and pulling you closer.

You only pull away, yelping at the sudden shock of cool gel on your skin when you eagerly press a bit too close and brush up against the mask over Wolffe’s nose. You certainly hadn’t intended it, but it’s cheesy and sweet and it has Wolffe's eyes fluttering shut as he laughs softly, the burdens and obligations of today and tomorrow far out of your mind’s eye. It’s the little things, you concede, and you dip close for one last kiss.

“Cute,” Wolffe muses dark eyes deep and warm, and you realize the only downside to sheet masks is that you can’t jump his bones at that very moment without putting to waste your handiwork. You touch the tip of your nose to Wolffe’s, and his low chuckle resonates through your chest.

“Hey, y/n!” Boost calls into the barracks, Warthog and Comet in tow, and you hastily sit upright, wiping the mask gel from your nose as you catch the boys tossing their buckets onto their bunks. “Can we get one too?”

You open your mouth to tell him there’s plenty to go around, more than happy to pamper the good brothers of your beloved battalion. But Wolffe is faster.

“Not a chance,” Wolffe calls out.

“Wolffe,” you protest, seeing how his brothers suddenly stiffen and exchange awkward glances among themselves. You’re ready to rally the boys to your defense of a batallion spa day when you feel his arm loop around your waist, tugging you close.

“Not until my twenty minutes are up.”

[potatowitch]

Hey tater! For dadwc, maybe Anders & the Warden-Commander: “i know you can handle it yourself, but it doesn’t mean you should have to do this on your own."

Hiya! I loved this prompt - have some hurt/comfort between Anders and the Warden-Commander (I used my Mahariel, Lyna)

@dadrunkwriting

Anders chokes on a gasp as he crashes back to consciousness, sitting up in his narrow bedroll. His skin crawls with the memory of an endless horde and a gaping maw and the sensation of freefalling and suffocating at the same time, and he presses his hand against his chest, trying to calm his racing heart.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the sounds outside his tent - the crackling of the campfire, the chirps and trills of the wildlife, Oghren’s snoring. It does little to ease the nausea roiling in his gut, and with a frustrated groan his eyes snap back open. In the dim light of the tent, he pushes his belongings aside until he finds a shirt to pull on. His scrabbling disturbs Pounce, who wakes with a soft “mrrp?” and a big stretch. He sleepily follows Anders out of the tent.

The grass crunches softly under Anders’ bare feet as he rubs his eyes, trying to adjust to the light of the fire. The Commander is on watch, and for a second she doesn’t seem to notice Anders, staring at the flames with her arms hugging her knees. In the firelight, Anders can see every wrinkle and scar on her freckled face; her drawn brows, her dark undereyes. For a moment, she looks every bit like a veteran of the Blight. Sometimes Anders forgets she’s almost a decade younger than he is.

“You look like shit,” she murmurs, not looking away from the fire. Anders doesn’t know how she can tell, since she hasn’t even looked at him yet.

“Good morning to you too,” he mutters, padding over to sit beside her. Pounce follows him, trotting over to bonk his head against Mahariel’s knee. She smiles almost imperceptibly as she scratches behind his ear. “See anything interesting in that fire?”

“Oh, you know. Death, destruction, my destiny of dying in the Deep Roads. The usual fun stuff.”

Anders snorts, and Mahariel turns to look at him, cocking her head to one side. Her expression is neutral, but there’s something behind her eyes that tells Anders she’s feigning.

“Nightmares?” she asks, her tone light, conversational, as if she were asking him how he felt about the weather. Anders turns away, unable to meet her eyes. He trusts Mahariel, he does - in the few months they’ve known each other, she’s defended him on numerous occasions with a ferocity he doesn’t believe he’s worthy of - but she has this eerie habit of seeing right through any fronts a person could put up. Anders can’t hide from her. She never pushes, but she knows, and Anders knows that she knows.

It’s terrifying. It reminds him of Karl, and the way he’d look at Anders when he knew he was lying.

Anders shakes his head to dislodge that thought and sighs. “Yeah,” he says.

“Are you alright?”

He snorts. “I can handle a nightmare, Commander. I’m a big boy.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her open her mouth to respond, but she’s interrupted by an especially loud snore coming from Oghren’s tent and Nathaniel’s responding groan as he’s woken up. Mahariel rolls her eyes, and after a moment she tries again.

“I know you can handle it,” she says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do this alone. If you need anything, you only have to ask.”

Anders huffs, and he leans his head to the side until it rests on Mahariel’s shoulder. He reaches over to where Pounce has curled up in her lap, and starts scratching behind his other ear. “How in Andraste’s name did you get so good at this? At reading people. Knowing what they need.”

She snorts, and rests her cheek against his head. “Lots and lots of practice. And you’re not as good at pretending as you think you are.”

“I resent that.”

He can feel her smile against his hair. “How unfortunate.”

[kyber-queen]

Like Real People Do (Rex x Reader) Pt. 3

Summary: Jedi!reader and Rex fall in love but are separated by the war. They meet again two years later, weeks before the Siege of Mandalore. In this chapter, Rex and Reader are prepping for a mission on an outer rim planet. Some fluff, slight angst, Rex gets to use a lightsaber because I say so. Italics signify a flashback in this fic. 

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Mentions of children/family planning ??, insecure Rex, k*sses, mentions of blasters n violence against droids, mentions of alcohol

Author’s Note: I’m not gonna lie this is probably my favorite chapter yet. It’s a little longer, but I think it’s worth it :) Likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!

Previous | Next

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After your less than satisfying encounter in the maintenance closet, you had made an early retirement to your quarters to sulk. You slept, but your dreams were ridden with visions of a certain bleach-blond captain. You awoke the next morning ill-rested and heartsick.

You showed up late to your first tactical meeting with the upper ranks of the 501st in a disgruntled mess of dark undereyes and wrinkled robes. If Rex noticed your sleep-deprived state, he made no mention of it. You had positioned yourself strategically in the back of the room, precisely so if you peeked between the admirals, you could clearly see Rex discussing troop formations with General Skywalker. His structured brow was furrowed, and you noted the way he gestured at the maps as he made his point. He was so much more confident now, so much more self-assured than that often-anxious shiny you remembered from training drills two years ago. Maybe that was why he gave you the cold shoulder yesterday—had he outgrown you? Two years was a long time, especially during a war. Did he find someone new? Your heart burned at the thought. You hadn’t even tried to move on—at times, at your lowest points, you considered it, but you never gave up on him. You had broken your code for him. You had broken it every day since you met him, and yet here he was, the picture of cordial indifference. You were attached, deeply and painfully. Did he still care about you?

“Commander, I can hear your gears turning—any input?” Skywalker looked at you expectantly.

You eased your tired features into a placating smile. “Looks good to me, General,”.

“Perfect. Rex, you’ll go with the commander. I want you two waiting just outside the village. The Separatists should arrive within around two hours of landing. Comm me when you see the Separatist forces coming, and you guys cut down as many of the first wave as possible. I’ll circle around with the rest of the 501st and we’ll finish off the rest from behind. All clear?”

You nod in assent as Rex answers with a decisive, “Yes, sir,”.

***

Rex was going to have to have a conversation with his general after this. Your very first mission with the 501st, and Skywalker had paired you with Rex on a glorified stakeout of all things. Rex was pissed. He had decided as soon as he found out you would be consulting with the 501st that he would keep his distance. He knew it wasn’t your fault that you hadn’t seen each other in years—war makes love near impossible. He was more upset with himself for falling for a Jedi. It was against the law for either of you to have an attachment to each other. Rex had fallen in love, and it was a stupid, shitty idea. He had spent the better part of two years trying to bury his memories of you, and just as he was beginning to succeed, here you were creeping back into his mind. Just the sight of you threw him back to two years ago—back when he was really, truly happy. Rex was built for war, nothing more. The problem with you was that being with you made him think otherwise. When you were together, you would always talk about ‘after the war’. Rex knew that as a clone, there really wouldn’t be an after. You, with your altruism and soft smiles and gentle touches were everything Rex didn’t need.

Rex walked to the pod that would take the pair of you to the Separatist-threatened planet. You were already seated. You thumbed the grip of your lightsaber, and Rex recognized the gesture—it was a habit whenever you were nervous. His eyes were locked on you, debating whether or not he should say something despite his earlier promise to not get involved. You broke the silence for him.

“I can feel you staring, Rex. Talk to me,”.

You could always tell what he was thinking. As your friendship first blossomed, it unnerved him, but as your paths intertwined more and more he found it a comfort to have you understand him so well without him even saying a word. Rex met your eyes, and his stomach clenched. You were still so beautiful. He looked away

“Just thinking about the campaign, sir,”.

Your heart ached. Every bone in your body was screaming, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,” and yet he called you sir. He addressed you as a superior, another link in the chain of command. He really had moved on, hadn’t he? You bit your lip, the sharp pain of your teeth against the tender skin attempting to draw your attention away from your torturous thoughts. You had a mission to complete. You peeked out the porthole, and you saw the terrain approaching far faster than normal.

You landed with a crash. You were jostled from your seat, your head smacking the metal wall painfully. As the ringing in your skull crescendoed, you took stock of your darkened surroundings through your blurred vision. The lighting in the pod must have been damaged during your landing. You ignited your lightsaber, illuminating Rex with its soft glow. He stood up and rolled his shoulder experimentally, his nose scrunching in pain.

Your brows furrowed, “Are you alright?’

“I’m fine,” He grunted. He felt his way along the walls. “Exit’s been jammed shut, though,”

You searched his eyes in the dim lighting, another pang of longing reverberating through your chest. You dismissed the sensation and plunged your lightsaber into the wall of the pod, freeing yourselves. You emerged from the battered pod, your head pounding as your eyes adjusted. It was bright, with the triad suns beating down on you relentlessly. You checked your positioning system—you had landed a mere 15-minute walk from your stakeout site. You watched as Rex eased himself out of the pod. He groaned, his hand cradling his right arm. You handed him his positioning chip, and the two of you set off towards the village outskirts.

You noticed his hand lingered on his right shoulder, and he would grimace from time to time when it jostled. You reached your hand out to his plastoid-covered shoulder. “Rex, let me—”

“I’m fine,”.

His tone was sharp and dangerous, affecting you like a slap to the face. You sucked in a breath, and walked the rest of the path in silence. The planet was beautiful—you were surrounded on all sides by strange golden grasses that swayed with the breeze. Its beauty did nothing to distract you from the man by your side.

You arrived at the meeting point and immediately settled yourself against the large boulder meant as your cover. Rex sat across from you, leaning against a smaller rock. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes for a moment and swallowing thickly. You traced the sharp line of his jaw with your eyes, following down to the thick cords of muscle in his neck. You contemplated another attempt at offering him some bacta spray, but considering his earlier response, decided against it. When did Skywalker say the Separatists would arrive? Two hours?

You spent around an hour in silence. You meditated, as General Secura had taught you. Time moved thickly around you, your aura burning bright as it cut through the hours and seconds. With your deep focus came little flashes of memories.

You saw Rex, smiling. His golden skin was warm against the soft sheets. His thumb traced the apple of your cheek. You grinned.

“What do you want to do, Rex? After this is all over?”

He paused, his hand resting heavy on your jaw. “I don’t know, cyare. Guess I never really thought about it,”. His eyes flicked over your gentle smile and bright eyes. “I’d wanna be with you, though,” he whispered. You’re everything he could ever want. He’d never loved anything so much, and he knew he’d never love anyone else the way he loved you. What the hell did he do to deserve you? “What about you?”

“My parents—I barely remember them now—had a house on Naboo. We could live there, just us. No war, no fighting. It’s so beautiful there, Rex. The grass is long and tall—as a child, I’d play outside for hours just soaking up the sunlight. It’s a good place for raising children,”. Your face heated as you said the last part.

“Raising children, eh?” Rex tilted your chin, and you lifted your gaze to his eyes. You nodded slowly. “With me?” His eyes shone in the morning sunlight, his brow furrowed.

“Yes, Rex. Who else?” Rex’s expression eased, and you pressed your lips to each of his cheeks, followed by a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. Rex sighed contentedly. He had no clue why you were with a shiny like him—he was one of a million genetically and physically identical men. He was sure that eventually you’d realize just how much better you could do than a clone, but until that day he’d savor every precious moment with you.

“You’re gonna be a great parent, one day, cyar’ika,”.

“You will, too, Rex,”.

You jolted out of your trance. It was just your luck that Rex had infiltrated the one escape you had from your relentless thoughts of him. You opened your eyes to find him studying your face. He averted his gaze quickly.

“Rex,” you called.

He fiddled with the straps of his armor.

“Rex,”.

He dropped his hands to his sides with a harsh sigh. “Would you just stop it?”

You were stunned. “Rex, I—”

“I spent two fucking years trying to forget I ever loved you. I was nothing, I was nobody, and you were this—this ideal being. I had no fucking clue why you gave me the time of day, but I let myself fall for you anyway. When we left for our tours, I broke. You were the first real thing, the first good thing I ever had, and you were gone. I was sure I was gonna die over there—and you wouldn’t have even known if I had. It was so much easier to believe that you had moved on, that you were through with me. Now you’re here and you’re alive and I—” his voice broke, “I don’t know what to do,”. He met your gaze, and his eyes glistened. His voice was barely a whisper, “You were always the rational one. Please tell me what to do,”.

Your wide eyes watered. You turned your head to the golden fields and let out a tiny sob. What the hell do you answer to that? Just as you opened your mouth to speak, you spotted what seemed to be a thousand metal heads just over a rolling hill. The separatists. You hastily wiped your eyes and took a deep breath. This would have to wait.

“The Separatists are here,” your voice wavered more than you would have liked. “I’ll comm the General,”. You sniffed, rubbing your eyes again. Get it together, you thought. You were a Jedi Master, for gods’ sake. Ever since returning to Coruscant, you’d been an emotional trainwreck. You were starting to see why the council discouraged attachments.

You allowed Rex a moment to collect himself, turning to face the oncoming droids as the two of you prepared in silence. The metallic clang of their footsteps grew louder and louder. Rex slipped his helmet back on over his head and unholstered his blasters.

“It’s your call, Commander. When d’ya wanna go?”

You looked back over your shoulder at him, and you were instantly thrown back to the hours of training exercises you had completed together. You grinned.

“Think you can take down the battle tank over there?” You motioned to the gargantuan hunk of steel situated right in the middle of a sea of battle droids.

The competitive edge you had so dearly missed was back in Rex’s voice.

“You know I never miss,”.

“Race you there,”. And with that, you were off. The two of you flew down the hill, cutting down the droids as if they were made of straw. You swung, decapitating a droid and ducking as Rex put a blaster hole through the one taking aim at you from behind. You worked well together, always did. The rest of the 501st seemed to be making easy work of the droids from behind.

“Rex, blaster!”

Rex tossed one of his blasters into the air, and you force-pulled it into your grasp in an instant. You fired off three quick shots at one of the tanks, damaging the traction treads. Rex looked over at the tank, and recognized the maneuver you had initiated in an instant. He took off for the tank, and called your name once he was just yards from its base.

“Saber!”

You switched off your saber and hurled it in Rex’s direction. He had barreled past at least ten lines of troops, snatching your lightsaber from the air before igniting it and plunging it into the battle tank’s generator while simultaneously firing off a few rapid shots at the droids. The droids’ main attention, as planned, was on you, and you were beginning to feel the heat. You force-pulled your lightsaber, still ignited, from Rex’s grasp and into a line of battle droids before its heavy weight met your palm again.

“Blaster!”

You tossed Rex his blaster, and he caught it with ease. With your lightsaber in hand, you began cutting a path to Rex, who had holed up against the decommissioned tank.

“Need to get me one of those,” Rex motioned to your lightsaber with a grin.

You shook your head with a laugh, deflecting a blaster shot as Rex took aim at the next line of droids.

It was your fault. You got distracted. Something about the focus in Rex’s masked stare as he picked off the droids one-by-one pulled your attention away just long enough for one of the droids to press the cool metal of its blaster against your neck. Before you could react, Rex fired two quick shots into its head.

“Told you, cyare, I never miss,”.

You missed this. The nicknames, the banter, working together like this. It felt good. It felt like coming home. You snuck one last glance at Rex before sprinting out from your cover to cut down the next row of droids.

Rex was fucked. Did you realize he called you cyare? It just slipped out—something about being here with you, fighting next to you—it brought him back to two years ago. He shook his head, firing at a droid that had pointed its blaster at you. He was done with pretending he didn’t care. He still had no idea what to do, or where this would go, but he could figure that out later.

You finished off the last droid, looking back at Rex with an easy smile before waving to General Skywalker. Rex jogged over to you, pulling you back behind the tank and away from the prying eyes of the rest of the 501st.

“Rex, wha—”

He ripped off his helmet, letting it fall to the ground as he pulled you into a kiss. His hand fell to the small of your back, and you practically collapsed into him. His lips were hungry against yours—he was all tongue and teeth and desperation. He needed this. You needed this. You raked your nails through his close-cropped hair, drawing a little groan from deep in his chest. His hands were everywhere—your hair, your neck, your waist—

“Rex, where are you? Are you injured?”

For the second time today, Rex was going to kill his general. He pulled away from you reluctantly, his hand lingering on your waist. You take his hand, and press your lips to his palm.

“We should go,”. Rex nods. “Meet me in my quarters tonight—you still like firewhiskey?”

“Rex—are you over here?”

You meet Rex’s eyes, and he smiles. A real smile. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“See you tonight,”.

********************************************

Like Real People Do Taglist: @pinkiemme @callme-eds @dinpoe