#its like a fix-it but like imagine getting put into a perfect world with all the knowledge of ur fuck ups and now being haunted by the

[dykedvonte]

I like to think in the P.E au that Anya and Curly specifically get haunted hard by Jimmy's weird reality crossing guilt manifested.

It's targeting them because Jimmy's guilt grows more around them. The idea of him acting and playing nice despite what he did. It's like a buffet that allows it to pick from their plates.

Anya sees this stagnant version of her, blood from her mouth, clutching her stomach with a bottle of pills in her other hand. She's talking about not being heard, a pixel, relief from a burden. She tries to ask a question and it's never the right one. She's not understanding but in a way, she's getting that this version of her is in pain. She tries to help, extends a hand and asks how she can help, stop it. She stares and there's utter despair and disappointment in her eyes.

What did you do?

Curly sees this burnt mangled thing. But he can't call it that. Even with no skin and chipping teeth, covered in sullied bandages and smelling of death overdue, he can see his face. He can recognized that eye, he stares at it a lot in the mirror, usually a second one is attached but he digresses. They are just watching, staring and unmoving. He asks himself what happened, how can he help and his own retched mangled voice comes out from a empty maw.

I told you.

They have no idea what it really means. They don't know who to tell. Flashes of a life they don't know or maybe a future they haven't lived yet. Perhaps they treat it as their own minds trying to tell them something. They bare that burden themselves and that alone makes it heavier. Plumper. More appetizing to the guilt causing it.

Tragically that guilt is not their own.

[capslocked]

DIPLOMACY

male reader x kim minju

7k words

For those not paying attention - of which there seems to be an increasing number - it’s not that she doesn’t have the pedigree. But just shy of getting into that storied history or into the nitty-gritty of her curriculum vitae, the only thing that really matters is:

"This all seems a little beneath me." 

It’s another day of this. Of you, of her, of trying to gather the mien of someone who isn’t utterly disarmed by Minju’s usual, beautiful, challenging self. Which, let’s be honest, is always an uphill battle.

Minju nearly pouts, flipping through a copy of the dossier idly from the other side of the desk in a gesture that reads both bored and dismissive and every little thing it needs to annoy you.

"Look," you offer up, graciously diplomatic all things considered, "it's about finding the right springboard, to something else more… substantial."

"Or to something else, you know, beneath me." Her red lips turn down ever so slightly. She doesn't seem so interested in playing ball on this one. And, for you, amounts to something of a huge problem.

See, Minju doesn't quite understand how the working world really, actually works. That the carrot that's dangled in front of her is your carrot just as much as it is hers - that you stand to lose out just as badly. That it's both of your asses on the line if things fall apart and Minju's shortsighted insistence to only work those certain roles befitting a name like hers puts that all at risk.

"Maybe you can tell me something,” you start, coming across more curt than you possibly intended - but not by much, “how many of your former cohorts have had their career aspirations line up with reality, Miss Kim?"

“I’m picky, not naive,” she sighs, not missing a beat, and you watch her dark hair cascade gently down her shoulder when she reaches a hand back to unfix her loose ponytail from its hair clip.

“You might see how I can get the two confused.”

“Then spare me the lecture,” says Minju.

Though she says nothing else, an unspoken you already get paid too much for that hangs in the air.

The tricky part is that no matter what else Minju does, her contract has some non-negotiable clauses to them that no talent has before, or will likely get afterwards. Things that cannot be broken. Like the requirement of her making x number of media appearances, and she gets to approve all of them.

Or that her agent's take home comes from a fixed fifteen percent of her gross earnings, with further incentives when her roles hit specific milestones. But with her refusing projects like the ones in the dossier before you, it leaves you in the unenviable position of losing out on your guaranteed fixed income or trying to convince your diva talent to do what it is she ought to be doing.

The truth is that there’s quite a long list of things no one has had the guts to say ‘no’ to yet.

And, well, it's rather simple and obvious when you look at her:

Minju is that particular blend of A-lister gorgeous. The special look that’s all kinds of mesmerizing and magnetizing, in full bloom - that makes you feel like you're suffocating in beauty. Like if she said come here, you would go; the type where a single look is all it takes and then - just like that - she's got your number forever.

Because everything about her is tailored - from her clothes to her perfect porcelain features. And they made her that way for a purpose: to sell records. (Which, that's exactly what they did.) You can hardly blame the people in power over there, wanting what's best, in a position where everyone would kill for a taste, or even just a glimmer of possibility.

"I don't suppose the part of the governor’s neglected wife is capturing your imagination.” You push the dossier closer, and she doesn’t so much as look at it. “It’s this year’s big budget political thriller, a shoo-in for awards.”

“You mean the one who ends up in a lot of very steamy shots on the apartment’s rooftop pool. Maybe I’m mistaken, but you can’t really unshow your tits.”

"This isn't about being above, Miss Kim, it's about being well regarded; it’s about proving you’re easy to work with,” you argue. “We could-"

"Find a better use of my time?" she cuts in, closing the dossier shut. There's a long moment in which she's looking you over, her gaze sizing up every little inch.

"Your big break won't happen just because you ask for it." You grimace a bit, hating to tell it like it is, but not really wanting to just coddle her either. "But listen - we work together, one project at a time - we can build up to it."

Minju crosses her arms with a loud hmph. "And what are you going to do if I decide not to accept these projects?"

There’s enough edge in her voice that it gives you pause.

"If," she says again pointedly, a teasing little grin tugging at her lips.

So - actually, another thing: when you start digging into the details, there’s more problems than just what can be seen at the surface. Which perhaps it’s too reductive, but essentially everything between you and the talent sitting on the other side of your desk is not quite so straightforward. It was never about Minju doing the best she could for either of your careers; it was about Minju making sure her needs were taken care of, no matter what.

Months ago, thanks in part to the way Minju filled out this tiny black excuse of a cocktail dress, and as a compromise of sorts, there’s an uncharacteristic mistake you ended up making. Or two or maybe a couple.

Because there’d been the perfect backdrop - an end of year party, beautiful dresses and suits, lots and lots of champagne, the kind of jovial mood that inspired one drink too many - and then you and her, taking off down one of the hallways, towards the exit.

Of course, you ended up exactly where neither of you should have ever been - where the snow was falling gracefully and melting into the pavement, behind a private accessway at the back of the venue, somewhere dark and dingy and dripping with a smell reminiscent of garbage; somewhere your hands had gripped firm fistfuls of Minju’s waist before you shoved her up against the back of the building. 

In short:

You remember how she gasped when her palms hit the brickwork, how you figured you may as well give her everything she wants.

(So what, it was one time, you hear yourself explaining, mildly repentant, and to say that it’s complicated the matter is a massive fucking understatement.)

In the interest of full disclosure, you tell her, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

"That maybe," she hums, tongue flicking out over her lips before she purses them thoughtfully. "You should persuade me a little better."

"And let’s suppose, I don’t do any of that," you persist.

"It'd be a shame, wouldn't it, having such a promising future cut short so early? If word got out. From such a respectable agency too, of all places. Couldn't live with yourself," Minju remarks, leaning forward on her elbows until her eyes are level with your own. “Come to think of it, it’s the kind of thing that could totally, like, end your career.”

But as she sits there, arching that perfect brow again, you don't feel so good about the whole thing. You take another look at her - which, your mistakes start there, if nowhere else - at the girl that is somehow not the airheaded starlet she’s supposed to be. No, she’s calculating. A rarity, though you do know the type: here’s a girl who just happened to take her brains for granted in the years she was pampered by the industry - the same one that fattened on her only to later spit her out. And that thought, the look of cold intellect in her eyes and the slight upward curl at the corner of her mouth, has you frozen just a bit stiff.

She takes a key card from her clutch, and throws it onto the desk in front of you.

“Minju,” you caution, and there’s a taste of danger on each syllable of her name - more of a warning for yourself than you can conceive of it ever being for her.

"I'm only suggesting" - she’s watching you nearly fucking choke, amused - "what's best."

And when the lines get muddied between the two of you, that's exactly the issue. What's best. As though this was always Minju's aim. Maybe you've read it wrong, maybe you've gotten too lost in your own delusions, maybe - maybe, it doesn’t matter -

"For work," she adds, at which point her knee bumps yours playfully beneath the desk, leaving the suggestion open, and the implication unmistakable. "Whatever's required."

Here, you should definitely tell Minju no. Say no. Say: you're a professional, and getting involved with her, romantically, officially, personally - whatever - would lead to nothing but disaster. That’d be the responsible thing probably. It’d be generous to say you end up getting even halfway there:

"There's rules against this, you know."

Minju tips her head. “Why ever would there be rules in place against doing your job?”

She thinks that if she feigns being clueless, you'll bite, which -

“Against me folding you over this desk and fucking you until your forget your name.”

"My apologies," she practically coos, knowing that she’s not only made progress, but that she’s wrapping you around her finger. She is a bright girl after all. “You might see how I can get the two confused.”

At that, you figure, the only real move, to be perfectly blunt, is to play Minju at her own game -

To convince her to bend, just a little. To persuade her. So you lean closer, you start to promise, with your face just next to hers:

"You want me to show you how I might handle an uncooperative talent? Would that do it for you, huh?"

And now if that isn’t enough to earn you a whole look, one that’s equally a challenge and a triumph; you watch as she bites the inside of her cheek, not that she can help the smirk creeping across her pretty mouth, a grin full of want and need and all those dangerous, thrilling thoughts that're probably too predictable given your unique sliver of history you’ve already carved out.

She arches that perfect brow of hers once more, toying with the corner of her lip between her teeth. 

You navigate around your desk to hand her your pen, with instructions that are perfectly clear: "then for once in your life, be useful, and sign on the fucking dotted line."

And her whole act falls apart just like that.

She’s humming almost pleasantly to herself as you settle in flush behind her, sinking into you just a little when your hand arrives at her waist, another carding through her hair. “Here,” you point out, watching her name materialize in ink on the document - pressing your lips to the nape of her neck each time she finishes penning out an exaggerated curl of a u.

“And here.”

“And here.”

“And here."

She signs again - and again - and that merits a reward; she’s good when she wants to be. Persuasive when she needs to be.

You can hear her murmur your name when your mouth slips just beneath her jaw, when you mark your next path across the bare skin of her shoulder and when she gets started on the last page of the documents, it happens just like this -

The pen drops from her fingers at some point, tumbling onto the desktop with a clack that might as well be a round leaving the chamber of a starting pistol. The office door isn't even locked and you have half a mind to check on the blinds, but the idea of some desperate executive running face first into this scene - where you’re smoothing your hands down the fabric of Minju’s top, down the rise of her jeans, fiddling slowly with the button at her waist - it holds an unfortunate sort of appeal; those blinds, they're mostly closed anyway. And at this hour of the afternoon, well - maybe it’s a little more clear why Minju asked to reschedule this meeting in the first place.

At first, it’s just a  few of your fingers dipping under the waistband of her pants, following the curve of her hip, her thigh, then inward, and when you reach down to find her already burning up in anticipation, she inhales sharp, a noise that makes you groan in turn, low, right into the hollow behind her ear. Minju, to her credit, is absolutely willing, so very helpful and - as you pinch the soft, tender skin at her hip, she's saying something but you haven't quite paid it a moment's mind.

Her head turns, eyes looking up at you ever-so-slightly-more-vulnerable than their usual mischief and calculation, and there’s a hint of a demand dancing on her tongue, ready and waiting; she moves her leg upwards just a few inches, settling to rest her knee on top of the tabletop, a calculated little pose, angling her hips so you can sink your hand lower, closer, press your fingers into the lace over her hot cunt even deeper.

Here you figure you're probably ruining the fabric, drenching it in her own slick as you work two, then three fingertips in tight circles. You’ll ruin it, and you’ll ruin more - ruin everything and take what you're owed. As her breath hitches again, in some way that makes your senses come to life: you can feel her skin become taut and tense, gooseflesh rising when your hand untangles from her hair and slides up under her shirt, can hear the steady rush of blood in your ears, her pulse quickening, the heart in her chest beating rapid -

(She can pretend all she wants that this was an attempt at extortion. She can pretend she’s not an easy read; that she doesn’t like being easy for you, when she’s hot and whimpering and aching so wet, creaming on your fingers when you haven’t even gotten her pants off.)

- as if every part of her wasn't made for this, as you lay out your first real proposal:

“Do you remember what I asked you? The first time, right after you signed on, when you were so good for me up against the bricks in the alley?”

Minju chokes out an affirmative when you toy with her pussy where she’s craving the shape of anything, but, boy, are the rough pads of your fingers more than up to the task.

"I remember you almost couldn't answer, you didn't dare want to admit that it's what you needed - isn't that right?"

She moans with a voice thick as honey when a couple more fingers brush up against her wet lips and fuck, she does look breathtakingly good; she's exquisite, she's irresistible - the image of a living wet dream.

"Say it, baby," you croon, her voice beginning to melt a bit at the edges, her own heat burning her resolve up from the bottom up as you tug sharply at a string on her lace.

Minju sighs. Arches into your touch.

Because you’re settling into this torturous pattern, where you draw inwards, closer, so close to the little bundle of nerves, her cunt flexing and rippling hungrily when your fingers flick once or twice around it, only for her to wince just slightly as your fingers trace down towards her entrance to start all over again -

Minju steels herself, drawing in a heavy breath past her teeth. “You asked how rough you could be.”

There's something so painfully wicked, how her voice falters there - but then your own voice is rasping right back in a similar caliber of depravity.

“Hm. That’s pretty close to how I remember it.” After all, you are always taking care of Minju - her concerns, her contracts, her needs. So if she was interested, why the fuck would you hold back on providing exactly what she wants. “But help me out, what did you tell me?”

Another twist - another catch. Another push - another pull. She's going to break so sweetly if you're patient - and, ahh, patience - she's shuddering underneath your touch, squirming against you so nicely that you've already gotten away with a bit too much, this much, these fingers and you and Minju's breathy gasps.

"M-that you could be. That you could-" she stutters, all as you feel her folds start to swell, then quiver, as your thumb drags painfully over her clit again - 

And in that moment Minju starts to consider if this were a good idea or not, but her back is already arching against your chest. She's gripping your arm to get you right where she wants you, and the reality of this hits her - a rush of cold clarity through her head just as everything else threatens to spiral into something else, something frantic, something hot and animal and making the muscles at her core begin to clench up.

But you just ease out of her completely, a whine coming out from the back of Minju's throat - her thighs parting further in desperation.

And oh, the disappointment, the sound, it’s incredible - a high pitch - almost a sob -

You slide your other hand in her hair to make sure she's got an earful of your words:

"What was it you said, hm?" you whisper, nipping at the skin on her neck, the side of her jaw - she's shuddering with it when your mouth lingers so close -

“As rough as you fucking want.”

God, the little things that her voice does to you. “Exactly, sweetheart.”

And how's that boundary supposed to hold up and remain uncrossed then, really, if you just give her whatever the fuck she asks for - especially if you have your mouth working it's way around her pulse-point, toying with her as she starts to tense and soften all at once.

In fact, Minju can only stutter out an okay or two as you grind forward, the hard suggestion of your cock nestling up against her rear, just shy of the perfect spot between her legs, and even with still a few layers of clothes between you, the feeling - fuck, the friction, the sight - it’s enough to get you grinning.

Enough to form this near-half-coherent thought: that it’s what's always had you on edge with this girl. She is absolutely every bit your type. Everything about her, right down to the way that she was put together.

All her hard edges and soft curves that should've never really been yours to covet and now, somehow, have become exactly that. Oh, she's the kind of temptation that's better suited for the life of glitz and glamor and the time it requires for indulging in it. You never thought that you would actually ever get here, even as the years have begun to stack up and time starts to grind everything in the back of your head and turn it all over into something like resentment.

If only Minju weren't so good at making you a sucker for those pouty lips and big doe eyes.

Particularly when she's turned around - face to face now - she's the epitome of gorgeous, equal parts aphrodite and adonis; a fucking knockout, her body sculpted and lithe and athletic. Those lines curving out and away like they might tell time, like her thighs could count the minutes and seconds until she's straddling you in your lap with her ankles locked in at the small of your back and you're rutting up into her without reservation, without doubt.

(So what, really, is your goddamned excuse? Your pride? The nature of the beast in you that demands that you must have some degree of control over yourself? The power that your position, here, now, provides? But you can hardly be blamed, even when it's wrong and filthy and so fucking good.)

"You’re stalling." Minju’s leaning back against the desk, tilting her chin up, blinking lazily, and there’s a bit of bite in her voice again.

It takes a minute for it to dawn on you that it must be intentional, trying to get a further rise out of you, the same way your hands have risen up to trace the dips and elevations of her spine, her every vertebra, your fingertips mapping the hollows and rounds of her back. To learn the geography of her shoulders and where, and when, and how to get her breath catching in her lungs, each labored intake of air a little harsher, hastier, hotter than the last.

"You know," you start, spreading your palm across a soft plane of denim, fingers pulling onto the cheek of her ass, dragging her even tighter against you, "I always figured your reputation was a little overdramatized. Most everyone's bound to have a story or two."

She laughs, full of mirth. When the mood strikes, she's the picture of perfection, and she knows it. "Well? Were you disappointed?"

As she coils an arm around your waist to slide your shirt free from the confines of your pants, and as a deft hand slips its way in, you stop asking yourself about right or wrong, good or bad, or about the kisses that land playfully at the corner of your mouth - until you hold her tight and seize her lips, hard, like you mean it - it isn't long before she's fumbling and scrambling with the zipper at your waist. 

"That depends," you’re pulling yourself away long enough to say.

"I think I know the answer." 

And by the way she shivers a little when you shove up the bottom of her top, the way she's melting into your mouth and demanding more and more and more, Minju does. You think she probably has since the first night that your threads got all tangled up. Especially when she slides off her top - her bra - her jeans - leaving them in a pile that lasts barely a second where it started once you sweep everything off of your desk in one broad, efficient gesture -

There's a thud when a pair of binders and a couple of books hit the floor. Someone exclaiming in recognition, the muffled noise drifting through the office door, and, oh, this would probably be the best moment to remember how painfully thin the walls are; you consider whether to walk over and lock the office door, and when Minju’s fingers run up your sides, you decide you won’t.

Too little too late, you figure.

And before you can take a second to give it the more congruent thought it deserves, Minju opens her mouth: "which, in your professional opinion," a hum and a slur as her nails find their way to your collar, "is well, that the thing I should take," she gets out, unbuttoning you at the cuffs, loosening the last of your shirt, "really," her hands palming over the fabric on either side of the lapels, working their way downwards, "how - how do you think this goes?"

“Oh, Minju.” She’s all but begging you to fuck her and still has the wherewithal to be asking for terms.

Like her fingers aren’t completely down your pants, locking around your hard cock - pumping you with soft, lazy strokes - not too different from how you have her chewing on her lip every time your fingers circle over the entrance to her cunt, tenting the last of her lace all slow and careful.

It’s driving her crazy. She just bites into the edge of her thumb in response.

"Fine. Alright. Let me explain it clearly." You dip a finger into her cunt; the whimper is short-lived when she tightens around you and it hits home, the pressure so delicious that she can barely stutter to keep up.

“A negotiation, of sorts-”

“Yeah, sure, we can call it that.”

The mental picture you have of your length outlined against Minju's tiny fist - as she works it into her hand, steady - it's all almost more than you can possibly bear: the way her long legs stretch out so pretty in front of you, the way her wrist twists with each pass and every bump at the veins of her forearm that is such a damn perfect shade of porcelain white in the dim glow of the desk lamp.

This girl with her pert pink mouth and those lips, the ones that aren't quite touching yours but rather smirking the whole time. (If only you were to make her scream loud enough, because you know she could be so much prettier.)

The thought flits through your brain, unbidden and treacherous -

"Think, fuck - think of this, as a one-way track into your career. Think of me, a guiding hand - if you want to. The key to all this," you continue, spacing the words carefully so you don't falter under the pace Minju is picking up, "is that you're going to need to be compliant. Easy."

"Mm. And in exchange?" she bites, choking down an embarrassing moan.

"Here's the basics." And there, there's no fucking reason for you not to dip the tips of your fingers right on downwards, tap into her soft heat until her hips are arching away from the flat of the desk, searching for more. “Whenever you need me to take care of you, I’m there, however you need it: on my fingers, my tongue, my cock - I’ll make you fucking cum over and over.”

"That sounds," she gasps, losing track of the end of her sentence, rolling herself along the pads of your fingers, taking them deeper into her, "very-very-oh fuck-”

Her grip around your cock releases, arms throwing themselves around your shoulders, holding on tight as she starts to trust you implicitly - to give her exactly what she wants, what she needs - and give herself over to you, to your fingers, circling and circling and circling.

“See, tomorrow,” you start, “there’s an audition,” and when you pull your finger out of her cunt, Minju lets out this sound that’s between a whimper and a whine. Her pretty mouth has dropped open, like she's all out of words, lost somewhere, chasing this. Getting dire.

“It’s this teen soap; they need someone young, someone pretty, do you think you can do that for me?”

She doesn’t answer so much as grab and tug and pull you even closer as the heel of your hand pushes and presses over her clit, just about enough force behind it that, eventually, you begin to feel a certain rigidity through her limbs, how the lines of her face and her faultless features grow more and more focused, fixed and concentrated; her voice reduced to the high-pitched huffs and half-formed syllables of pure and utter desperation.

I can, I can - she’s murmuring - please, yes, I will - putting herself right into your capable hands.

When you feel Minju tightening, flexing around nothing, then seizing and shivering, her pussy throbbing hot and wet and clenching around your finger as it again works deeper inside her, an anguished groan finds its way out from her throat.

And from yours, well -

"Show up," you command, giving her another knuckle, curling it just right - watching as her expression contorts and twists up for all her worth. "Make a good impression. Don't make me fucking beg. Show up, Unreserved. Understood?"

And if her body wasn't making her pleas utterly transparent, she's screaming in agreement. It takes you barely a couple seconds, working up inside her cunt until she's all full-body, fully, blissfully spent. She starts to nod, needy, eyes screwing shut.

“And let’s say, something else pops up. A little racy, a little more gravure, just the right amount scandalous, I need you to keep an open mind.”

When it sinks in what you've said, Minju gives this wail, low and perfect - her cunt throbbing over the pulse at your palm - inches away from cumming and shaking and creaming on your hand. You could ask for anything, you think, and she’d give it to you -

“My PR team,” she gasps out, the consonants of her words fraying at the seams, “it’s up to my PR team.”

“Minju,” you say, priming a loaded question and a half. “Do you trust me?”

She nods, expression readable and open like a book. It starts to set in just about then, how you’re going to fucking ruin this girl.

Your breath runs hot, right against her temple, and you whisper the slightest affirmation, “good girl, I’ll take care of it.”

Because to be fair, you’ve not made it this long in your career without learning how to pull a string - how you might pull up on the sensitive skin straddling Minju’s clit and get her reeling; her pussy flutters in the tight, wet heat, muscles clamping, demanding as you work yourself in deeper and then, when the timing's right, pull out to slide a second finger past the slip of lace she has covering her cunt.

She's this tight, dripping, overwhelming fit - even more than you have yet to discover, to tease and then take, the heel of your wrist landing on her clit in a heavy pattern, circles - circles - circles -

- so you figure: fuck the PR team.

If only they knew how well and thorough you were going to fuck the rules right out of Minju.

That you were going to remind her who's the one in the driver’s seat of her life, of her career, that you would make sure she stays in her lane - the proper lane - that this, you think to yourself, might become a recurring sort of negotiation, the kind she's so shockingly eager to accept.

You'd be doing her a favor, fucking a couple good lines into her head, into her skin, into her cunt.

And soon, before long -

She's gritting her teeth around the shape of your name and giving one last heave against the hard wood of the desk underneath her. It's almost beautiful to watch how Minju crumbles into herself; the way she grinds back onto the digits in her cunt. How you’re dragging her underwear down her thigh, pulling your cock into your fist and twisting her leg around your waist until finally, you press yourself right up against the heat radiating from her cunt.

“I’m going to take good care of you, Minju, don’t worry, I’ll fuck this pussy of yours just right. I'm going to make you shake and cum all over me.”

“Please.” Fuck, she looks at you sincerely - no games, no bullshit - pupils so very blown out with want, with need. You watch her adorable mouth uptick into this faint lazy smile as she tilts her head into your collarbone, lips parting slightly to remind you: “as rough as you fucking want-” 

And you sink right in. 

It’s all skin-on-skin as Minju practically collapses in your arms; pushing deep past her soaking entrance - your hips slotting together just so, cock engulfed by her tight heat. Minju fucking wails when you drag back from her cunt, slow - so, so agonizingly slow.

You let her recover just a bit, watching her breathing quicken and shallow.

And the word on her lips becomes something reverent, the most indecent prayer, pleading please, please, please let me have it, please fuck me with your cock- 

You brace yourself, thrusting back in, and she doesn't wince this time, holding fast to you like you aren’t the one fucking her open and taking her apart.

“God, I - look, this perfect little fucking cunt, look at how you’re stretching around me, Minju,” you’re telling her - promising her really - all of which doesn't count for shit when, once, and then again, and a couple more times after that, your hips meet hers and she starts to break just so slightly around you. “I can’t believe - it’s like you were fucking made for my cock, baby, you’re taking me so fucking well.”

"Now, show me why - why the fuck everyone wants you - wants you to be their-" she's trying, in a fashion  all to her credit and her fault. She should probably care more about that raw, unhinged noise you’re making right into the crook of her neck when you bury yourself deeper into her pussy. But in the next moment, with another wild crash of your hips, the tables start to turn.

Slowly at first, and then all at once.

Because the sound you’re ripping from her chest when you start fucking her - truly fucking her - becomes far, far filthier than anything you've ever heard a girl like her make. All of it coaxed out from you working the edge of her pussy open, stretching her, hitting each and every sensitive spot inside her.

Minju tips her head back to stare at the popcorn ceiling and fluorescent lights, brow creasing in the middle, mouth gaping open. You find you might have missed something, when she moves to hold you down, hold you in place with an insistent leg, the back of her heel digging into your ass. As though there were somewhere you might possibly want to go.

It all comes down to something she's murmuring, quietly, harboring this smug lilt like you aren’t fucking her raw and senseless: how maybe the key to unlocking the rest of her potential isn’t all that dissimilar, not as off-brand as you may have been initially worried about. And the notion that both of you might actually be profiting off of this - how it shouldn’t sound as incredible as it does - is doing absolutely fucking nothing to slow the brutal pace you fall into.

"Fuck, just like that," and she's smiling, grinning really, nails biting into your nape - your name and curses and a fuck you or two falling out of her mouth as you pound each short breath right out of her chest. 

"The only talent I'm gonna need to show," she manages, dizzy, and with one arm hooking around your waist, she pulls the two of you close, right up against each other. The sound your skin makes, clapping against hers - her cunt tight, pulsing, quivering around you - "is my, my, my-"

Your thumb should have never left her clit, you realize, pressing down on where your cock is disappearing between her legs, pushing up against that bundle of nerves that can get her screaming. That’s how you’ll punctuate your end of the bargain, how you’ll make her cum and cum and cum -

"-talent for being such a-"

There's something ungovernable in you, something fumbling, as you find yourself drawn to her lips like a magnet - claiming them in a kiss that has you both growling with all the intensity you can muster, groaning as her jaw goes slack, surrendering to the fucking. To this hard, solid snap of your hips, a raw fuck forward that pushes Minju against the edge of the tabletop.

It doesn’t matter what she had wanted to say, though it must be evident how easy she can wind you up, and you do your best not to be too gentle. Pushing into her so rough that her breasts, oh-so-delicate, bounce up and down along her chest, nipples tight and rosy, begging to be tasted and played with.

You’re pressing your mouth on hers hard, fucking her harder - fingers digging into the flesh around her thighs and leaving marks and memories, all these reminders you’ll be sure to come back to.

But the fact is that this is your girl in so many ways: needy and a dream in all her curves, and how her waist rocks back, her body fitting so perfectly against yours - you're hooked on all of it. On her - she is temptation made real, in blood and bone and soft, supple skin, so exquisitely touchable, just like the sound that she makes, high and tittering when your thumb starts to work her clit over; each swirl and figure eight sending a jolt through her nerves and straight back into your own spine. It's difficult - hard to focus, you find - when all her exposed skin has these drops of sweat standing in saltwater relief, how it rolls down the plane of her chest and disappears where her waist flares wide.

Minju turns her cheek, mouthing falling open, and asks with a certain helpless pleading, “yes, can you-”

she sighs,

“right there,”

she hiccups,

“please, again,”

she begs,

“again, harder, i’m so close-”

Not before long, the desk is scraping loudly across the carpet, moving right into the next office over, all from where you have your hand trapping her voice back in her throat, palm over where she’s practically sobbing for you to let her cum. 

From where you’ve got her locked in tight, lifting her up into your arms, into some perverse, unspoken promise to carry her the rest of the way. To do with her whatever you want.

"I'm going to show you," you're gritting out, "exactly how a professional handles their star, the girl at the center of it all, their top draw - and it's so easy, isn't it? This is - fuck, sweetheart - you're nothing more than a - just a desperate little cockslut who's aching to cum, and it's good - oh so, fucking-"

When that next shiver courses down the length of her perfect form, it's entirely because of you, when her legs are still locked and clamped over you like this, as she sputters and babbles, totally cock-addled and barely managing a coherent thought. “Please, sir, please, fuck-”

And then a keening, sounding low, lost.

“Sir. Please, sir, please just - I just wanna-" Her lips are shaping all these words that never quite materialize - because her cunt is slick, the whole of it hotter and softer than anything else in this goddamn room. Maybe anything else in this whole building. Or in the entire world. It makes her whimper and ache, her voice rising and rising, belting out, need it, need it, please let me cum -

Which -

Minju, oh god, Minju cums, and you are fucked sideways to hell and beyond when her whole body convulses, shakes, every single part of her contracting, contracting - all at once - the way her hands claw desperately onto the blades of your shoulders as the room gets taken up with the scent of her; the sounds she's making are fucked and filthy. She starts to become undone as you double your pace, aiming true - thrusting, pounding, nailing Minju right into the finish.

“Minju, sweetheart, I’m going to cum in you,” you tell her, and it’s not even a question, or a concern. You’re dictating, not negotiating when you say it to her again, when you tell her you’re going to fill her perfect pussy so full with your cum, she'll be hung up on it for weeks.

One long, stretched out moan is all it could ever take; a split second, where everything runs blindingly hot, and you bury yourself as deep into her pussy as you possibly can.

Cumming so much, spilling out deep inside - this heavy flood of cum that pools warmly at the back of her cunt and fills every corner of Minju - she whines and sobs and tells you it's too much, please, all this hot and thick white cum pumping right into her -

As you throb into her, she's having a hard time saying anything beyond your name, actually, because if anyone can, if anyone would, if Minju can trust anyone and anything in this world more, it would be you.

Her chest shudders and shudders, and she kisses you in a vain effort to quiet her own body, to quiet yours. She has all this faith she's pouring right down your throat as you rock the last of your orgasm into her twitching heat, spilling and spilling and spilling, not caring about the wetness leaking onto the carpet. Not bothering to mask the obscene slickness, how everything gets completely fucking sopping between the two of you.

When she's practically drooling over you, eyelids growing heavy and fluttering, Minju sags heavily into the bend of your arms. In that shallow heaving and gasping for air that bathes the both of you - blissed the hell out, a lazy tangle of limbs - and without warning she turns to speak into your neck, her breath cooling, like a whisper of a dream:

“Okay, and already… I guess this isn’t entirely-”

“Completely terrible,” you offer after you swallow the dryness in your mouth.

Minju smiles into your shoulder. “And sir, in the spirit of honesty and transparency, I think I - I think I really did want - this - you - the entire thing…”

You stop her there, right in the middle of that particular train wreck. A drop in your voice, and the message is clear, when your mouth works its way to hers.

(No more of her talking like that.

Besides, she looks even better on your lips like this, and fuck, doesn’t Minju taste like you will have to remember, like a little bit like desperation, but only in the way that it has you both completely hopeless, hanging on to every whimper as your cock slides lazily about her well-fucked pussy, a bit deeper, a bit further.)

Like there is something far beyond professionalism guiding the hand with which you hold her hip and let her ass spill through the gaps of your fingers.

It’s all mixed up, how in this exact moment you figure this is a terrible, terrible idea, the worst kind of agreement, this pact - because no one could look at you, could look at either of you and have any doubts in mind now. But you can see it, how you’ll both wear this little agreement like the most beautiful stain in your histories. Even though it might, conceivably, cost one or both of you dearly at some point in time. 

And yet, still.

"Will you - can I - can you..."

She's clinging onto you with all her remaining energy, like she wants to see it through.

But her eyes - the poor thing - her expression is melting into this haze, her face contorted in something like pain and something else entirely: a different kind of satisfied glimmer. It's almost unreadable how that sharp mouth softens at the edges as her cunt gives this small flutter over the head of your cock, as you pump her so full, threatening to overflow.

And in your ear, you catch this little whisper. It says, “please, let me show you,” she's practically purring, “let me, let me - I'm gonna clean you up now, lick my cum right off you.”

It's true. Minju can act and perform and pose and make faces, for a shit ton of people - but she’ll play-act any facade you might ask her to, and she'll do it for you - because, this time around, all you ask her is this:

To be yours.

To be a good girl for you, an obedient little thing, in your private audience, away from the cameras and the lights, away from everyone.

When her knees hit the carpet, she is perfectly between your legs, palms on your hips and fingers splaying out against you.

And when she tries her damnedest like this, no one should bother ever pretending to think differently - least of all, you - and certainly, not while your cock is hardening again in the wet heat of her mouth, under the curl of her tongue, the gentle touches of her fingers -

How can anyone ever bring themselves to tell her that she isn't completely, indisputably the greatest.

(The very, fucking best.

And in every other way: the woman of your dreams. A woman, you realize, you ought to endeavor to keep, in all manners, and forever.

Minju, who could probably do anything, and you, who just might be able to give it to her.)

[soapymansuds]

Eternity and Counting

(Pt2. Also pretty short but I'm kinda just handling introductory stuff, so bear with me. Uploads will be made every Tuesday for as long as I have stuff to upload. Thank you for your support, hope you enjoy!!)

Pt1

Obey me! X Angel!MC (They/Them Pronouns)

TW: Suicide, depression, self-deprecation, death, big feelings, lots of sad.

MC just can't handle anything anymore and takes their own life. Imagine their dismay to find even death isn't the end for them.

When did it get so bright? I'd swear I was staring into the face of the sun if it weren't for the gentle breeze that sways my hair. I open my eyes just barely, blinking away the glare of my surroundings. I'm acutely aware of several voices around me, one of which is more familiar than I'd like. How could it not have worked? It's impossible. I was certain that those herbs would take me out. And so was everybody else, because even if I hadn't done my research, Barbatos kept them locked in a special cabinet for ingredients never to be used while I was in the castle. I had to have died.

As the world around me slowly blinks into view, I'm greeted by a terrifying sight. Simeon sits crouched before me, worry and fear marring his perfect skin. His voice is muffled and foggy as he speaks,  but slowly I recognize his question.

"What have you done?"

It's soft. Gentle. Like when my mother used to ask after I had made a small, albeit amusing, mess. I consider for a moment how to answer him. I want to ask him what he thinks I've done, but the sarcasm feels like it'd be more painful now than it usually would. So instead I take my moment of consideration to look around. I've been to the celestial realm before, but this feels different. Suddenly, I find my answer. A pair of answers really, fluttering against my back.

"I failed... Again..." I whisper, staring at my hands, and soon the tears falling onto them. "Fuck me, you'd think killing yourself would be harder to mess up." Something maniacal in me laughs. It's hard to say if I'm laughing at my joke or myself. Maybe it's both.

When I look up, Simeon's face has shot from worry to deep, deep concern. He's quick to pull out his phone, but I'm quicker to bat it out of his hand.

"You can't. You can't tell them." I mumble, not breaking eye contact. "It's bad enough you have to know, Luke will find out I'm sure. But they can't..."

"MC, they deserve to know! Do you know how worried they are right now? You've been dead a whole month!" He's nearly yelling, but his expression doesn't change much. It's hard to tell if he's angry or confused. Maybe he's both.

"They deserve to move on Simeon. You all do, I'm just sorry I've managed to fuck up your opportunity to do it. They got their letters, they know why I did it. So do you. It would be unfair of me to put them through all of that, give them an opportunity to live without me dragging them down, just to turn around a month later and force myself back into their lives because I didn't have to forethought to consider I could have been reborn an Angel!" It's not that I hadn't considered it. I had just assumed suicide knocked you off the divine rebirth roster. Guess I should have checked.

Simeon looks prepared to say something back but is quickly cut off by another voice.

"So this is the great MC I've heard so much about." He chuckles, stepping out from behind Simeon. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, though I do wish it was under better circumstances." his head tilts as if he's considering the whole ordeal. "I'm certain Lucifer would be ecstatic to hear the news, but if you insist on secrecy, that can be arranged."

"Michael I-" Simeon begins but stops quickly, fixing his tone and face to seem more proffesional. "Are you certain? Their absence has caused such a stir in the Devildom." He looks back at me like he's expecting that to change my mind more than Michael's.

"The Devildom can handle its own turmoil. We owe our loyalties to the angels of the Celestial realm. And if our new angel here wishes to hide their presence from Lord Diavolo himself, then I'll do what I can. For now, at the very least. And if you ever change your mind, I can help you then as well." He nods, holding a hand out to help me to my feet. I take it cautiously, finding a new balance in my stance with the additional weight on my back. I never expected these to be so heavy. And getting a better look at them now, they're huge. Rivaling Lucifer's, in span at least.

"If you'd like, I have a private garden. You may spend your days there for as long as you want." He grins, something strangely knowing in his eyes.

(Thank you for visiting my silly little stories. Like I said, uploads should be pretty consistent, but if you'd like a friendly reminder, comment to be added to the tag list!)

-Your friend, The Author

[wordsandrobots]

And while we're on the subject of Gundam ZZ, it also didn't register the first time around what a perfect little fascist Mashymre Cello is. Because, yes, the man's a total dipstick and comic-relief compared to previous villains. But it's immediately clear that he is also:

Driven primarily by ideas fixed in his head that nobody is going to change his mind on

Viewing the people of the Shangri-la colony as in need of a firm hand to 'fix' a situation the war instigated by his side has created

Prone to looking down on anyone 'uncouth' or otherwise inconvenient and treating them as disposable as a result (including kids; he goes from worrying about Judau's safety to attempting to massively injure him in the span of a minute)

Ready to read angelic status into women performing service roles (e.g. Fa looking after Kamille)

Disgusted at having to visit a hospital (obviously Shangri-la is a mess but this reads like 'it's full of the sick therefore it's dirty')

Really put out by having to hide his mobile behind liquor crates

Quick to blame his subordinates when reality doesn't go the way his inflated ego tells him it should

The man might be a total joke, but he's a total joke in exactly the ways a lot of fascists were/are, driven by imagined ideals that reality can never live up to and disgust at what's actually in front of him, irrespective of whether it's doing any harm on its own. His care about others is entirely for show, committed to on a skin-deep level, ejected the minute it gets in the way of what he wants. He thinks he's the noble knight, striving for a better world, while all the while acting the shallow, vainglorious buffoon.

It's fascinating he, of all characters, should capture something of what actually drives the ideologies Zeon is a stand-in for.

[onesaltybagel]

Finally talking about season 5 because I’ve been putting it off

Notes won’t be in order at all and are mostly about the final episodes

Spoilers BOGOOA BOOO!!!!

When people were saying that Sean had really gone all out this season, I was like “oh ok maybe there’s a kinda sad scene or a really heartfelt scene”. NO. I WAS SO WRONG. I was NOT prepared for the scene of him screaming and wailing to the point of his voice cracking and going raw because he wanted Mk to stop so badly. I did not ever imagine I was going to see that and I’m still not over it. If I see it again, I get chills every time and I’m in love.

Nine-headed demons full form is so cool! I can’t believe we saw that before the trailer even dropped and I thought nothing of it! I thought it was just going to be another guardian of the stone! God the designs in this show rock

Mk saying “don’t make me do this” was perfect. It was so quiet, so small and full of emotion. Had he planned since that first moment he was going to use the circlet? He knew since like episode two that he was going to be doing something EVERYONE wouldn’t want him to do and- presumably- it became clear really fast to him what that was. Was he planning all along?

I cannot stress this enough- THE FIGHT IN EPISODE ONE FORESHADOWED THE FIGHT IN EPISODE NINE.

Nuwa saying I’m so proud of you, her voice actor is completely perfect for her. It was so soft and gentle :(((

Mk crying from joy. He should never have to be in that position, it is so unfair that he was created just to die- over and over and over again. I’m so glad he found another way.

Nuwa saying “my sacrifice AND yours” what did she sacrifice? When she fixed the pillar the first time, was she the one that entered the pillar to fix the sky along with the stones?

WHERE IS NUWA EXACTLY??? Is that just what- the inside of the pillar looks like?

Will we see Nuwa again?

Oh my GOD Wukong catching Mk made me want to throw up. That little bit where we see it through Mk’s eyes kills me every single time.

People gaining elemental powers? Is that- every person who didn’t already have any? Like- some went into Red son did he gain MORE power like that one fire sneeze girl or is he the same? If he is, he’ll be mad LMAO

The chaos HHUUUGHGHGHB ITS SO PRETTY? I don’t know if it’s supposed to be unnerving but I want to stare at it for hours it’s so cool. Where is that? Outside the universe? How does the chaos affect things? WHO IS “HE?” I looked up Xiangliu and the only person I could associate that with was Gonggong who is another snake like entity.

Gonggong also knocked one of the eight pillars (theres eight?) holding up the sky and ends up dying in a battle with someone called Zhurong who is a fire god and has some story with Nuwa!

They’re all snakes. What is with snakes in this world?

Was Macaque still investigating? At the end, he’s in the court room again for some reason and at the start of the season he said he was looking around for stuff related to Mk. Macaque is a hero and he cannot deny it anymore.

Oh yeah the ten kings of the underworld are dead. What the fuck happens to dead people now?

Why does Macaque have chaos magic, who did he make a deal with and WHY WAS IT ON THE STAFF.

Li Jing is a complete asshole. If we’re basing him off canon then there’s no return but if him vandalising his son’s grave ISNT CANON, then he’s just bad dad. I hope he trips and falls over and embarrassingly gets a bruise on his forehead.

Nuwa x Lady Bone Demon toxic Yuri <33

I love Nuwa but I also hate her sm right now. Why did there have to be a cycle? Because there needed to be someone to fix the sky? Because that person would never be enough and they weren’t fixing the sky they were resetting it all instead? This is down to Nuwa underestimating the world- we see that- but I just cannot get over that she made a baby for the sole purpose of dying. He gets up, he gets the stones, he dies. He experiences nothing, he speaks to no one.

And Mk has absolutely had that life a thousand times.

But she doesn’t react as emotionally as I wished she had. This is nothing against the writers, I am just a Nuwa hater and lover rn. She was perfect, so cool, such an amazing character but she still needs to pay child support.

[604to647]

Safest with You - Ch. 15 (The BBQ)

7K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: You and Din attend a very special Fett Family BBQ hosted by the Damerons and you grow closer to the clan.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). F!oral, semi public car sex, unprotected PiV, rough-ish sex, established relationship, pet names as usual (pretty bird, baby, etc.), light daddy kink (really just a nickname).

A/N: Din's back! This is mainly a world building chapter with some heat at the end 🤭; it's not perfect but I wanted to put it out and get back into the groove of this story again. Thank you to everyone who waited patiently while I took a little posting break for this series. I missed them a lot and hope you're ready to jump back in it with me!

Series Masterlist

“Do you think we should have brought anything else?”

“One item should be good, pretty bird.  Lisa always makes too much food anyways,” says Din, looking down at the casserole dish full of garlic knots that you’re holding.

“Okay.  I just always feel like more food is better than less food,” you say, unsure.

“I think that's enough garlic knots to feed an army, sweetheart.”

“But Mayfeld asked for them!”

Din stops you at the end of the walkway leading up to the Dameron house and plants a soft kiss to your lips, “Thank you for feeding Miggs, baby.  If his mouth is full of your garlic knots, then we don’t have to hear him talk as much.”

“Din!”

He laughs and takes your hand as you head up to the front of the house, “Come on, admit it.  Mayfeld is your least favourite Mando.”

“He is not!” you’re scandalized by the accusation.

“Okay... who is your least favourite Mando then?”

Looking at Din with a look of mock annoyance, you jest, “Sometimes, it’s YOU.”  You swerve the hand that drops yours in an attempt to at swat of your bum. 

Letting yourselves in through the front door, you follow the chorus of voices to the kitchen; spinning as you walk through the foyer, you take in the splendor of the Dameron residence.  Not sure what you expected the house of an heir to a mob empire to look like, but you suppose this is as close to anything you might have imagined.  The house is fairly grand and seems to boast an inordinate number of chandeliers; dark carved wood and marble line the floors and walls - it looks like a good place to set a live action game of Clue.  When you round the corner to the kitchen, you’re struck by two things:

1) Din was right, Lisa made too much food.  Nearly all the counter top space is covered with plates and platters filled with meats, salads, breads, pastas.  You count eight charcuterie boards – they might be delineated by cheese region.  There are warming trays that have their bright blue butane flames lit underneath, already full of steaming dishes.  The breakfast nook seems to have been converted into some kind of dessert station with a 3-tiered buttercream iced cake at its centre.

2) Poe is being yelled at.

Din leans over to whisper in your ear, “Yes, it’s always like this.”

Poe spies you and Din and must decide that this is the distraction he’s been waiting for, because he gestures at his wife to turn around and welcome her guests.  You meet Lisa halfway, somewhere between the cocktail shrimp and the gazpacho; after hugging you and taking the garlic knots off your hands, she sighs and asks, dejectedly, “You wouldn’t happen to have Caesar salad dressing in your purse, would you?”

“Not today, sorry,” you quip.

“We can use another dressing!” Poe is holding his head in his hands.

“No,” grits Lisa through her teeth, “we cannot. It was requested.”

She says the last word with heavy emphasis; you take it that Poe was supposed to procure the Caesar salad dressing.  Din looks at you with an expression somewhere between amusement and a grimace, then mime points at the empty plates before giving Lisa a friendly squeeze of the shoulder.

Not letting him escape quite so easily, Lisa directs her question at Din but keeps her eyes fixed upon her husband, “Din.  Please remind Poe how very important it is that we accommodate the literal one food request that our very special guests made for today’s BBQ?”

Oh.  That’s why the Caesar salad is a big deal.  Although, you’ve been told, Fett family BBQs are a regular festive occurrence, this particular iteration was going to be more than the usual casual get-together.  Din had already given you the heads up that a few members of the Pyke Syndicate would be in attendance tonight and for a very special reason: Boba’s niece (by which sibling, you embarrassingly could not recall.  Boba seems to have a lot of siblings) had gotten herself engaged to Rikard Pyke, son of the head of the Syndicate.  It could have all been very Montague and Capulet-esque, except that young folks tend to more pragmatic than their elders gave them credit for; there was no secret relationship or ignoring the realities of their families – the happy couple openly announced their decision to date years ago after connecting at some unsuspecting mutual friend’s birthday party and had been inseparable ever since.  They weathered all of their respective families’ strong attempts to discourage the relationship, some deeming it impractical if not downright dangerous, with grace and unwavering resolve.  Cassandra and Rikard simply ignored all the naysayers and family politics and proceeded as two people in love would under normal, non-mob related circumstances:  they courted, they moved together, they intended to marry.  Tonight would be your first time meeting them, but you’re already predisposed to liking them.  Everyone in both families seemed to love them quite well and Din’s opinion was that they seem to be very much in love, a nice couple indeed.  “Rikard has a good head on his shoulders.  Seems like a good kid,” he had said.  When you chucked that he said it as if he hadn’t done a deep background check on the poor kid, Din had simply shrugged, looking sheepish.  The happy couple, however, were not the special guests to which Lisa was referring. 

In an effort to support the engaged couple, the Fetts and Pykes have been playing nice, knowing (and perhaps in some cases, resigned to the idea) that their families were soon to be connected by marriage.  You’ve been told that tonight, a few members of the Pyke Syndicate would be attending the BBQ as Cassandra and Boba’s special guests.  An extension of trust, a gesture of good faith, a coming together of brethren.  And apparently, they wanted Caesar salad.

Din attempts to hand Lisa an empty plate, perhaps to encourage her to eat as a distraction, but Poe quickly snatches it out of Din’s hand, likely afraid of Lisa throwing it at his head.  It’s not often you side with Poe, but you think he might be on to something.  “Does it have to be a specific type of Caesar dressing?” you ask Lisa, drawing her attention away from Poe.

“No,” she sighs, “they just asked for Caesar salad.  I would make one but I don’t have all the ingredients.”

“I can make a simplified Caesar vinaigrette? We can even make it a little spicy if you want,” you offer; it’s actually a fairly easy recipe - people who have tasted it always marvel that it doesn’t contain any anchovies, “Why don’t I make a batch?  You can taste it and see if it works?”

Lisa looks torn between wanting to kiss you and not wanting to let her husband off the hook so easily, but eventually the need to get things done wins out.  When Lisa turns to the fridge to get you the parmesan and elephant garlic you ask for, Poe mouths ‘I love you’ at you before escaping out the back door.  Din brings you a glass of wine before leaving with his own tower of food. 

You make quick work of the dressing, all while listening to Lisa vent about her husband’s inability to remember the simplest tasks; you nod at her sympathetically which seems to calm her down significantly, “Oh, I’m so sorry for venting.  I’m just so stressed out!  This barbeque has to go well!  The wedding is in a few short months and there is still so much I have to do!”

“You’re planning the wedding?” you ask, somewhat shocked.

Lisa nods, “I have help, of course, but Boba and Rikard’s dad, Lom, decided that it might be easier to keep the peace if someone other than the parents or higher-ups was in charge of the planning.  Someone more neutral,” she rolls her eyes, “You know, if you had started dating Din a few months earlier, it might have been you!”

You both giggle uncontrollably at this. 

Lisa is giving your vinaigrette the thumbs up when Fennec comes in, carrying a little white pit bull in her arms.  Lisa looks like she wants to say something about dogs in her kitchen, but thinks the better of it; you, on the other hand, greet Fennec warmly and Mochi with scritches and kisses. 

“Everything okay in here?” asks Fennec, “The Mods say that the Pykes are about 25 minutes away.”

You grin at the mention of the Mods.  While you haven’t met any of Fennec’s personal team of spies yet, you’re terribly curious about them.  Where the Mandos handled physical security, which could sometimes include on-site surveillance and reconnaissance, the Mods were straight up digital sleuths; they could dig up online dirt on anyone and no one has ever been beyond their digital reach. Apparently able to hack into even the most secure systems, they never failed to locate and capture footage of even the most elusive of targets.  You once wondered if Fennec had them dig up info on you; it was probably their most boring assignment to date if she had.

Their stealthy online behaviour unmatched, the Mods were just as elusive in the real world, often hiding in plain sight and doing their jobs expertly, unnoticed by the crowds.  You’re not sure how they managed to blend in so well given that they were all supposedly gorgeous and impossibly stylish – which is how they had come to be nicknamed The Mods (short for “The Models”); a fun fact you learned when you asked if the name was somehow a play on the Mando moniker.  Your hysterical guess of “The Mondos?” had earned you a tickle attack from Din that took your sides the better part of an hour to recover from.  Nevertheless, they had all been at Boba’s birthday and you can’t say you noticed any of them; though perhaps with everyone at that party having been dressed up to the nines, you had a lesser chance than usual of spotting a Mod.  You’re going to be on the look out again tonight.

“Everything is perfect!” beams Lisa, spearing a few dressed romaine leaves and a crouton on a fork and holding it out to Fennec.  You giggle as you watch Mochi try to lap at the fork with his little tongue; booping him on his little nose to distract him while Fennec eats, you coo, “You can’t have that, Mochi – it has too much garlic.”

Fennec makes noises of approval as she chews, “Good.  Everyone is on high alert, but once our guests eat and get comfortable, hopefully things will relax.”

With Lisa satisfied, the three of you make up your plates to head out and join the others in the backyard.  Just before opening the backdoor, Fennec turns and shrugs at you, “Oh.  Mayfeld saw Din and asked about… garlic knots?”

You giggle while Lisa rolls her eyes.  “No problem,” you grab the dish with your free hand and Lisa holds the door open for you and her to join the lively scene together.  The backyard is huge – the stairs from the deck descend to a large patio area, currently home to several L-shape formations of patio furniture, one of which is arranged around a fancy gas fire pit.  Several barbeques sit on the border of the patio and lawn, heat waves and smoke emanating from the food being grilled; Brian and Poe currently doing their best grill master impressions.  The expansive rolling lawn is littered with tables and chairs, ending only where you can see a pool filled with laughing and splashing children.  The entire backyard is bordered by a beautiful flower garden that wafts a sweet, sticky floral scent atop the aroma of cooked food.  There are dogs everywhere and you wish you had brought Al.

It's around one of the tables on the lawn that you find Din sitting with Boba and some Mandos, talking probably in a manner probably more serious than you would expect for a BBQ, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling you into his lap when you approach and encouraging you to stay and eat with a squeeze of your waist.  You hand the dish of garlic knots to Mayfeld who is already making the grabby hands gesture at you; when he’s got a firm grip on the casserole dish, Paz reaches out and smacks him on the back of the head, without breaking from what he’s saying to Boba, “… Peli says she’s okay.  Had to talk her down from staying behind with a baseball bat though.  We got it patched up before coming over.”

You look wide eyed at Din, worried.  Paz sees your expression as well and with a nod from Boba, loops you in, “Just a little vandalism, Lil’ Lady.  Someone just broke the knob off the drycleaner’s front door so Peli thought she was trapped inside before remembering she has a back door too.”

Nodding, you try to make a face like you’re relieved it’s ‘just a little vandalism’, but that must have been scary for Peli.  You know about the flare up of these types of incidents and other similar skirmishes from Din, of course, but you’re mainly removed from it all except for what Din tells you.  But Peli’s is close.  You know her.  The low hum of something… something like escalation feels like it’s just around the corner. 

“Peli is okay, pretty bird.  Not letting her stay with a baseball bat is safer for everyone, really,” Din smiles gently at you.  You grin at the image of Peli brandishing a baseball bat with her excitable mannerisms and think you agree; a pensive look crosses your face shortly after however, “It’s so close to the gym, though.”

Boba nods, “Too close.  The gym is safe – no one would be stupid enough to come near it.  But those nearby may be targets just because of proximity.  Paz – I trust you and Din to draw up patrol plans.”  Paz and Din nod - both men realizing, as well, the significance of Boba feeling confident enough to speak on security matters in front of you.  The implication is lost on you though, as you continue to eat Lisa’s delicious pasta salad while Din draws circles on your thigh, grinning proudly. 

Boba shifts topics, “Ok, when the Pykes get here, I want the perimeter already covered and everyone in flank positions, but discreetly.  This is supposed to be a fun time, alright?”

Everyone around the table nods, Bo and Paz get up to prepare, but everyone else remains, eating and casually chatting until Fennec announces, “They’re here,” after getting a notification on her phone.

Man, the Mods are good, you think, as Poe and Lisa disappear into the house even before the front doorbell chimes.  Poe’s exuberant voice can be heard from the backyard getting closer and closer until the kitchen door opens and he and Lisa step out, followed by six strangers.  The first two must be Cassandra and Rikard, the happy couple; they’re both beautiful and their easy-going smiles as they wave and greet everyone give you the sense that they’re the ones really grounding this entire, very unique, situation.  Behind them are four men, ages ranging from mid-20s to Boba’s age, each holding a plate loaded heavily with food.  With amusement, you notice the abundance of Caesar salad on each of their plates.

You feel Din’s lips by your ear, as he quietly acquaints you with tonight’s special guests. “The youngest one is Gorak – that’s Rikard’s cousin.  Kind of a little hothead, dabbles a bit in the boxing circuit.  He’s not bad, but no discipline, so we don’t see him in fights often.  The two twins are the uncles, Mok and Dokk; they head up some business lines for the Pykes that… Boba isn’t involved in.  There's no business conflict, so they’ve always been friendly.  The tall one in the back, that’s Marg, he’s like the consigliere – the Fennec to Rikard’s father.  He’s going to be here on behalf of the parents.”

“Rikard’s parents didn’t want to come?” you ask, curious.

“It’s not that.  It was decided they shouldn’t attend; if they did, it might look like business, like the Families were coming together for more than a barbeque.  Could make some other players nervous.  Sometimes the perception of an action means more than the actual intent.”

Oh, you think you see.  You suppose you have a lot to learn about this world. 

Fennec is right, the initial moments of everyone coming together is sort of awkward and tense, but after everyone’s got some food in their stomachs, things start to relax and the vibes in the backyard mellow once again.  All of this is helped along by Lisa’s excellent hostessing and Poe’s charm. 

Din introduces you to Cassandra and Rikard, and you’re immediately taken with them.  They’re smart, funny, and just incredibly down to earth.  You can see why this is the couple that could lead the two Families to put down their pitchforks.  They’re both junior associates at a law firm downtown; it’s not a firm any of your clients use but you mention that you have a friend, Jen, who practices family law at another firm, and the three of you trade some funny case anecdotes.  When the conversation turns to wedding planning, Din and Rikard excuse themselves while you, Lisa and Cass (as she now insists you call her) join some others on the lawn.

Cass is stressed.  Wedding planning is no joke and time consuming - time she doesn’t have a lot of; you remember your days as a junior at your firm and the hours being indeed relentless.  Even with Lisa and her aunties’ help, you can see she’s feeling at a bit of a loss.  You don’t want to volunteer Rory’s expertise, but you do offer to do some research on some vendors, figuring you can always ask Rory if your research results are up to snuff.  Cass says she wishes she was marrying you.

When Cass’s mom notes that you wore a lovely white dress to Boba’s birthday, you mention the name of Rory’s bridal boutique and all the women collectively swoon.  Apparently, they haven’t even bothered to try and shop there due to the exclusivity, but know all the best designs are there.  You very noncommittally say you’ll ask around to see if there are any openings, and find yourself in the middle of a very exuberant and high-pitched, squealing group hug.  Straining your neck out from the tangle of arms, you see Din and Paz looking over laughing.  Din is giving you a “What’s going on?” gesture with his hands while smiling broadly.  You smile back and mouth, “Help!” with good humour.

After the children are put to bed or taken home early, the drinks start to flow and the party hits a new level.  Someone brought cigars (Mayfeld?) and Boba and the Pyke men all partake, furling a light haze of smoke that hangs around the patio lantern lights.  You enjoy your wine while helping Lisa cleanup, periodically being pulled into side conversations with Cass or Mandos you know.  As much as you can, you curl up in Din’s lap and listen to him joke and chat with his friends.  It’s turned out to be a wonderful evening, despite you still not having spotted any of the Mods.

“I think they’re made up,” you whisper to Din, jokingly.

“No, no, they’re very real, they just live in the wires,” laughs Din, “like the Matrix.”

“Oh!  Well, if they look like Keanu and Carrie Ann Moss, then it’s no wonder they’re called the Models,” you say dreamily.

“Keanu, eh?  Is that your type?” Din nudges you ear with his nose teasingly.

“He’s everyone type,” you grin, still with a far-off look.

Din pretends to push you off his lap, “Well if that’s the case, then –” but he’s interrupted by raised voices coming from the middle of the lawn.  The two of you look over and you see Woves and Gorak facing each other, standing bodies rigid in aggressive stances, their lawn chairs tipped over backwards behind them. 

You can’t even process what they’re yelling about, just that the volume is increasing and the tone is getting sharper.  Koska comes to stand by Woves, her look murderous.  You see Jimmy and Brian inching closer.  Mok, Dokk and Marg have already come to stand behind Gorak, backing him up.  Dogs everywhere are barking.

Din gently slides you off his lap, then moves you behind him before walking towards the commotion; he extends his arm behind him as if to ask you to stay put.  You look around: Lisa looks panic stricken, Poe is standing with Cass and Rikard, all three of them looking at a loss, Boba remains sitting with Fennec.  Remembering your little lesson about interpreted actions from Din earlier this evening, you understand why: any move Boba makes will be perceived as an official move by the Family, and it will embolden the Mandos, likely turning a small altercation into an official first strike from the Fetts.  If he were to enter the fray, the situation would escalate no matter what.  As it is, the situation is escalating all well on its own - the Pykes are outnumbered and surrounded, their hackles up. 

Boba catches your eye and gives you a little nod and your eyes soften in comprehension.  Every step that an official Fett family member takes right now counts as a move against the Pykes, but you’re not official.  You’re just you.  You follow Din and see him hovering with Paz in Woves’ periphery, both men holding their shoulders taut and their fists clenched.  You slip between them easily and slide your hand over Din’s fist, his hand relaxes instinctively and opens to hold yours.  You look up at him with a gentle expression while giving his hand a reassuring squeeze and watch as the tension melts from his handsome features and rolls off his body.  He seems to calm and understand the situation at your touch.  Your other arm links through Paz’s and he looks down at you, surprised at your appearance.  You watch as his expression and stance also soften under your calm hands.  He and Din look at each other, comprehension passing between them and they turn in unison and walk away.  You continue to move closer to the action, picking up your casserole dish which has a lone three garlic knots remaining, and you gently push it into Mayfeld’s hands as you come up next to him; at your encouraging smile, he also seems to come to – grinning back and trotting off in the opposite direction while stuffing his face.  Suddenly you’re not the only figure that’s weaving between the figures still locked the stand-off; Cass and Rikard have come over to pat the arms of the uncle twins, telling them that this isn’t anything to get worked up about.  Poe throws his arm around Jimmy's shoulders in a playful manner, and you hear Lisa’s voice call from the deck, “I’m turning on this chocolate fountain now, and I expect every person here to help me clear this dessert station!”

There’s a beat of silence before Marg calls out, “Is there any more Caesar salad?”  Everyone laughs and just like that, the tension is broken.  Even Gorak and Woves stand down, and although they don’t make nice, they both turn to head in with everyone else; Marg’s steady hand on Gorak’s shoulder keeping him at a distance from the Mando.

Din’s waiting for you at the base of the stairs, wrapping his arm around your waist as you file up the stairs with everyone else; you nuzzle you head a little into Din’s shoulder and half jokingly say, “Is this really a good time to be giving everyone fruit skewered on pointy sticks?”

Din turns when he hears a belly roaring laugh at your joke coming from one of the Pyke uncles, and looks down to see you turn and give the man a heart stopping smile and wink.  He can’t believe it - you cheeky flirt, he thinks, making a rival family member fall in love with you.

Inside, you load up two dessert plates for yourself and Din and bring them to a side counter where he’s chatting quietly with Boba.  You’re almost hesitant to interrupt but when you slide the heavy plates onto the marble, Boba smiles big at you.  He hands you Mochi and then places both his hands on your shoulders and leans in to kiss your forehead, “You did good, my dear.”

You scrunch up your face in mild embarrassment, “Oh, I mean… it’s okay…” not sure what to say so you just start feeding Mochi strawberries.  Boba looks at Din and reiterates, “She did good.”

“Yeah,” Din echos softly, his eyes watching you with a mixture of pride and love.

---

After stuffing your faces with dessert, you and Din escape to the backyard for a private moment and to avoid Lisa’s attempts to force more food on your plates.  Finding the seats around the roaring fire pit empty, you sit with your back against the corner piece, legs draped over Din’s as he pulls you close.  Foreheads pressed together, he kisses you gently and sweetly, not wanting things to get too heated should the two of you be interrupted.

“Thank you, pretty bird,” says Din quietly.

“For what?”

Din looks thoughtful, even though he’s the one that brought it up, “I don’t know how you do it.  You bring the calm.”

You confess and joke simultaneously, “Do I really?  I have to admit, I don't always feel very calm. Are you sure I don't bring the chaos?”

Din pinches your thigh with love, “I’m serious, baby.  Somehow you melt away all the stress and make me see clearer.  Not just me either, saw you do the same thing to Paz tonight.”

You give him a little kiss and nuzzle his nose, whispering conspiratorially, “... you make it sound like I have powers.”

“Whatever it is, you bring me back to myself when I need it the most.  I love you, pretty girl.”

“I love you too, Din.  I love that I can do that for you, soothe you and bring a sense of calm.  You do that for me too, you know?  You’re my rock, baby.”

Din presses his lips to your, beckoning you to open up to him and when you do, he lightly strokes your tongue with his, eliciting a low groan from the back of your throat that you think might be too scandalous for this barbeque.  Pulling away slightly, you nibble a little on Din’s lower lip before tucking yourself into your favourite nook under his jaw and shyly bring up something you’ve been thinking about for a while, “You know, Din… if you’re ever stressed or have had a hard day, and you need something more than a calming touch, you can… use me?”

“Hmmmm?” Din looks down at you, not sure if he’s understanding.

Feeling timid under his piercing gaze, you press on but keep your face pressed to Din’s neck so you don’t make eye contact with him, “Like… if you’re frustrated, and you need to take it out on some… one.  I can take it.  Let me absorb all the bad… and like you said, melt it away.”

You feel Din’s hard swallow before he gives a little cough, “Pretty bird, are you saying you want me to take out my frustrations by fucking them into you?”

You nod, “If you need to, Din.  You can use me for stress relief.”  Finally having the courage to look up at him, you find Din's eyes warm and loving as he whispers just one phrase, “Dream girl,” before descending on your mouth again.

Your kissing is sensual and open, a connection between two people who have no secrets and can be their purest, most vulnerable selves with each other.  Din’s touch is tender and reverent and you worship him right back, letting him know you’re there and you can be whatever he needs, whenever he needs it - you love him so much.  The two of you don’t break apart for a long time, not even when people start spilling back into the backyard. 

---

The evening ends an hour or so later with everyone leaving on pleasant terms.  You’re thanked again for both the salad dressing and your help with the upcoming wedding.  A final toast is given by Boba to the happy couple and it warms your heart deeply to see two people so in love and so steadfast in their commitment to face and conquer adversity together.  The cheers elicited are joyous and genuine, the evening a great success.

Walking back to Din’s truck, hand in hand, you’re sated with good food and drinks, carrying the festive feel of the evening with you as you hum a little tune to yourself.  Din trails a little behind you, filled with a surge of pride for all that you are. 

And that you’re his. 

He’s parked about fifteen cars away from the Dameron residence, a little past the last house on this block where the road rounds into a large turnabout bordered with lush trees and other flora and fauna meticulously maintained by the neighbourhood HOA.  He hadn’t meant to park so far but now he’s glad he’s got you away from the prying eyes of Poe’s neighbours and their porch cams. 

While you may currently be carefree and lighthearted, Din is full of deep emotion.  He’s overwhelmingly proud, in love, and awestruck.  His head is full of you.  You, you, you.  His admiration isn’t new: you’re sweet and funny, smart and kind - he’s always been proud just to know someone like you, and even prouder to be with you, to be the one you choose.  But tonight is different, it’s a different type of esteem – one that threatens to explode out of his chest.  You.  You’re it for him.  He never thought he would find someone like you.  Someone who could fit so seamlessly into his life, into his world, and make both better.  You helped.  You were sweet and kind and giving to everyone.  You brought calm.  You made things good.  And you were his. 

He had believed you all those months ago when said you wouldn’t judge him or his family, but you did more than that: you accepted them as your own too.  Yes, you did it for him, but it was really just who you are.  Loving.  Giving.  You brought calm to all their chaos.  You made things brighter.  You made them stronger.  Him better.  He loves you so much right now he thinks he’s going to burn up.

As soon as you reach his truck, Din grabs you by the waist and spins you so you’re facing him and he pushes you into the side of the car, arm bracing the back window to cushion your head.

“Di-!”

His lips put a stop to your words as they crash against yours.  Normally so gentle and asking of permission, Din’s mouth is an unstoppable force tonight, kissing you as if there’s an overflowing pressure building inside him and kissing you is his one release valve.  An unashamed moan works its way up from your throat, escaping only when Din moves his aggressive kisses to your jaw and neck, leaving you opened-mouthed and panting.

“Oooohh, fuck!  Din, baby, what are you doing? Oh- god, that feels so good,” eyes closed, you’re already arching into him, pulling him closer to you by the back of his neck.

Din’s hand that isn’t cradling your head is on a frantic journey down your body.  He needs you now.  The current state of his feelings is running too deep, he can’t seem to articulate it to you or even himself - he has to show you.  Triumphantly, he finds the tie to your dress and pulls, causing half of the front of your dress to fall open, “Din!  We’re out in the open!”

Clawing down your partially exposed body, clamouring to find the inside tie that separate him from your soft body, Din pauses only to pull you away from the car so he can unlock the door; as soon as it opens, he walks you backwards and hops you up onto the seat, scooting you back so your legs dangle out the door. 

“There,” Din says huskily, as he finds the little knot on the right inside seam of your dress and tugs so it unfurls, “you aren’t out in the open anymore.”  He spreads apart the fabric of your dress so that you’re presented to him in your pretty pink mesh and ruffles lingerie set; he sucks in his breath. 

“Just for you, daddy,” you coo.  You knew Din wouldn’t be expecting something so flirty and naughty under the dress you had picked for what was supposed to be a casual and wholesome family event.

“Fuck.”  With his big mitt of a hand, Din pushes you down and lowers himself on top of you, nipping at your breasts and teething at your nipples through the soft sheer fabric of your bra.  He’s not gentle; he has something to declare tonight, and soft and sweet just won’t do the job.  His hands paw at your tits while he continues to tug and twist with his mouth; you’re writhing and whimpering beneath him, body set alight - the thought flashes through your arousal muddled mind that you might actually come just from nipple play alone tonight.

Then Din’s gone, mouth and hands traveling down your body, bending his knees and bracing them on the baseboard of his truck, Din kisses your navel and trails his nose down the front of your panties, “Mmm, so fucking sweet, pretty girl.”

“Din!  Pleas-please,” you cry out, turned on out of your mind by the debauched imagery of your bare legs hanging out of the car while Din presses his face to your cunt; you need him to touch you.

“You need daddy’s tongue, baby?”

You can only mewl and nod.

Din isn’t in the mood to tease tonight, he’s too pent up with near paralyzing feelings of veneration for you – he’s ready to worship.  Pulling back slightly so he’s face to face with the darkened spot on your panties, he hooks them to the side to take in your glistening pussy, watching it want and ache for him for just a moment before he dives in.

He devours you.  Tongue licking and stroking your slit, Din swirls the sticky mess already pooled into his mouth and stuffs it back into your cunt with his open mouth kisses.  You shudder and grab onto Din’s hair as he fucks his tongue into you, pressing him deeper as your hips start to move all on their own.

“Fuck – yes, ride my face, pretty bird.”

“Ngh – Daddy! Feels so good.  Love how your mouth feels on my needy pussy,” you moan as softly as you can so the sound doesn’t carry out the open car door.

As your hips start to buck a little harder, Din’s hands move back up your body and start worrying your nipples again; still sensitive from his attentions earlier, you gasp and arch your back, grazing your clit against Din’s nose.  You let loose a high-pitched whine, eyes flying open, “Daddy!  Right there!”

Grinning so hard you can feel it, Din continues to feast on your dripping hole but angles his face up so that his strong aquiline nose nudges your throbbing clit again.  Rewarded when your grasp on his brown curls tighten, he starts to prod your bud in a pattern, alternating between pressing and releasing, and drawing sloppy circles with the tip of his nose.  When he feels your legs start to shake and your walls start to clamp down on his tongue, Din speeds up his attentions on your bundle of nerves, burrowing his nose in deep and rubbing vigorously, shaking his entire head.  Your hands release Din’s hair at the onslaught and fly up to cover your face, as if you can somehow hide from what’s coming; when Din’s hands pull up on your nipples, you crest and scream – tumbling over the edge and letting yourself be carried away by the waves of your orgasm.

Arm now thrown over your eyes, you’re too focused on catching your breath to feel Din pulling your ass past the edge of the car seat and turning you over so your mouth is pressed into the warm leather.

Only after the tip toes of your shoes touch the asphalt does Din flips the skirt of your dress over your back, and that’s when you register the cool breeze of the night air hitting your ass.

Din spoons your bent over body and murmurs deep in your ear, “Gonna fuck you now, bunny.  Not going to be gentle, okay?”

Your eyes are still closed as you nod into the seat and whisper, “Okay, daddy.”

Din takes out his cock, already hard and weeping with precum, and slaps it against your creamy pussy - once, twice, three times; each slap causing you to give a little jump and shudder in anticipation of the incoming intrusion.

Chuckling darkly, Din notches the tip at your entrance and pushes in as he folds his body over yours, holding you close and pinning you down as he bottoms out.

As promised, it’s not gentle; but here, in the backseat of his truck, where his chest is flattened against your back and his face pressed to your hair, it’s intimate.  Rough and hard.  Loving and full of feeling.

Din’s voice is low and gruff in your ear - words of praise and all his overwhelming feelings spill out as he ruts into you at a demanding pace.

“Do you know how perfect you are, pretty bird?”

“You’re everything.” 

“My everything.”

He drives into you over and over, punching the air out of your lungs each time.  Whenever you inhale, Din captures your lips with his immediately after – as if trying to steal these breaths as well.  Fervent kisses the only break from his ongoing ramblings of praise:

“So proud you’re my girl.”

“You’re so good to me.  So good to my family.”

Thrust.  Thrust.  Slap.  Slap.

“You know how much Boba trusts you?  Trusts my perfect girl?  Talking about Mando business in front of you.” 

Thrust.

“You’re one of us, baby.” 

Slap. 

“My girl, welcomed into the fold.  Fuck – I’m so proud.”

The squelching noises of your wet cunt being punished reverberate through the truck’s cabin, accompanied by the percussion of slapping skin and an obscene harmony of grunts and moans.  You can only hope that your sinful symphony is confined to the car and not travelling through the otherwise silent neighbourhood.

“Fucking saving Poe’s ass and the entire BBQ with that fucking salad dressing.”

Sqlch. 

“You don’t even know how important you are and the things you do are.  You impressed the fucking Pykes, pretty girl.”

Sqlch. 

“Helping with the wedding?  You’re so sweet, so fucking sweet…”

Fwop.  Fwop.

Din’s weight continues to pin you down and crush your lungs in the best way possible.  Between the panting from the pounding your pussy is taking and the way your clit is twitching against the seam on the edge of the leather seats as Din ruts into you, you can hardly take a proper breath; the lack of oxygen is leaving you dizzy and light headed – you’re quickly barrelling towards oblivion again.

“You don’t even know, you don’t even know…”

“Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect…”

Thrust.  Huff.  Thrust.  Huff.

“You don’t just take care of me, you take care of my family… you accept my family.”

Thrust.  Thrust.

Din’s hips start to stutter, he’s close, so close. 

“You’re the only one.  The only one who can do what you do.”

Huff.

“You prevented that fight.”

Thrust.  Huff.

“You have me wrapped around your little finger, baby.”

You can barely draw enough breath to chant, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy...

“Not just me.  Paz. All the Mandos.”

Slap. Slap.

“Sexiest, most powerful woman there tonight.  Every night.”

Thrust.  Thrust.

“Pretty bird, what did I do to deserve you?”

Slap.  Slap.

“Don’t deserve you.”

Thrust.

“But you’re mine.”

Din’s babbling praise ends with the growl of that last, possessive proclamation and the contrast of his tone, the sheer power and darkness that laces the word ‘mine’ compared to the honey-dripped praise that’s been pouring from his mouth the whole time he rails you, snaps the tightly coiled band in your core and you come, clenching hard on Din’s length with a force that sends him straight to the moon.  He grunts and pants as he spills his seed deep, claiming you and clawing all he’s professed to love tonight for his own.

After lifting off of you to allow your breathing to even, Din wipes the sweat off his brow and looks around to make sure that your activities haven’t attracted the attention of any of Poe’s nosy neighbours.  Satisfied that the two of you are still alone, Din presses butterfly kisses down your spine before gently turning you over and helping you right your underwear and retying your dress the best he can.  You’re hot and tired, still drunk on the mind-blowing orgasm brought on by Din’s rough handling and his heavy praise.

Tenderly kissing you, Din murmurs, “Do you want to just lay down in the back seat, sweetheart?  You can sleep while I drive home.”

You shake your head drowsily, “No, I want to ride up front with you.  I like it when you hold my hand when you drive.” You’re smiling so sweetly at him, Din thinks his heart might explode.  He’s just laid his heart bare, practically smothering you with it and letting his all-consuming love burn you up, and you still want more of his touch.

Grinning like a fool, he buckles you into the front seat of his truck, “I love you, pretty bird.”

“I love you more, Din,” you purr back, eyes half closed, a soft, sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

After he closes your door, on his way to the driver’s side, he shakes his head to himself, Impossible.

[hana-no-seiiki]

Idk if this is a request or something but I just wanted to get it out there before I forget it. How would the batfam react to a batsis coming from the last of us universe?( the last of us is a zombie apocalypse type game.) How would they react to all of batsis PTSD from being born in a world over ran by zombie’s and learning to survive at a young age. How would they help them? How would they react if they ever were transported to there(batsis) world?

Sorry for this random ask I just wanted to get this out there before I forget about it. Anyway hope you have a great week!

SOFT YANDERE BATFAM x THE LAST OF US! READER BRAINROT

Recently had a TLOU brainrot (at this point it’s more of a heartrot with how devastating the story is eugh) so this came at a perfect timing. I’m guessing batsib (I’ll make it gn I hope you don’t mind anon) has a similar life to elle if they’re not just elle entirely.

I think Batsib would have to be close to the boys before they eventually spill their guts (aka their severe trauma out).

Like when they’re at least 60% there on the yan scale of things.

They see signs like you being hella adamant on the boys at least trying to fix their relationship with Bruce since you know the most out of everyone how it feels to lose a father figure.

You’re the closest with Jason purely because you both have baggage, and luckily you like to talk about it and sort it out.

Your whole life had been the apocalypse so going to Gotham and seeing everything in its prime fascinated you. When the Batfam first took you in due to your status as an anomaly, it took very little to impress you.

But it also took a lot to terrify you.

If we’re going full on Ellie! Reader here then them (batfam) seeing that huge bite mark on your arms, presumably after you’ve dumped info on your past and your reality, almost turned them feral.

It was that moment they decided to never let you go back.

You’re allowed to join them with their vigilante activities as long as you were under strict surveillance.

Bruce is kind of off-put by your nonchalance when it comes to beating up people to a pulp. He had to jump in and stop you from completely killing a dude.

Jason on the other hand approves. Definitely eggs you on.

The rest of the boys, as is my headcannon with any violent MC, get turned on when they see you covered in blood.

In summary, they definitely cherish you more. The spoiling is dialed up to eleven. And since you didn’t know much of the world prior to its apocalypse state, they wouldn’t lock you up like in most cases and instead bring you to explore as much as you’d like.

There is a sick part of them that enjoys your PTSD and how dependent (and distrusting of others) you can be because of it. So unless it gets really bad where you can’t get sleep at all I can see them just not trying to get help for you.

ON THE MORE WHOLESOME SIDE:

I am now imagining reader going to a museum with them all and just climbing the fossil in front of like dozens of people while screaming “LOOK AT ME I’M ON A MOTHERFUCKING DINOSAURRRR!”

Bruce definitely had to pay a lot for that

and all the younger ones + Dick cause he’s Dick throwing fedora hats on all the dinos??? please im on my knees that’s too cute augh-

If they were ever transported in your world, it’d definitely be the other way around. Say you aren’t like Ellie and are completely susceptible to the infection- oof you might as well just be in jail.

They’ll disinfect everything. Masks 24/7. Generally just extremely careful as to not get infected or infect you in any shape or form.

Tim has already researched on fungal infections so you bet he’s ready. Wouldn’t be surprised if he single-handedly ends the apocalypse with how thorough he was. Him, Dick, and Alfred focus more on taking care of you.

Jason and Damian are more with survival and the annihilation of anything that may be dangerous to you within the vicinity. May it be zombies, thieves, the military and what not.

Bruce is probably tinkering on more equipment and helping Tim with actually getting rid of the fungi. The former will definitely use his charm and looks to get more supplies.

In short, these dudes have everything on lockdown.

You’ll wish you didn’t come back to your original world.

A.N. I hope this was to your liking anon!

[danaewrites]

Helmet Over Heels

part ii: metal man with a backup plan

din djarin x reader // read it on AO3

word count: 6.4k

summary:  When your path literally collides with a beskar-covered Mandalorian one night, neither of you expect how that meeting will irreversibly change the trajectory of your lives. 

You’re pulled into his powerful orbit, agreeing to take care of his son in exchange for adventure and freedom– when he’s not off hunting bounties and inadvertently saving villages in need, that is. It’s the perfect plan. Or it would be, if only your quiet crush on the man would stop growing into something more with every hour you spend together. There’s no way he’d ever feel the same, right?

And Din? Well, he’s been trying (and failing) to convince himself that he’s not completely helmet over heels for you since day one. But a Mandalorian can only repress his emotions for so long…

(This fic takes place sometime after Season 2. Din’s back on his bounty-hunting business with a Razor Crest that was never destroyed and an adorable green sidekick who won’t stop chewing on its wires.)

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, slow-ish burn, nicknames, touch-starved din djarin and fem!reader, canon-compliant through season 2 and then Jesus takes the wheel :P

author's notes:

i think this fic set a writing record for me lol (10.2k words in two weeks? with a regular posting schedule?! unheard of!) many more chapters to come... i have so much planned for these two <3

read it all here: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v coming soon!

You didn’t see the Mandalorian again for weeks.

You weren’t missing him, exactly. Sure, the droning noise of your coworkers’ voices seemed just a bit more dull in comparison to the baby’s sweet giggles, and Maker knew none of your regulars were ever up for lively banter, but rule number one in this galaxy was to never get too attached. Especially to mysterious strangers who left quicker than you could say ‘mudscuffer’ and more likely than not would stay gone. Despite knowing that, your foolish imagination hadn’t received the memo, and you kept finding yourself wondering what the beskar-plated man and his tiny son were doing somewhere out there in space. His ship must have been fixed, since you hadn’t seen any unfamiliar spacecraft when you strolled past Sanna’s shop the other day. In a temporary moment of weakness, you wished you knew what it looked like so you could casually fish for information about it from off-planet travelers at the cantina. Then again, asking questions could bring unwanted attention to the odd pair, so perhaps it was better for all of you that your curiosities remained unsolved. 

You’d woken up the morning after the storm to an empty cantina with every doorway blocked by two metres of snow. You weren’t sure how he��d managed to get out without disturbing the squeaky hinges of the shutters, but the Mandalorian had left the place completely untouched except for the bag of credits–far heavier than you deserved– on the bar. Your eyes had widened to the size of the two empty soup bowls next to it when you counted how much was in the pouch. Kriff, what sort of cosmic royalty was he, with this much money to spare on a cantina waitress? You remembered the bright glint of his armor in the moonlight, belatedly recognizing the characteristic sign of pure-cast metal. Beskar alloys were far from cheap, but pure beskar? If you had so much as a thimble-sized piece of it, you could afford passage off this planet fifteen times over. You huffed out a breath, shaking your head with a tiny smile. Well, that meant that he definitely still had enough saved to take care of the kid after his not-so-small gift, so you grudgingly allowed yourself to enjoy having a few extra credits for once.

The credits he’d left you weren’t enough to buy a ride off-world, but they’d pay for this month’s heating bill and a nicer set of clothes while you put the rest of your paycheck towards a future ticket. The extra money emboldened you to go shopping for the first time since you arrived on Nath– which was why you were currently weaving through the narrow streets of the Solstice Market, hoping to find a decent textile shop amongst the booths that lined this alley. You brushed past the promenade of young couples holding hands despite the cold (as well as significantly more haggard-looking spouses holding pouty children), awed by how the bright colours and loud haggling around you seemed to brighten Nath’s dreary atmosphere for a moment.

Your steps slowed to an abrupt stop as you heard a quiet chiming coming from your left. You turned to see a pocket-sized holospeaker sitting on a rickety display table, shaped like a mildly deformed egg and covered in twisting silver filigree. The booth worker looked hopeful as you eyed the far more impressive–and expensive–metalworks arranged in front of the small item, but quickly slumped back to dazed boredom as your fingers traced the rounded object instead. The speaker was dented and each note vibrated for slightly too long, but the melody it produced reminded you of the Odalian lullabies your mother had sung to you as a child. Stars, you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed her voice, soothing you with ballads of true love and tragedy until you fell asleep with the stories etched into your dreams. You blinked back the water that threatened to fill your eyes as you hummed along to the soft music, love and grief welling up between your ribs with a gentle ache. 

That was how the Mandalorian found you– eyes half-closed, your head gently bent toward the tiny instrument. You were so lost in your memories that you didn’t register his awkward presence until a tiny green hand poked your side. You gasped, instincts learned from years of working in a rowdy cantina kicking in as you reflexively threw a punch at the offending party. The Mandalorian immediately shifted to shield the giggling child, a move that was good for the kid’s health but rather unfortunate for your knuckles. 

“Kriff, metal man, you could’ve said something,” you wheezed out, rubbing your throbbing hand where it’d met unforgiving beskar. The kid gurgled happily up at you from his position in the bag. Apparently, your newest injury was the most amusing thing he’d seen all day. 

You pouted exaggeratedly at him, reaching to ruffle the wiry hair that floated above his floppy ears with affection. “Sorry about that, bug. Didn’t think I’d see you again,” you spoke softly, giving his very shiny father a subtle once-over in the daylight. The Mandalorian was taller and broader than you’d remembered from that dark night in the cantina– something that definitely did not cause your stomach to twist with interest. His armor appeared to have been polished sometime recently, and you stole a moment to admire the pride with which he wore the gleaming beskar. The effort he’d put in to maintain the parts of his appearance that were visible to the outside world was obvious (and strangely attractive, if you were being honest.) You briefly wondered whether he was as well-kept underneath the armor, but realized your mistake when that question brought a whole host of dangerous ideas to mind. Stars, why did you continually do this to yourself? You immediately shoved any daydreams of what he might look like behind that helmet somewhere far, far away lest a traitorous flush reappear on your cheeks. 

“I need to talk to you,” the Mandalorian in question stated, distracting you from your quickly-spiraling thoughts. You glanced up at him inquisitively but allowed him to steer you away from the busy crowds. 

“Nice to see you, too,” you grumbled once you had reached a reasonable distance away from the market. “What happened to hello, how are you, sorry I left and didn’t even leave a note saying how I got past the shutter locks.”

The Mandalorian turned to face you, cocking his head. “I left you the credits, didn’t I?”

You opened your mouth, retort poised on the tip of your tongue, but then thought better of it. Probably not a good idea to risk the generosity that brought you to this market in the first place. “Okay, you win that one.” 

The Mandalorian ignored your rare moment of surrender, rolling his shoulders back and stepping closer to you in a fluid movement that had more of an effect on you than you wanted to admit. “I need you to look after the kid.”

O-kayy then. Straight to business. 

“I have a job here, I can’t take him with me– it's too dangerous.” 

“A job?” Your brows furrowed as you considered what work he could possibly be doing here. People here either worked in the ice fishing huts or in one of Nath’s many depressingly ugly oil processing factories, and neither of those occupations seemed right for the intimidating man in front of you. You crossed your arms, only partially teasing. “You mean you have things to do besides scaring innocent waitresses half-out of their skin?”

The Mandalorian scanned the area around you, then subtly pulled a small metal object out of the leather holster slung around his hips. You leaned over to see the unmistakable blinking red light of a tracking fob resting in the palm of his dark glove. 

Oh. That explained the money, then. Bounty hunting— through the Guild, if the emblem on the device was anything to go by— had shot up in popularity after the Empire fell and the New Republic needed good mercenaries to capture the remaining Imperial loyalists. You’d bet a decent amount of credits that this hunter wouldn’t balk at capturing a few Imps, with the way he’d spat out the name of the Empire as if it poisoned him when you first met. Personal vendetta or not, you respected anyone who was brave enough to give them the justice they deserved for the destruction their reign had brought to the galaxy. 

You bit your lip, considering. You had already made up your mind to take care of the child when he suggested it, but he didn’t need to know that. “How long would you need to leave him with me for?”

“A day, at most. Shouldn’t take too long, I’ve been stalking the quarry for a while.” The Mandalorian continued. “I can pay you well for your time.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You still owe me a story, you know.” Bending over, you reached into the Mandalorian’s bag and gently picked up the child, careful not to snag his tiny tunic on the metal clasps. “C’mere, bug. Looks like you and I are going to get to know each other.”

A thought popped into your head as you stared down at the small green baby. “Does he have a name?” 

The armored man in front of you spoke with gruff pride, “His name is Grogu.” He seemed unexpectedly pleased at your question; you supposed he didn’t have many opportunities to talk about his son very often, with the literal wall his armor created in social interactions.

You watched in surprise as Grogu twisted towards the Mandalorian at the sound of his voice, cooing happily. “You like the sound of your name, huh?” Clearly, the kid adored him, and for good reason. The stoic warrior had an obvious soft spot for the little guy.

Speaking of which… You eyed the man in front of you. “You know, it’s generally polite to have introduced yourself by now, metal man. It’s getting a little weird to keep thinking of you as The Big, Nameless Suit of Beskar,” you teased. 

You beamed up at him innocently and spoke your name, extending your hand towards him. “See? Not so hard. Now it’s your turn,” you explained slowly, as if you were trying to teach a toddler to sound out the alphabet. 

After several tortuously long seconds, during which your outstretched hand began to waver slightly, he finally responded. “Most people just call me Mando.” 

You dropped your arm, flexing your fingers. Ah, well, you could work on the handshake bit later. “Mando.” You hummed at the way the name easily rolled off your tongue, absently registering how the man stiffened at the lilting sound. “Not as scary as the outfit, but it’ll have to do.”

The M–Mando shrugged off the strange, momentary stillness that had possessed him and began retreating closer to the throng of marketgoers. “You’ll be alright with the kid?”

You rolled your eyes, affirming your ability to take care of Grogu while he handled business. Mando gave a quick nod and turned, preparing to leave. You took the moment to swipe the holospeaker out of the child’s hands– how had he gotten ahold of that?– and scanned the market for a booth that he might like. You still couldn’t find a textile shop in your line of sight, but you noticed a tiny arts and crafts area that seemed perfect for him to play in. 

You looked up to find the Mandalorian still standing nearby, helmet tilted towards you as he paused. “For your.. story. He likes shiny toys– he’s always unscrewing bits of the ship to play with when I’m not looking.” He pulled a small metal ball out of his holster and tossed it over to you. “This is his favorite.”

You turned the sphere over in your hand, smiling as the baby immediately reached for it. “I wonder why,” you mused, giving his silver-plated father a pointed look. “Must remind him of somebody.” 

Mando huffed a surprised laugh out through the modulator, helmet angled with new interest in the green child deeply entranced by the reflective surface of the ball. “Never thought of it like that before,” he muttered as he walked away, sparing you a short wave before he disappeared in the crowd.

You watched him go with a poorly-hidden grin, balancing Grogu on your hip as you navigated a path back into the market. “Alright, bug, let’s go have some fun.”

***

You spent the rest of the afternoon browsing countless booths with your charge, picking up little trinkets here and there. You eventually left with a respectable amount of merchandise– a pad of paper and coloring supplies for Grogu, a new tunic set, and even a sachet of Hothberry tea leaves that were rumored to keep one warm for hours after just one sip. Nothing for Mando, although the thought had crossed your mind more than once. You began your return home, carrying the cooing green child under streetlamps that twinkled warmly as the sky gradually darkened. He’d behaved so well all afternoon that you gave in and bought a sweetgrain scone to share on the long walk back.

You spent very few minutes setting your purchases in your rental pod upon your arrival. Grogu was getting fussy despite the snack, and you realized that Mando had never told you a meeting place where he’d pick him up. You decided to just bring Grogu along to your evening shift at the cantina, since that would likely be the first place he’d look and you didn’t want to be blamed for disappearing with his child. Sure enough, the Mandalorian showed up soon after the sun sunk beneath the icy horizon with another bag of credits and armor that was slightly more scuffed than the last time you’d seen it. You smiled, handing him his sleepy but satisfied son and the art supplies you’d picked up.

Mando had stared at the bundle of gifts for longer than necessary and for a moment you worried that you had offended him somehow. When he looked back at you, though, your fears were calmed by his intensely genuine tone. “Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.” He carefully placed the items in his bag. You smiled as he tried– and failed– to wrest the metal ball from Grogu’s tiny hands, despite the child looking seconds from passing out.  

Your eyes darted to the gradually cooling bowl of soup in front of him, which hadn’t been touched since he sat down. You cleared your throat awkwardly. “Is, um, something wrong with the food? Because I didn’t see you touch it last time, and I can make something else if you need, but.. you have to tell me.”

The Mandalorian remained silent, and you doubted whether he had heard your small-voiced question when he finally spoke. “I cannot remove my helmet in front of others. It is the Way,” he explained carefully, watching your response. 

Your eyes widened in comprehension as you considered his statement. The library datapad had frustratingly little information on Mandalorian culture, and you’d never heard of this rule until now. If he couldn’t remove the helmet… how long had it been since he had the chance to eat or drink without the kid nearby? Between taking care of Grogu and tracking bounties, you assumed that there was very little time for him to find a secluded area to remove the beskar. You nodded decisively to yourself, grabbing his soup bowl and motioning for him to follow you. 

“What are you doing?” His voice was curious, alert but not apprehensive of your actions.

You swiveled to face him, keys dangling from one hand and a focused expression on your face. “We have a storage room for the non-perishable food back here. If you want to eat there, I can make sure that no one comes in for a while,” you explained, leading him to a cramped, dimly lit room with pallets of sandgrain flour forming a makeshift table next to a small folding chair.

“Is this.. okay?” You spoke hesitantly when he stilled at your words. Kriff, you hoped you hadn’t implied something insulting when you’d unthinkingly offered the room. You grimaced as your brain kicked into overdrive, spinning like a frightened sand massif at the first possibility of a mistake. 

“I know it’s small, and I understand if you’d rather—”

“It’s perfect,” Mando interrupted you, stumbling slightly over the rushed words. “There are– many who would try to remove my helmet.” His voice lowered, edged slightly with wonder. “Thank you for allowing me to maintain my Creed.” 

He stood there for a moment, helmet tilted intently down at you. His hands lingered for a fraction of a second, tough leather brushing powder-soft skin as he gently set Grogu in your arms. When he shut the door, you leaned against the doorframe as quietly as you could, still feeling the ghost of his touch on the hands pressed to your heated cheeks.

***

And so you fell into a routine: every few weeks, Mando would come by with the kid and leave him with you for a few hours while he tracked down another bounty. When he returned, you’d invite him into the back for a warm meal, allowing him to eat alone in peace for a few minutes while Grogu thawed the icy hearts of your patrons with his mischievous coos. He always arrived after nightfall and never spent longer than an hour in the cantina. Well, except for the one time he’d accidentally fallen asleep in the small room. You’d gone to check on him once you finally cleared out the evening’s customers. It was clear that he’d been napping by his scratchy, startled response when you knocked softly on the door– emphasized even more by his embarrassed posture when he exited. Privately, you thought it was rather endearing, so you chose not to tease him about the momentary lapse in consciousness. 

You’d gotten used to his schedule, your semi-frequent meetings becoming a habit you were quite fond of maintaining. So when you didn’t see Mando for several weeks longer than predicted, you began to feel worried. Your heart twinged at the thought that maybe he’d found someone more interesting than a cantina waitress to look after Grogu, someone who didn’t live on an icy prison planet a parsec removed from civilization. And yet– Mando hadn’t hinted that he’d be stopping his visits, and his job was dangerous and unpredictable. Your mind swam with visions of him spiraling through space, unconscious and battered, ship engines sputtering out flame. You started taking earlier shifts at the cantina, pushing down thoughts of him before they ate at you more than they should for a casual acquaintance. 

Which is why you were shocked when Mando appeared in the doorway one afternoon, silhouetted by the bright daytime sun for the first time.

A momentary hush descended upon the cantina, quickly turning into a roar of nervous chatter when the imposing beskar figure sat down at the end of the bar. You muttered an excuse to your coworkers and rushed over, trying to look casual as you scanned his armor. It looked considerably worse than it had the last time you saw him, scuffed and covered in frozen mud– but his movements didn’t seem impaired by injury. You let out a tiny huff of relief, the sound catching the attention of the Mandalorian. 

He nodded at you, straightening. You sent him a small smile as you tossed him the cantina menu. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” you said, as casually as you could manage. 

“Miss me?” You couldn’t see his face, but you would bet every credit of your tips today that he was smirking under that kriffing helmet. You gaped at him, then recovered yourself with a haughty toss of your head, letting your hair fall in a curtain before your face so he wouldn’t see your flustered expression. 

“Don’t know why I would. I only tolerate you for your son, you know,” you sniffed, placing your hands on your hips. 

He let out a surprised, genuine laugh at that, and your face warmed at the deep sound. You felt a heady rush of pride at being able to pull the reaction from the normally reserved man, fighting the desire to do whatever it took to hear it again. You quickly brushed that thought aside, however, when you took in the empty bag slung across his torso, frowning at the noticeable absence of Grogu’s big ears. 

The Mandalorian followed your trailing glance. “I don’t have the kid,” he said, tone edged with a hint of frustration as he adjusted his gloves. “Kriffing Imps,” he muttered.

You paled. Imperials? “Is he–”

Mando’s helmet snapped up at the panicked tone of your voice. “No, he’s safe. Left him with a friend,” he explained. “Someone’s been following me on this bounty— maybe another Imperial remnant. Didn’t want to risk him.”

Tension bled out of your posture at his words, but your eyebrows remained knit together in confusion. “So if you’re not here to drop off the kid…” you started slowly. “What brings you back to Nath? Since you obviously didn’t stop by just to say hello,” you asked, giving him a pointed look. 

Mando tilted his head in acknowledgement. Apparently, that was the closest thing you were getting to an apology. Oh, well.

“Wish I knew,” he muttered. “Chased the quarry across the galaxy for weeks, don’t know why he stopped here when there’s more populated places. It’s like he wants to be found.”

You sucked in your bottom lip, absentmindedly scrubbing at a sticky puddle of spotchka on the counter. “You think it’s a trap?”

He gave a small shrug, subtly flicking something on his helmet and scanning the room. “Not sure.” He turned back to you, posture tensed. “Somethin’ doesn’t feel right, though. Keep your eyes open and get out if there’s trouble.”

You nodded, wiping a pair of dusty glasses to make it look like you were doing something more than eyeing the half-full cantina with hidden trepidation. You felt it too– the strange quiet of the wind brushing past the shutters, the way your hair stood up on your skin. 

Minutes later, a Trandoshan sauntered into the cantina and took the seat beside Mando, who immediately stilled. He grinned lecherously at you, motioning for a drink. You poured a glass of spotchka and handed it over, grimacing at the feeling of his eyes trailing down your torso like cold slime. “Thanks, honey,” he drawled, scaly hand scraping your wrist in a menacing caress. You stiffened, but chose not to respond, focusing back on the dishes. This wasn’t the first time you’d been harassed by a customer, but until now no one had dared to do so in front of the beskar-clad man sitting in front of you. Your frequent proximity to the intimidating figure seemed to cow the usual crowd into something adjacent to manners– something you missed during the weeks he was away. 

“Heard you were looking for me,” he spoke affably to the Mandalorian beside him. The hulking lizard raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, smirking. Mando remained silent, hands tightened around his glass, and you wondered why he hadn’t already tied up the bounty and left. The Trandoshan’s sly confidence around his hunter made you shift uneasily. Something was very, very wrong.

“See, I got a lot of credits, and you seem reasonable,” the Trandoshan spoke casually. “I know the bounty’s not worth what I can offer you, so how about we make a deal?”

Mando shifted slightly, the beskar plate on his forearm glinting. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold. Your choice.” His voice sounded through the modulator, deep and calm with a predator’s poise. “How’s that for a deal?”

The Trandoshan let out a harsh laugh. “Shame you wouldn’t bargain,” he said with mock regret. He twisted his hand up in the air, and you watched as nine more Trandoshans slunk out of the shadows of the cantina booths. The rest of the patrons quieted as they watched the tense scene, the smart ones making their excuses and leaving in a hurry. You were no stranger to bar fights, but they’d never escalated past a couple of drunken punches and a firm boot to the curb for all involved. This one, though… it seemed like it might get deadly.

“My friends and I’ve heard something about a Mandalorian bounty hunter. One who’s got a nice, fat Imperial price tag on his head,” he sneered, spit flying from his mouth. “Think that’d be a fair replacement for mine.” 

Mando turned his helmet oh-so-slightly towards you, making the tiniest nod towards the door. Go, he seemed to be telling you, and you inched towards the kitchen–

Your breath caught in your throat as you eyed the lizards closing in around him. You were sure he was a seasoned warrior, but ten armored adversaries at once seemed a little much for one person. You couldn’t help him fight, but… maybe you could distract them long enough for him to gain the element of surprise.

Before you could talk yourself out of your quickly-made plan, you grabbed a tulip-shaped flute of algarine bubbly and stepped up to the orange Tradoshan you’d served earlier with a coquettish smile. “On the house,” you said, passing him the glass with a bat of your lashes you hoped came across as sincere. You felt ill at the way his eyes rested greedily on the sliver of your chest exposed by your lean across the bar, but it appeared that you’d momentarily distracted him. If only you could get his friends’ attention, too… 

You glanced around, searching for anything you could use to cause a scene– pointedly ignoring the way Mando’s gloved hands twitched at your movement closer to the dangerous humanoid. Trust me, you mentally pleaded with him. I’m trying to help.

Your eyes finally fell on the spotchka situated uncomfortably close to your elbow. Perfect. You gave the Trandoshan a ditzy giggle, swaying like you were entranced by his gaze as you quickly jabbed the large pitcher. You gasped in fake horror as it shattered, spraying alcohol over most of the floor and onto the three closest lizards. The group swiveled at the disruption, venomous glares shifting to you instead of the armored man they were gathered around. 

“Oops,” you smiled, sugary-sweet and innocent. “Sorry, honey.”

And then Mando did something with his arm, flexing out his vambrace in a motion so quick you didn’t register it until flames shot across the alcohol on the bar and onto the scales of the Tradoshans. He immediately snapped into action as they roared in shocked pain, twisting and shooting as they fell one at a time. You admired his agile form for a moment, awed by how precise his movements were, how easily he moved into the flow of fighting like it was a second skin. A moment too long, it seemed, because you snapped your gaze away from Mando to see the orange Tradoshan bearing down on you. 

“Fucking bitch,” he hissed, eyes bulging with hatred as he lunged across the counter. Your eyes widened as you ducked backwards, intending to stumble into the safety of the kitchen but slamming into the unforgiving wall instead. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you chided yourself, stomach dropping as you scrambled to get your bearings through the surge of pain paralyzing your muscles. You didn’t know how to fight–should’ve run for cover the minute the spotchka hit the floor, honestly– and instead you just stood there like a kriffing nerf herder. 

You cried out at the impact of the Tradoshan’s sharply-scaled fist scraping your cheek, gasping and flinching away from the hit you were sure would land next between your ribs. He hissed at you through jagged teeth, sour breath like acid on your face. He cocked his blaster and you twisted yourself, preparing to launch into one final, defiant attack–

A blur of silver slammed into the orange lizard, knocking him off of you with a violent crash. You heard his bony nose break with a crack, followed by what sounded like an entire charge cartridge’s worth of blaster shots. You pushed yourself off the floor, wincing at the throb of pain that echoed at your temples but steeling yourself to get up nonetheless. Your mouth parted at the sight of the cantina, booths ablaze and blaster shots ringing through the smoky air.

Mando shouted your name over the commotion, sharp and intense. “Are you–”

“Fine. I’m fine,” you wheezed out in a relieved sob as he made his way over to you. “We need to go, the fire–”

“I know,” he muttered as he hooked an arm around your torso and dragged you behind a countertop, shielding you with his armor. “They’ve blocked the doors. Windows, too– I got seven of them, but the others are trying to burn us out.” 

“Please tell me you have a backup plan,” you begged, narrowly avoiding a stray charge that chipped the already-fragile cabinet. It would only be a matter of minutes before your feeble cover fell, and you didn’t feel like waiting around for more Tradoshans to show up.

The Mandalorian shrugged, gesturing to the fireplace in front of you. “It worked the first time.”

Your jaw dropped, anxiety momentarily forgotten. “Metal man. Are you saying that on your first night here… you left through the chimney?!”

“It’s very comfortable,” was all he said as he swung you over onto the hearth, casually shooting backwards at the face of a Trandoshan peering through a crack in the cantina door. From the muffled sound of something hitting the steps, his aim was flawless.

You gaped at him, speechless with disbelief. Was he… teasing you? If he was trying to distract you from the pain shooting across your face, it was definitely working. “Oh, no, everything’s fine, I’m just escaping a crime scene with an apparent madman,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head at the absurdity of the situation. “Don’t know how I could’ve missed the simplest way out of here.”

No wonder you hadn’t woken up when he left– he hadn’t so much as touched the very reasonable idea of opening the shutters to get out. No, the kriffing chimney was the most obvious next step. With that kind of creativity, you supposed it made sense that he’d stayed alive in the bounty hunting business for so long. The mental image of the big, stoic Mandalorian inching his way up the vertical corridor with a little green accomplice on his back–combined with the general chaos of the last half hour–quickly became more than you could handle. You allowed yourself a moment of hysteria before sliding into the fireplace, head tilting back as you viewed the long, long passageway above.

***

Comfortable, my arse. You panted, some ten minutes later, sweat streaming down your face as you struggled to keep a solid grip on the sooty brick around you. The climb was not as amusing as you’d previously thought. Maybe you’d manage better if you had a grappling gun hidden in your forearm and boots with climbing spikes, like the beskar-plated man behind you. Right now, though, all you had were your worn-through work shoes and a hacking cough from all the smoke rising up to you from the wreck of the cantina below. 

“Come on,” you muttered, willing yourself to scoot up another meter despite your quickly fatiguing thigh muscles. How tall was this chimney, anyway? It felt like you’d been climbing for miles, but maybe that was just your poor endurance talking. 

“You doing okay?” Mando called up to you, grunting slightly at the weight of the Trandoshan bounty around his shoulders. There was no way you’d let him try to carry you too, though you knew he’d offer if you faltered. You screwed up your face in concentration, muttering something resembling an affirmation as you focused on shifting higher and higher until you finally, blissfully reached the top.

You let out a small whoop of success, collapsing on the roof as Mando pulled himself up behind you. “Thought I’d never make it out of there,” you beamed up at him. Your relieved smile faded as you took in his still-tensed posture as he looked off the edge of the roof. 

“What is it?”

He turned back toward you, setting the Tradoshan’s body down with a thunk. “They’re setting detonators around the building,” he spoke, his modulated baritone rough and distracted as he fiddled with a heavy metal backpack beneath his cloak. 

You swallowed thickly, closing your eyes for a moment as you fought to suppress the panic that rose up at his words. When you opened them, he’d shoved the Tradoshan onto the roof of the building next door, which was a safe distance away from the flames but remarkably jagged. You eyed the area, wondering if his plan was to crouch there and pray that the shrapnel from the explosion would miss the two of you. 

Mando walked over, motioning for you to get up. You got back on your feet, slightly dizzy from the smoke as you stumbled over to him. 

“Need you to hold on to me,” he muttered awkwardly, extending an arm. You gaped at him, utterly confused at the uncharacteristic action. How was clinging to him like a baby womp rat supposed to get you out of here before the building crumbled? 

Still, you stepped closer to him and tentatively wrapped your hand around his vambrace. You made a tiny noise of surprise as he tugged you into his chest, your arms instinctively wrapping around his broad torso. You ducked your head, glad that he couldn’t see your flaming face from this angle. Yep, that touch starvation was definitely doing a number on you. You could feel the rise and fall of his breaths, his chest surprisingly warm underneath the cool beskar plates that protected it— and stars, none of that was doing anything to lessen your little crush. 

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, and you quickly complied. Seconds after you’d scrunched your face up in concentration, you felt a tug in your stomach and the wind rise in your hair. Your eyes snapped back open on instinct as you felt your feet leave the ground, your grip on Mando tightening in panic. You peeked past his armor and saw nothing but cold winter sky— and was that a kriffing jet pack?! You gasped as you glanced down and realized that you were rapidly approaching a hundred feet in the air, the cantina exploding into a fiery speck beneath you. 

You and large heights had a strained relationship, so you clung to Mando with all your strength and prayed that he had enough fuel to land somewhere very solid. “You didn’t tell me we’d be flying out of there,” you spoke, words muffled by the wind and the way your face was currently scrunched against his hard chestplate.

“You didn’t ask,” he responded. If you weren’t so focused on staying alive, you might have been offended at his cheeky tone, but you settled for an eye roll.

You landed a few miles outside of town on the ice fishers’ territory. It took you longer than you wanted to admit to get detangled from the Mandalorian, mostly because your fingers had frozen into a death grip of a hug around him. He gently pried you off his armor, setting you on a patch of snow slightly less icy than the others and walking past you. You turned to see him open the boarding ramp of a silver Razor Crest in all its pre-Imperial glory. The ship was older than you expected, but in decent condition.

You carefully followed him into the ship, climbing up after him into the cockpit. The leather passenger seat was surprisingly comfortable, and your muscles slowly unstiffened as you watched him fire up the engines.

“I have to go pick up the bounty,” Mando stated, moving over to set the navigation screen. He paused. “Do you need to be… dropped off somewhere?”

“I— I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” you admitted, looking down at your lap. “The only place I had a connection to here was just blown up.” You winced, wondering how you’d ever find work now that you were partly to blame for the destruction of the town’s singular watering hole. 

Mando was silent for a while as he maneuvered the ship towards the cantina wreckage. You craned your neck towards the arching glass windows, staring down at the snowy landscape of Nath. “It’s so much more beautiful from above,” you spoke softly, wonder evident in your tone. “Always wanted to travel, see views like this every day, but… off-world tickets these days are too expensive.” Your face took on a wistful expression. “Must be nice to do this for your job. I bet the kid loves it, too.”

Mando cleared his throat, helmet tilting towards you.

“You could— work for me. Take care of the kid, here on the ship,” he spoke hesitantly. “Visit planets with us when I’m not hunting bounties.” 

You glanced over at him in shock, mouth falling open. Hope swelled up in you at his words, and you could hardly breathe at the idea of what he was offering you. A way off Nath, to experience the galaxy like you’d always dreamed- stars, but it felt surreal.

“It’d be better for him to have someone to rely on when I’m gone, stay in one place for longer,” he continued, faltering slightly at your silence. “The ship’s small, but I can pay you well and your needs would be taken care of for as long as you stay—“

“Yes,” you gasped out, the words embarrassingly rushed, but you didn’t care. “If— if you’re serious, then yes, I accept.”

He seemed surprised at the vehemence with which you spoke, but nodded. “This is the Way,” his deep baritone sounded through the modulator, final and determined. 

This is the Way. You practically vibrated with excitement at the phrase, face breaking into a grin as you settled back in the seat. All you’d have to do was keep that pesky attraction to the beskar-covered man piloting the ship under control, and you’d finally be free. Free of Nath’s soul-crushing atmosphere, free to travel the galaxy like you’d always dreamed of— albeit with a little green child at your side. 

Sure, he was the most interesting person you’d ever met, and the way his voice lowered when he bantered with you sent a jolt of something down your spine.

But it couldn’t be that hard, right?

taglist: @magpiencrow @that-kid143 @lilly-aliyah @itmustbegreattobecalledtheitgirl @aheadfullofsteverogers @dindjarinsmut @orcasoul

comment if you'd like to be tagged for any of my works/fandoms in the future! :)

read on: part iii

[manicpixiefelix]

*crashes my imaginary car into your inbox*

OLLIE WHO WAS ADOPTED BY READER'S FAMILY!!!!!

I know this is a major shift in established dynamics but hear me out!!!

What if Oliver's tales about his home life were actually true, worse even so he ended up an orphan? He gets adopted by Reader's parents for the optics mainly because it makes them look good and they figure it'll provide their heir with a companion.

So they become this peculiar little duo, both very observant of the world and people around them. Ollie is a stranger to this world of the ultra rich and endures etiquette classes.

Oliver Quick becomes Oliver L/N, the boy uplifted from squalor by the heroic family *eye roll*

Reader is fiercely protective of their brother and will ruin anyone that insinuates he's not ~really~ family

I know we've never really discussed the ancestral home of Reader but I imagine it is every bit as grand and impressive as Saltburn. Ollie's favorite room is definitely the massive library.

BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS A LOT OF COURSE I LOVE HOW YOUR MIND WORKS!!!!

Of course your parents love the optics of it all.

You're six when they adopt Oliver, and he's five; this mousy little thing who doesn't smile often and barely speaks and can't look you in the eyes. He shys away from your overbearing, performative parents, but you seem to be able to see how overwhelmed he's getting. There's no words in your first interaction, only gestures, taking and keeping Oliver's focus as best you can to ground him in the moment; you teach him a simple game, and he returns the favour. Not a word between you two. By the end of the visit, you realise the adults have gone quiet; your parents and Oliver's case worker are just watching you both, marvelling. As you're looking away, Oliver himself finally steps towards you, taking your hand carefully and half hiding himself from them behind you, as if already deciding to trust you. You and Oliver had begun the day as strangers, and ended as siblings.

Your parents love to tell anyone who will listen about how when you first met Oliver you 'practically fixed yourself to his side and haven't moved since'. You look like the perfect family in photos, and the press is quick to forget how little research your parents did on the last charity they very publicly supported, and it's less than ideal history. Oliver learns to smile on command the way you feel like you've always known, but at least they don't make the two of you seperate in these moments.

Oliver says your house is like a fairy tale. At first he sticks close by you, overwhelmed by it all, but as the days turn to weeks and then months, you start to lose him as he goes exploring amongst the estate's many rooms and corridors. No-one knows the old house better then you, but Oliver is a close second; Nan says Mother used to scurry around just like you did, used to know every trick the old house had, but that was a lifetime ago.

Mother's study locks from the inside and Father works long hours in the city, so it's up to you to help Oliver settle in with the nannys and the tutors and the rest of the staff. Your parents like to buck tradition, so they're not precious enough to hire anyone to teach Oliver the etiquette that usually comes with wealth and a house like this, so long as he was polite and respectful and sweet faced in public, they couldn't care less which fork he used for salad. Honestly adults at events found his lack of grace and understanding of their unspoken rules charming in its sincerity. You, however, know that their condescending adoration grates on your brother's nerves as they talk to him like he was some kind of pet.

On the weekends Nan comes over, and it's clear that Oliver likes her the best of all the adults in your lives. Like you she doesn't pressure him to talk, always taking his silence in stride, but also taking the time and putting in the effort to understand him when he does try and communicate, however that may be.

In public - not that you're in public a lot - you and Oliver tend to cling to each other. As you grow older, even as you stop physically holding on to each other, you barely seem to stray from each other's shadow. Of the two of you, Oliver still is the far more reserved one, happy to let you do the talking most of the time, often only sharing his thoughts as quiet asides to you alone.

Considering your parents had no choice but to publicly acknowledge you in this universe, you and Oliver very much grow up in the public eye. The strange, observant duo who seemed to have the uncanny ability to wrap rooms full of adults, the upper echelons of society, around their little fingers, grow into beautiful and bitchy socialites.

Considering you're both getting privately tutored instead of going to a proper school, most of your time is spent travelling and attending events. Following the various Fashion Weeks around the world is a yearly tradition since you were teens, you go to concerts and film festivals and galas, always together, always inseperable. Or at least, inseperable when being seen by people who might matter. Oliver's confidence grows, he's far more open and even talkative in public than when he was a kid, but there's comfort in your established dynamic too. It returns most often at formal events, with Oliver half a step behind you, murmuring his commentary and amusing aside to you throughout the night.

A few of the independent tabloids your family didn't own print unsavoury rumours about your closeness, but those get pulled from news stands within the day, and a few threats of defamation lawsuits make them think twice before printing those kinds of articles again.

Everyone in the Western world knows who you both are, or has at least heard of you. But thankfully it's been years since anyone had tried to tie Oliver back to the Poor Orphan Boy he was when he'd first been adopted. By the time you both get to Oxford, he's been your brother for so long that it's like the world has thankfully forgotten that it's not by blood.

[swlyf-24]

The Lost Will Never Be Found

Lando swung his hotel door open with a click as the door creaked. Gosh, they really need to fix it soon... The moment Lando lifted his gaze, he felt his head lighten and his shoulders droop from its tension. In all its glory, the one piece of furniture that he had been longing to see, the wonderful, comforting, soft, welcoming couch. He felt he could cry a river as he crashed onto the couch, discarding his shoes.

It was a long day for Lando. And as they say, 'It was all too much for Little Lando Norris.'

"I can't wait to sleep the whole day..." Lando mumbled out, resting his head on his fist.  Despite the comfort that he felt for that split second, he was disgusted in the next. There was a wet feeling on his knuckles and he knows it didn't come from him. Why would it? All he knew, it could be poison or an out-of-this-world concoction.

Or, or, it could be...

Nothing?

"The fuck...?" Lando murmered.  As soon as the feeling appeared the magical liquid seemed to disappear. Must've been his imagination, it has been a long day after all. He felt the exhaustion pulling at his eyelids and entire body. No. He can't sleep yet. That feeling of forgetting something important tugs at his heart, unable for him to move on without finding what it is.

Lando dug through his bag to find his phone. The artificial light shines onto his metallic bracelet and onto the wall, reflecting a light of an odd shape. He unlocked it with great ease as he shimmied out of his socks and into the awaiting blanket. While waiting for his phone to load properly, Lando switched the television on.

'Iced' ? Sounds exciting. It does, however, remind Lando of 'Frozen'... Oh well. Beggars can't be choosers. At that moment in the face of exhaustion and curiosity, he felt like a beggar begging for mercy on his television.

Carlos

Good luck for today, you muppet. McLaren has been working some magic these days.

He's not wrong. Recently, McLaren has been racing on the track like a machine, faster than ever. Lando and Oscar have been soaring on the score boards, winning races after races. Maybe the voodoo dolls from Charles really did help to scare the bad luck away.

Lando's eyes feel sore, as if he had cried the whole ocean. Odd. He shuffled under the blanket; feeling like he was in a preheated oven. He switched his focus from Carlos' texts to the show that was on the screen. The soft noises with the dim lighting and the temperature, it was the perfect combination to put Lando to sleep.

As soon as Lando made himself comfortable with a pillow, he closed his eyes and began to slowly fall asleep. Lulling him to sleep, he felt a weight he never felt being lifted off his shoulders. It was not until a vibration from Lando's phone, did he begin to stir. Well, multiple vibrations.

It was an avalanche of messages, starting from WhatsApp to Instagram to X to... Everywhere. He felt immense fear coursing through him, through his blood. Like caffeine, it began to wake him up; more awake than he should've been.

Most of the messages are spanning from 'I'm sorry for your loss' to 'I'm always here for you'.

What is happening? Lando ignored the mass amount of messages and decided to call Oscar instead.

As Lando's phone rang, he felt a headache together along with hearing the sound of a ring. The headache soon passed but the ringing became constant.

After what felt like decades of rotting on the couch, waiting for Oscar's response, Oscar finally picked up.

'Hello? Lando?'

'Oscar,' he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. 'Oscar, what is happening? I've been having messages from everywhere saying 'I'm sorry for your loss'.'

Silence filled both lines of the phone. Ghosts of what feels like fingers trace Lando's arm.

'So, you have not heard. Everyone's safe, don't fret. You'll be fine Lan, ignore them. Just...talk to me, will you?'

' Yes, but not right now. I just don't get it. Heard what? Was there something that happened on the paddock that I didn't see?' realization of his lack of caring about the possibilities began to hit him like a truck at full speed. Fuck, it was like standing on the track, getting hit by F1 cars over and over again.

' It's a huge prank, didn't Carlos say it to you already? Apparently, he got everyone to pull a huge prank on you and you didn't find out.' Oscar huffed out with a laugh. Lando could imagine the smile that is plastered against his face.

'Talk to me through your day, will you? Please?' Oscar said rather solemnly.

'Okay, yeah. I can do that.' Fear dissipated from his body. Lando's limbs became loose with the lack of tension—like a puppet with its strings cut off.

Lando began rambling about everything in his day— How someone had almost stolen his wallet, how well the car felt today, just everything.

Despite all the comfort that Oscar gave him, Lando couldn't help but feel a sense of uneasy building a nest in his heart—lingering. So as he talked, he began to scroll through social media hoping it could ease his mind.

'Oscar Piastri, Formula 1 driver for McLaren, has had a tragic accident.'

What? Tragic accident? What accident? But Oscar's still on the phone with Lando, isn't he?

'Oscar,'

'....'

'Oscar?'

Lando's breathing quickened as tears pricked his eyes like a thousand needles. His eyes read faster than ever, fingers scrolling faster than ever.

"Death, fatal accident, Oscar Piastri, collision." Lando breathed out, his lungs barely taking any breath in. No. He needed confirmation. Oscar wasn't dead. No, no he wasn't. It's just a prank like what Oscar said...right?

'Osc,'

But Oscar had beaten him to it.

'There's nothing I can do. You know I'm not real, Lan.'

Oh. Those words smashed a part of Lando that he didn't know existed. The weight of the truth that can defeat a thousand foes who have been living in lies. The same truth came for him, crushing him under a mountain, bounding his limbs; helpless. The truth heavy on his tongue, bile forming if he even dares to mutter the headlines again.

He felt his heart in his ears, he tasted the blood in his mouth, the sound in his mind.

'Can I stay on the phone with you, at least?' Lando asked hesitantly.

'Of course,' Oscar huffed out, each syllable seemed to be difficult for him to even mutter out. As if his lungs had been pierced and he's struggling to speak.

'I had a great race. I'm leading in the championship, you know? Ever since some people retired, I've been living the dream.' Oscar smiled.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

But before Lando could mutter out another sentence, there was a loud silencing sound. The call had ended. His blood ran cold as his now slippery fingers fumbled for Oscar's contact, trying to call him again.

The tears on his screen making it harder than it's supposed to. He rang Oscar's number. Lando heard the ringtone of Oscar's phone ring out from the bedroom. Eyes wide, he began to find out the truth for himself.

There it was. Oscar's phone on the bedside table, ringing all the while Lando called him. It all made sense.

The water Lando felt on his fist before, it was his doing. The soreness in his eyes, it was also his doing. The headache, from his crying. And the ringing... The ringing was from Oscar's phone all along. It wasn't in Lando's head that he imagined the sound, it was a phone receiving a call for an owner who will never answer.

Lando crumbled like a piece of paper thrown into the oblivion. A pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders, but it was just not Oscar's. No, it was Carlos'. "I'm sorry." Carlos muttered out. Lando heaved and sobbed until his arms began to ache and so did his legs. But no amount of crying would bring Oscar back.

In the hotel room, there will be a man longing for another who will never return. Longing for the lost time that they should have been spending.

handling grief:

Our story, my ending.

[princesssmars]

one last night

a five hargreeves x reader

its the end of the world. might as well make the most of it.

wc: 2.001

contains: fluff, angst, and swearing bc theyre all gonna die. five being a lovable grumpy shit. in my head five is physically the same age as aidan bc look at that mf and tell me hes 13 PLEASE.

a/n: the new season broke me so im writing this and reading fics to cope. i wrote it confusingly but the hand grab dance scene is based on that scene from the end of bridgerton season 2 bc kates eyes...i need to bring a man down with doe eyes like that fr. anyway hope yall enjoy.

.

well. this is it. the end of the world. the last days of your life. not how you imagined you'd go out, to be honest. you put the chances of dying during a commission assignment at about 98%. frankly a little low.

but you’d always been a little optimistic, so the remaining 2% went to your own personal fantasy. that maybe, one day, you'd retire from the commission. maybe use a briefcase to settle down somewhere of your choosing and live out the rest of your days in peace. and maybe, you would live out those days with your best friend. and, maybe, if you really wanted to push it, he'd turn from best friend to something more.

but that dream doesn't matter anymore, does it? you, along with your partner and his family had made the fuck up of a lifetime and created a kugelblitz - the end all of everything. its almost funny. how you'd given up most of your life to "fixing the timeline" just to end up ruining all of them.

hilarious.

so, here you are. in a shittily-lit hotel room getting dressed for a quickly put-together wedding at the end of the world.

god, how your life has changed.

you hear a knock at the door, saying a silent “come in.” to whoever stands behind it.

a soft smile graces your face when you see five enter the room. he stops a few steps from the doorway as he observes you, likely noticing how you'd dressed up more than usual. "you sure clean up nice, hargreeves." you tease, smiling as he does.

"well, you don't look half bad yourself." he takes in more of your outfit, looking you up and down. you feel your face heat up.

"a genuine compliment from the five hargreeves himself? it truly is the end of the world."

"im a man who tells the truth, you know this better than anyone." he keeps walking until he stands next to you, automatically raising his head so you can fix his tie.

"even when people don't want to hear it." you give him a knowing look as you do his tie for him. he knows how, but likes how you do it better. he likes to pretend you don't know.

"especially then."

when you finish fixing the tie, you smooth it over and run your hands over his vest. you look him in the eyes to see him already looking at you with an emotion in his that you can't quite place.

you want to ask him how he feels. about what happened when you went to the commission and saw everything you'd ever known just gone. about never getting longer than a day to just rest. about your impending doom.

about you.

he opens his mouth to speak but you both startle as a sharp knock sounds from the door.

you look over to see a slightly awkwardly standing viktor, who moves his hands to his pockets after gesturing to the hallway.

"hey, uh.. its time for us all to head down, the ceremony is about to start."

both of your lips purse into awkward smiles as he stands in the doorway for a few more seconds before exiting quietly.

its silent for a few more seconds as the two of you stand there. the moment has passed. yet again reminded of your fate.

he looks at you again with a soft yet slightly sad smile. "well, my dear, are you ready to face our imminent doom while getting stupidly drunk with my family?"

you laugh slightly at his dry delivery and grasp his hand in yours.

"ready as i'll ever be."

.

.

.

the ceremony is sickly sweet, perfect for the match-up that is luther and sloane. the way they look at each other during their vows pulls on your heartstrings. but you have to remind yourself that you're happy for them. there's no point in being jealous or sad now.

after the ceremony, you and your merry band of heroes make it to the dance floor, with you and allison heading straight to the drinks table. you watched her as she downed her glass in a few seconds, feeling bad at the state of the woman who you've come to know as a close friend. but if you were in her position you would have gone off the rails long ago. a voice in the back of your head tells you you have.

the reception is lovely, and the bride and groom very much in love despite the weirdness of it all. and the fact that they choose to prioritize and focus on their love rather than the apocalyptic events happening just outside…it gives you a sense of hope.

when reginald gives his speech it's safe to say everyone in the room is stunned. you've barely gotten to know three variations of the hargreeves patriarch but you know that he's far from a pleasant person. during late nights doing paperwork at the commission you and five would share stories about your respective childhoods, with his being as dark as you expected from the stand-offish man. but it felt nice to know that he trusted you so deeply.

after the initial reception, there's some downtime for everyone to indulge in the surprisingly above-average food from the hotel's bar and restaurant. you get yourself a plate before sitting at a table near the back of the room, silently eating and drinking and observing the family around you.

you're interrupted by lila pulling out and sitting in the chair next to yours, sitting sideways to look you dead on.

“would you please stop with the puppy dog eyes and make a move on that little turd? seeing the two of you dance around each other has made me sick for years.”

your voice sputters as you try to come up with an excuse, having not expected the girl to call you out so brazenly. she raises her eyebrows as she knows she got you stuck and you let out a sigh.

“it wouldn't matter if i did. even if he felt the same we’re all going to die in a day's time. and id rather not spend this last day with him awkwardly.”

“so you're going to die wondering? never knowing if he liked you back? and i thought i was dumber when it came to relationships.”

“that's still debatable.”

“hey!” she lightly punches you in the shoulder, laughing at your slight wince. “you know im right. not to get sappy but… it's much better when they know how much you care.

as she speaks her gaze wanders over to diego and you have to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes at the sight of their barely hidden lovesickness.

you were close to brushing off her comments again when her arm quickly juts out to knock into yours, lifting her chin slightly to the left. you turn your head and none other than five stands beside you, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets before one comes out to lay flat in front of you.

“would you care for a dance, y/n?”

with his abnormally soft smile (and lila’s not-so-subtle jab to your other arm), you accept his offer and gently place your hand in his so he can lead you to the dance floor. you can’t help but notice how there's a slow song playing and the only other couple on the dance floor are the newlyweds.

he turns from leading you to standing right in front of you, the closeness taking you by surprise. he smiles at you, moving your hands to wrap around his arms as his go around your waist and shoulder.

“a waltz? seriously? you always seemed to hate those at the company dances.” you tease.

“probably because gertrude wallhaven would always try to dance with me.”

“she just had a little crush on you. lots of the women did. you were the five hargreeves, after all.”

five smiles at your words, starting the slow dance that you know by heart. “is that a bit of jealousy i hear?”

you scoff and roll your eyes. five always was a tease when he drank. “you’d like it to be, wouldn't you? ever the conceited one.”

he huffs a short laugh, swinging you around quickly so you do the same. “well, that is one reason.”

“and what may be the other one, if you would be so kind as to inform me.” you smile up at him, the alcohol starting to take an effect on you and cause you to become more open than usual.

“that I'm deeply in love with you and its been driving me crazy-ow!”

your mind is completely blank for a few seconds before you realize that not only have you stopped dancing but you that you also just crushed five’s foot with your own.

“oh my god, five, im so sorry,” you quickly trying to apologize and help your struggling partner. he stands up as straight as he can, slightly bent on his right side as he waves your worries off.

“peter donahue always did say you had a killer stomp on the dance floor. now i can see why he kept going to the infirmary.” five gives you a strained smile, taking your hands in his again.

“just another one of my many talents.”

you both restart your dance, this time with no words shared. five occasionally tries to hold eye contact with you, and you make sure to avoid it every time. you don't know what to make of his confession. if it was heartfelt or a spur-of-the-moment confession that was given since you would all be dead within a day. you knew as soon as you looked into his bright eyes you would crumble.

but five knew that like he knew everything about you. he took your hand and grasped your fingers together before bringing your arms above your heads and bringing them down between you, and you cant help but stare into his eyes as he does the same.

“please tell me you meant it. because if you didn't then i don't know what i’d do.” you plead, grasping his hand to your chest.

“do you remember that mission in bali, where we had to terminate that guy who found a cure for cystic fibrosis? we there for maybe two hours and you kept complaining about the heat.”

“it was a steady 80 degrees and we were wearing commission suits, of course i was miserable.”

“im aware. it was when we finally killed the guy and you took some of his cash to get some better clothes and you somehow managed to convince me to come down with you to the beach. we were sitting in the sand and it was annoying as all hell but you seemed so happy that i couldn't even complain. and i just knew.”

your chest tightens. “knew what?”

“that i loved you. that i still do. and that i’m an idiot for waiting so long to tell you. guess our impending doom and the cheap liquor finally gave me the courage to say something.” he finishes, holding you close as you stand in the middle of the dance floor. you know some of his siblings are bound to be staring because of the close display but you can find it in you to care. all that matters is that you finally have the love of your life in your arms, even if just for a short while.

“not to be pushy but i haven't heard an “i love you” back so im getting pretty worried over here.” five jokes, staring at you with love but worry in his eyes

you laugh at five’s joke, bringing your lips to his cheek to give him a short but sweet kiss. “i love you too, partner.”

“good. now, what do you say we get drunk off our asses and have the best night of our lives with my dysfunctional family?

you smile. “i couldn't ask for anything better.”

.

.

[soapsinthebox]

character ask um sona thouughffs perhappps 😁do soba. Sona :)

Greets Gekko!! and of course, im always happy to talk about my cancelled aunt, she is my pfp after all

Favorite thing about them

Oooh this one is hard... "Favorite" is a little too wide of a definition for this, so ill narrow it down to what hits the hardest for me, and that is most definitely, the "flawed mother" angle they were going for her.

Sona isnt perfect, as much as she wants to claim otherwise, she believes in ideologies that actively put Frisks friends in danger time and time again, and as shown, is even willing to act on them in the imperfect routes, but they still love and see the good in her, because thats what theyve grown up with their whole life, and for someone who has a mom in a pretty similar situation, that hit so fucking hard for me.

Sona... they could never make me hate you Sona...

Least favorite thing about them

I dont really understand the hair motif they were going for, it feels unnecessary, out of place, and compared to all the other powers she could have had in the concept art (Doll powers, omega form, ect) just feels... idk, boring to me? i just feel there was so much more potential for her.

Favorite line

"If you dont have determination, you have to fake it!" lives rent free in my mind. its the perfect way to show off one of her main ideologies, In Sonas mind, theres just simply no thing called weakness or imperfections, and anything that is lacking can be fixed right up like a doll, who cares if itll never be as genuine as the flawed and complex human being that they used to be?

Theres also the iconic "I only take the souls of children if they disobey me!" line, which i like for a lot less complex reasons. just, out of context funny lmao.

BrOTP

The possible relationships she can have with Dalv, and her relations to integrity are both very intriguing to me.

Like, for Dalv theres this whole thing with them that they are both flawed individuals who ran away from their problems in the past, but ended up with completely different outcomes (Dalv was ripped away from society, while Sona actively got herself involved in it) but also like?? for something fluffier, i like to imagine that Dalv is good with kids, and the idea of him running an orphanage with Sona is really cute to me.

And integrity... oughh, its seen both in the no romance endings and the perfect sans route of kc that Sona really cared for integrity (their ending having the most lore, only second to Justice because...well, uty reference, her giving them flowers in that one cg), So the idea of her in a uty scenario (cough cough kcy cough cough) finding out about what they did and their fate is a REALLY interesting angle to consider for me. so many thoughts, oh so many of them.

And then last but certainly not least, theres her and Chara which i feel like i dont talk about NEARLY enough but since this section is getting long, ill just end this off on that kc shouldve had more Sona and Chara interactions.

OTP

... Its Sonaroba, is anyone surprised.

Theyre so interesting and mentally ill and evil i need to put them in a snowglobe and shake them as hard as i can. Like, you have two woman who were both wronged by the world in some capacity, and when proven wrong, are so tunnel visioned that they basically just beg for death. only that one is past that arc and has learned to grow, while the other, despite having the chance time and time again, hasnt. They're two sides of the same coin, they're two different outcomes of the same person they're they're they're-

My incoherent ramblings aside, i also really enjoy Sonanny, they're the doomed old woman yuri ever and i refuse to take any criticism /j like, theres a reason Nanny is the only adult not controlled by Sona right? IM GOING INSANE-

nOTP

... Im actually at a loss for what to put here lol. I mean, i guess theres Sona and Sans, but its just so stupidly evil and toxic that i kinda just, thrive in it now

I guess her and Starlo?? but theyre not compatible anyway so i dont really get why people would even ship it to begin with.

Random headcanon

The hat she has in the concept art right?? i imagine she actually still has that hat somewhere, and wears it on special occasions like anniversaries and birthdays. its just so cute i cant help myself rahhh-

Unpopular opinion

Im actually not that familiar with what the major idea around Sona is since i only really hang out in niche spaces, maybe i should hang around Andrews community more-

But since "Sona isnt just some random racist mom and her character goes so much deeper than that" isn't really a fun answer, im gonna say that i think we (and by we i mean like, the twelve people in the kissy cutie community) Really dont explore her Mexican origins enough. theres so many fun things you can do with it like the original game does-

Song i associate with them

The main two songs i associate with her are Suburbia by Will wood and the tape worms, and ruler of everything by tally hall.

Suburbia in particular feels like her trying to fit herself and eveyone into a "generic" standard, and the ar-15 part in particular feels like Chara speaking to her like "cultures not your friend" and "Culture is more afraid of you then you are of itself", making it a duet between the Siblings?? ouggh can you see the vision.

And ruler of everything... oh ruler of everything my beloved, everything about it fits Sona so well for me, especially the chorus?? Ayaygdgyduhhuh

I actually was story boarding a ruler of everything Sona animatic, i lost interest since school started, so heres the rough beatboards

Favorite picture of them

The little full body Xan cut out lives in my mind rent free, like look at her guys shes so full of bliss and whimsy

Thanks for the ask!! sorry this got a little long lol, i am a yapper at heart

[xianhuashi-second-blog]

Big Hero 6 was 9 years ago, going on 10. Next year is when it takes place. So, this is an appreciation post for the movie, and what it’s done for me.

Trigger Warning ahead, the post mentions de@th and $u1c1d3, (spelled wrong so I don’t get flagged/shadow banned by the Tumblr gods.) complex grief and mentions of mental health.

BH6 came out when I was 4-5 (what a long time ago omfg-) so its importance to me was non existent. Me and my (much) Older brother watched it together a few years later in 2016. Young me didn’t know the nuance and severity of Hiro Hamada as a character. All I saw was “Two Asian siblings” that had a relationship like me and my brother. I tuned out the rest of the movie that night because I had *and still have* the attention span of a goldfish with dementia. Years later, very recently, (near the end of 2023, but school still in session ) he jumped. He passed away that day. I think I cried an ocean when I got the news from my father.

I cried, not only because I love and miss him with all I am, I sobbed because he was my other half, essentially another father. I cried because I felt, I knew I could have done something differently, so then maybe he’d be alive a bit longer. And, I cry because of all he put himself through for me. It’s hard to imagine the suffering and agony he put himself through to be there for me.

I have diagnosed High functioning Autism. My brother had a feeling, but he helped me understand how neurotypicals interact, how to fake making eye contact, how to hold up a conversation, learn body language, you name it. He even bought me noise canceling headphones because I’m sensitive to loud sounds, and fidget toys that I could use during school. My parents, on the other hand, thought I was just a spoilt brat who needs to pay attention to people, and stop being so picky with foods and their textures, a brat that has to be more social, stop shying away from kids my age. My brother was the one to convince them to get me tested for Autism, to prove I wasn’t just a bratty kid.

He sat through my ramblings about Steven Universe and The Stanley Parable. He helped me work through my meltdowns, and told me it wasn’t my fault that certain things make me upset.

I crumbled to the ground. My world was shattered. After I was “back into reality,” I realized my father was holding me in his arms. I hugged him tightly. My face was smushed against his chest so hardly that it felt like my cheek was about to break. It felt like him. It felt like how he’d wrap me in bear hugs. Weeks went by. We had his Funeral. I looked at the picture of him near his casket. It felt surreal knowing that the same man was inside of the wooden box, awaiting his burial. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream and shout and cause myself to have a breakdown, but I physically couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to be angry at him either. So I just stood there, fingers slightly touching his coffin, where I knew his face would be.

Later on, being forced to go back to school the following week because the American school system sucks 🖕 🇺🇸

I got back home. I went on disney plus to elevate myself of my grief. I scrolled through the home screen, when Big Hero 6 showed up. I remembered watching it with him, so I convinced myself- despite not wanting reminders- to watch it. “Welcome to Nerd-school. Nerd.” I watched the fire alarms blair. The infamous “someone has to help” scene before he ran into the fire. Then, the scene where Hiro was sitting alone on the staircase in his memorial outfit. That frame alone was truly a perfect representation of sudden loss and grief. I felt seen, and acknowledged. I felt understood. I kept watching. Near the end, Hiro was trying to “fix Baymax” with the violence chip thing. “Is this what Tadashi would have wanted?” “It doesn’t matter!” And then finally, “Tadashi’s GONE! Tadashi’s… gone….” The feeling that scene gave me was complicated. But, it left me with the knowledge that he was with me in memory. That, of course, didn’t take away everything that was happening to me.

That movie helped me through complicated emotions, and I cannot thank the BH6 team enough for what they’ve done for me, and how that movie helped me. I still blame myself for what happened. I’m still grieving, and it’s still hard to live without him. And the idea that Tadashi doesn’t get to see his baby brother’s super hero team, yet said team wouldn’t exist without his death, helps me realize that without my brother’s death, I wouldn’t have such a kind community of fellow fans of the movie, who enjoy my art and my storytelling.

Thank you for all you’ve done. Thank you for everything. It was an honor to have you as my brother, and I miss you so much. I know not many people have good relationships with their older siblings right off the bat, so I am so grateful you could give me that friendship. I promise i’m gonna make you proud.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Love Language Of Icy

Trix Week Day 5: Supportive In Their Own Ways

Summary: Icy goes blind during a battle with Stella.

It is said that witches have no compassion, can't feel love. They all seem to have this idea of what love is supposed to look like; this perfect beautiful thing. This soft, gentle thing. And so when they observe witch love they don't see it for what it is; a playful swat to the head, affectionate teasing.

Such is the love language of Icy. She calls Stormy stupid and Darcy a dork. Stormy calls her an asshole. Darcy calls the both of them reckless idiots. And Stormy calls Darcy a total dweeb.

Their friendship wouldn't be the same if they couldn't call each other morons. It wouldn't be the same if they couldn't bicker amongst themselves over petty things. Wouldn't be the same if she couldn't bluntly tell Darcy that the shoes that she had picked out are hideous with that outfit. And she would be pissed if Darcy or Stormy let her go about her day without telling her that the way that she had styled her hair that morning looked ridiculous.

Indeed witches have their own love language and Icy has her own version of that love language. And thank darkness for that because, whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs that love right now.

There's a common conclusion amongst the people of Magix that witches are inherently selfish. That if one of them falls in battle that she will be left behind. Most people know nothing of how covens work.

They would be terribly surprised to see Darcy lifting her fallen sister off of the ground.

"What have you done!?" Stormy roars!

Stella shrinks back. Icy can tell because her voice grows subtly more distant. "I didn't mean to! I swear that I didn't know that it was going to happen."

Icy hears the crackling of lightning on Stormy's fingers as Darcy cradles Icy’s head against the crook of her neck.

"She was going to impale Bloom! I had to stop her!"

"Well you stopped her! You stopped her real good!"

She hears a ground shaking tumble of thunder. But she hadn't seen the flash. She can't see a damn thing. Her eyes had never been good but they had worked well enough...

They are burning. She can't tell what substance is running down her cheeks. It could be tears. It could be blood. She thinks that it would hurt more if it were bits of eye jelly. Reluctantly she lifts her hands to her cheeks. She rubs the substance between her fingers. Its consistency is too thin for it to be anything but blood or tears. Maybe both.

But she has to touch her eyes just to make sure. 

She does. She raises shaking fingers to her eyes, both of which are still fixed in their respective sockets. But that doesn’t make them useful. 

“Where is she, Darcy? Tell me where she’s at so I can put an icicle through her chest!” The magic is already gathering at her palms. Carefully, Darcy lifts Icy’s arms and holds them in the right direction. 

“All you need to do is unleash your magic.” Darcy promise. 

And she does. She lets her magic soar. Stella sees the icicle coming just about as well as Icy sees the world around her. A sharp and shrill scream and the harsh thump of a body hitting the grass brings a tickle of satisfaction to the witch. 

“Where are her wings, Darcy?” The sun fairy had taken something from her and she will pay the favor back. 

Again Darcy positions Icy’s arms. The magic leaves her hands and tangles itself around Stella’s wings. She listens for that distinct crackle, the one that lets her know that the ice has coated the fairy’s wings entirely. And then she snaps her fingers and listens to that satisfying shatter. Without her sight, the clinking and tinkling of the ice seems heightened. 

She notes, with at least some dread, that she will have to be particularly wary of Musa now.

“Alright, that’s enough. We need to get you to back to the hideout.” Darcy murmurs. She scoops Icy back into her arms and holds her close. 

“Darcy, it…it hurts.” She whispers. 

“Yeah, I’d imagine. Stormy and I will try to whip up a soothing potion. We’ll find all of the ingredients somehow.”

“We’ll also try to look for some healing spells.” Stormy vows. “We might have to dupe a fairy into casting it, but we’ll fix you up.” It is quite easy to picture the woman’s smug, confident smirk. 

It is a shame that confidence alone can’t manifest a desire into existence. 

The Winx never fix Stella’s wings. 

And the Trix never fix Icy’s eyes. 

Stella cannot fly. 

Icy cannot see. 

They two of them had really done a good number on each other. 

The Winx often carry Stella when flight is required. They teach her new ways to keep up with them. 

Darcy teaches Icy all about the dark, about how to navigate it in the absence of light. Icy teaches herself to use the cold to sense where objects are. If she can cool a room enough then she can feel heat rippling off of bodies and objects. 

And when all else fails, Darcy or Stormy guide her though the world. They keep her from tripping, stumbling, or running into things. 

And most of the time she can navigate the world just fine. 

Witches are remarkably adaptable. 

Witches are surprisingly dependable.

[howdoesagrapewrites]

GOLLY GOLLY GOSH, I JIST BINGED YOUR YANDERE GAYATRI X PAVITR X READER FICS AND OMG 🤭🤭

It’s so gooddd but I can’t help but wonder what would happen if the reader just didn’t understand love- like totally. This is so entirely spurred on by my own problems and IFHY by Tyler (live laugh love Tyler the creator 🙏) but like just imagine them x a reader who just doesn’t understand love and believes love is just being aggressively possessive and obsessive over someone.

I can just imagine Gayatri, Pavitr and the Reader getting into a heated argument and the reader just flat out says they hate them both with this dead stare- and then they follow it up with telling them both that they love them but now Gayatri and Pavitr realize there’s nothing behind the readers eyes when they say ‘I love you’. It’s not love, it’s straight obsession. Idk I just feel like it’d be an interesting idea for a fic :D

Also your writing is so good! You should totally take up a Career in writing or write a book, I just love how you describe everything!

𝙒𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙙

Cw: the usual yandere stuff, manipulation, psychological abuse, kinda yandere reader?

Notes: I hope I did this request justice, I rewrote it a lot 😭if you don't like it you can always request it again, I'm really nervous about this because I don't want to disappoint you😿

"I fucking hate you both" the words leave your lips like nothing, like the grocery list, like small talk, like those words didn't carry the weight of the world. Heavy like a rock, and as plain as one, simple combination of five words, from the infinite combinations possible with the 171,476 words recognized in the Oxford dictionary, and the roughly one million words used by english speakers, it took you only five words to unleash hell, to emotionally destroy two people in ways one person cannot calculate or articulate.

You'd been accepting and supporting (you were simply unbothered, however they see it like that) of their unorthodox way to carry the relationship, you had a few "quirks" of your own as well something that they both accepted and loved, so this came as a shock. In Pavitr's mind, you don't mean this, you're simply upset, but his thoughts race back and forth thinking what did the do to upset you, what he did. It couldn't be Gayatri, she's perfect, it has to be him, it's always him, he's the one that puts your lives in danger all the time, it's his fault Gayatri's father almost died, his fault your universe was almost wiped off of existence, and now he has made you upset. In his mind there's no much difference between dying and being forgotten, or worse, even loathed by you, well, maybe there's one. That he'd rather be dead.

But Gayatri is another story, she refuses to accept whatever you meant. Her mother left, you can't leave too, she cannot be alone in this world again, and as if out of self preservation, she's possessive over you, over Pavitr, over your relationship, she's authoritarian but so deeply fragile, wearing her emotions on her sleeve, trying to be calm and collected, however she miserably fails when the scalding hot sentiments make their way from her chest to her mouth. She will trap, fix, change or break anything that is necessary to ensure she's never left alone again, even if "anything" includes your mind.

They stand before you, dumbfounded, with expressions that in less than a second can vary between sadness, anger, disappointment, terror, paranoia, outrage, and probably more, probably that's just the tip of the iceberg.

And all you do is stare, you watch their contorting faces and with the dead silence, it's almost like you can hear the blood pumping through their veins, full of anxiety.

Before they can properly process your statement, you contradict it, to anyone it seems like you're toying with them, like a cat watching its prey agonize. At heart, the cat is innocent, the cat does not posses a moral compass that will tell him to either stop or further the pain of their lizard, the act of torture cannot be sadistic if the perpetrator doesn't find pleasure in it. The vile acts of a creature that lacks malice.

"I love you" and life seems to recover its rightful flow, or it should, they could ignore what you said and take you back just like that, but it doesn't work that way, not when you have two obsessive lovers.

"What do you mean?" Gayatri is distrustful

"That I love you."

Pavitr notices first, notices your blown pupils and lost gaze, no emotion behind those eyes he adores, had it always been that way? Has every "I love you" meant the infinity of the void?

And Gayatri, she always knew, she loved everything that was there to love about you, even if you didn't understand, if she needed to show you the depth of her love through aggression, violence and obsession, she will.

"I love you too" they said at unison.

[basement-buddy]

did you ever run into art block when you first started posting art online? if so, do you have any advice for getting out of it? i recently decided to push through my anxiety and make an art account but found myself unable to draw anything because of how harsh of a critic i turned into thinking its not worth to post even trying to change my style bc my current one doesnt seem nice enough ( ;´ - `;) so im not able to motivate to draw at all these days ;;

I hit art block all of the time and I know this might not work for everyone, but honestly the only way I get through it is just by drawing whatever, even if it doesn’t meet my standards. Take this time to try some new things, learn some new stuff, draw whatever you want without pressure. Don’t worry about posting anything for a bit and just go head first into a bunch of new stuff. And don’t worry about it looking perfect or anything, or trying to meet your own standards or appease the critic inside you. I know that’s harder said than done, but if nothing is going to turn out how you want it right now, anyway, then why not just try something new?

This helps with your style dilemma, too, every few months I get upset about my artstyle, so I just do some studies or follow some anatomy tutorials, some nature drawing videos, get used to seeing something else on the paper in front of you, you know? If you go a while without seeing your style, when you finally get back to it, you can see less of the flaws. Or better yet, you’ve learned some new things that could help fix the things you don’t like about it.

Sometimes it also helps to look at my old art. The younger me would’ve done anything to draw how I am drawing now, and I’m sure it applies to you as well. You’re always improving no matter how much you’re not vibing with your work.

Most importantly, don’t put too much pressure on yourself! Creating something at all is wonderful. No matter how it turns out, you’ve done something most others just mourn not ever trying. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve created an art account, and I’m super happy that you want to share your art with the world, but don’t beat yourself up too hard. Don’t draw something with the intention to post, draw it for you! Back when I first started, I was nervous enough that I wouldn’t post things for upwards of half a year. I would sit on drawings because I was too shy to show them. If it helps, don’t post at all unless you absolutely want to. When you sit down to draw, don’t imagine the reactions, or other artists with other styles, imagine just what you want out of that particular drawing. I had to learn the hard way that posting should ALWAYS be an afterthought.

Sorry if this was rambly, I’m very very experienced with artblock and there’s just so many ways I’ve personally learned to deal with it that it’s hard to organize my thoughts properly. A lot of these are easier said than done, so just take it one step at a time, and remember that you’re doing awesome, that YOU’RE awesome, and no matter how you feel about it, your art is awesome, too! Take it at your own pace and be easy on yourself. ♥️